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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328411">Lumos</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treesap/pseuds/Treesap'>Treesap</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Amnesia, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Fred Weasley Lives, George Weasley takes his job of supporting Hermione's goals very seriously, HEA, Harry and Hermione are still close friends, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, POV George Weasley, POV Hermione Granger, Post-War, Protect George Weasley, References to ABBA, Ron Weasley does good and bad things, Slow Burn, Weasley Family-centric (Harry Potter), Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), hygge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:54:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>553,035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treesap/pseuds/Treesap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A “stray” obliviate from a dissenting blood purist hits Hermione as she’s debating on the Wizengamot floor for Elf rights. As a result, she loses the last 5 years of her life. Her most recent memory is Fred coming back to life in the Battle of Hogwarts. She doesn’t remember marrying or falling in love with her husband. In fact, when the healer asks her if she’d like to see her husband, she thought Ron would walk through the door. Instead, it was George. </p><p>This story follows two, parallel timelines. In the first, Hermione struggles to find her place a world built by a different version of herself. In the other, George traverses before, during, and after the Wizarding War, finding himself more and more drawn to the most dedicated witch he knows. Too bad she's in love with his brother.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley, Hermione Granger/George Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2552</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1992</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Lumos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey Loves! This is prequel to a longer fic that I'm still fleshing out. That being said, I posted this it because I kind of needed to publish a fix-it, you know? The world is afraid right now, and I wanted to inject a story of hope into that, to remind us all that there is light in the darkness. </p><p>Consider this as a short, stand-alone one-shot for now. :) Eventually, I plan to add more to this, but until then, I hope you're safe and well. </p><p>I'm sure this idea has been done before, but this is just my spin. Feel free to take inspiration from it or to write using the same concept!</p><p>Also, a note on my personal headcannon: Unless otherwise stated, from this point out, I'll probably be writing under the headcannon that Fred Weasley lived due to the events laid out in this small chapter. While the rest of what this fic may eventually contain is not applicable to my other fics, unless otherwise stated in my notes, you can assume that Fred's still kicking. It's my own, tiny rebellion. :P</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to the Harry Potter universe, and I am merely playing with these characters for the enjoyment of my friends and I.</p><p>Edit 06/27/2020: Hey friends! I made a couple small adjustments to this prequel, just for continuity's sake.</p><p>Also: https://youtu.be/H1swTmJLdLo --A wonderful reader/friend (iamtherubric on tiktok) made a trailer for the fic, so here's the link for that!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Prequel</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>That night in the castle, in the midst of the final battle, George wept over his brother’s broken body. Horrible, strangled sobs that tore through the Great Hall and wounded all who heard them.</p><p>Hermione stood nearby, helpless. There was nothing she could do. There was no way for her to take his pain from him, just to hold it for a moment and give him time to catch his breath. Something inside her spurred her to take George into her arms, but the boy was so fractured that he didn’t react as she reached around him. Not breaking his gaze on Fred’s empty shell, he took in an agonizing, shuddering breath. When he exhaled, it came in the form of a choked, plaintive cry. His hands found her forearms around his hunched shoulders, and he gripped her like a lifeline.</p><p>And yet, in the midst of the storm of grief, they’d all seemed to have forgotten the deeper magic within the school. Something older, and far more wild than any of them could imagine. The walls of Hogwarts pulsed and thrummed with displeasure.</p><p>And if any of the witches and wizards present had known how to listen to that great, kind castle, they would’ve heard it say: “Not this boy,” deep, down, rumbling in its foundations. “Not this boy that pressed his hands to my walls and studied my mysteries, not this boy who brought life and smiles to my children in the darkest of times. Not this boy who gave so much of himself. This boy’s sacrifices will not be forgotten. These children will not be so cruelly separated, and the world will be a better place for it.”</p><p>The castle’s ever-changing staircases and hallways lengthened and distorted. Time itself seemed to bend, slowing, moving backwards and forwards in a tangled river, and then there was shimmering, golden pop around Fred’s body, and breath found its way into his lungs once more.</p><p>“This is my gift,” the school’s words sang past their ears, whistling and fading into the night. Hermione blinked at the monumental shift, and something clicked inside of her, like a key being placed into a lock.</p><p>George’s sobs stilled. Fred stirred, groaning.</p><p>His eyes flickered open.</p><p>To the rest of the world, it had felt as though a warm breeze passed through the room. Like they’d forgotten what they were doing for just a moment, as the timeline shifted and groaned to accommodate the miracle. But to the children grouped around the cot, everything had changed.</p><p>Embers of that wild magic flickering in Fred’s eyes. Letting loose a fierce cry, George lunged forward, crushing his twin in his arms.</p><p>Hermione stared, happy but perplexed at the storm of magic inside of her, and how it seemed to reach towards the redhead that she called her brother. The voices around her sounded distant, and her head was light. When Ron’s arms snaked around her waist, she turned, expecting the familiar tide of longing to sweep over her, but instead, darkness rushed to meet her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Aude Sapere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is this finally happening? Buckle up, everybody. I know, I know. It's an amnesia fic. But, I'm a sucker for them, and maybe you are too, hopefully? This fic is going to have some different timelines, and this is the introduction of the first. The second is coming next chapter! I'm super excited about this. Also: no betas. We die like men. So, if there are any mistakes, my sincere apologies!!</p><p>Please let me know what you think in the comments. I read every single one, and it means so much to know that anyone has read my work. </p><p>PS: not JKR; I do not own the rights to these characters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter One: Aude Saupere</strong>
</p><p>The hard stone of Malfoy Manor ached under Hermione’s back. The black curls descended around her face again as Bellatrix screeched in her ear, “What did you take?” The knife point caught on her skin, and it burned as Bellatrix etched.</p><p>She didn’t have time to answer before the Crucio hit her, yet again. Yanking up and down her spine like fire. She tried to be brave. Tried to grit her teeth against it, but the cries tore from her throat anyway.</p><p>“What do you see, little girl?” Bellatrix breathed in her ear, and the air was hot and stifling. Hermione blinked at her arm. Where red should have poured from the cuts, a dark brown muck sluiced from the wound. “What do you see?” the death eater’s voice was high and loud, cackling. The knife dug in, and Hermione cried out. “Answer me!” Bellatrix screeched.</p><p>“M-mud—” Hermione said, gasps wracking her. Bellatrix’s face morphed, and a cruel smile twisted her face.</p><p>“Please, please,” she heard herself begging, crying out, sobbing. She was alone. So, so alone. The muck tracked across her skin, puddling on the floor.</p><p>“No one can hear you,” Bellatrix stared in her eyes, a detached smile on her lips. Then, she descended, and she was trapped. Hermione’s blood curdled at the sound of her own scream.</p><p><strong><em>Bang</em></strong>.</p><p>“Hermione!” a voice cut through the pain. It sounded distant, like she was under water and they were calling to her from beyond the surface. Hermione wept, the weight of Bellatrix on her was too much. Like a thick pool of mud that seared her skin wherever it touched. She would drown in it.</p><p>“Get off! She needs—she needs me!” The voice again, clearer this time, but still distant. The sound of a slamming door, of beeps and whirs. As she blinked, light cracked through the dark and with it, the voices grew louder.</p><p>“She’s coming round,” they said. “Hermione?” Hermione strained to see through the blur.</p><p>Another bang, but this time, she could tell it was from the next room or hallway. A dark shape appeared amongst the brightness. It looked like an open door, now that she stared harder. In its frame, there was a squeaking of trainers. A flash of red and black, and another thud as what looked like a person was knocked to the ground. The room wouldn’t stop spinning; she couldn’t tell if they were friends or…death eaters. Darkness bloomed in the threshold.</p><p>“Vanishing powder? Are you serious? Get a bloody hold of yourself, mate!” said another voice. The door snapped shut before the black fog reached in. The shouting in the hall continued, more deadened now, as it had been before the door was opened.</p><p>She tried to speak, but her words came out slurred. Where were George and Ron? Fred? And Harry…Harry, someone needed to check on Harry. “—arry,” she managed.</p><p>“That’s right, Hermione, can you hear us?”</p><p>Hermione nodded, then winced. “Where am I?” she struggled but got the words out. The light green robes and pointed hats bobbed around her head, checking readouts on clipboards stacked with parchment. The hum of magical medicine emanated from the steadily beeping machines behind her head.</p><p>“St. Mungo’s. You’ve had an accident,” a voice said kindly. “Gave us quite the scare, but you’re coming round now. My name is Healer Marcus.” They sounded cheerful. Hopeful. Hermione blinked again. The voice belonged to an older man with deep, brown skin that crinkled around his eyes and mouth as he smiled.</p><p>“What happened? I need to help the others,” Hermione said. She tried to lift her hand to press it against her throbbing head, but it didn’t obey her command. It shook slightly, straining in pain against the motion. “H-Harry’s alright, yes?” She looked frantically between the healers. Something felt wrong. What was wrong?</p><p>“Please try to relax, Hermione. Mr. Potter is quite alright. Your range of motion will return in time. You’re still exiting your magical coma, and your body is quite exhausted after the ordeal.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed, closing her eyes, and nodding at the command.</p><p>“In order to help you, we need to ask you some questions. Do you feel well enough to answer at this time?” Healer Marcus asked softly.</p><p>“Yes, I suppose,” Hermione said. Her arm ached, right where the still-fresh scar was.</p><p>“What is your full name?”</p><p>Nausea clawed at her. How bad were her injuries if they thought she didn’t know her own name? “Hermione Jean Granger,” she whispered, voice scraping. The healer reached over and handed her a cup of water. Hermione drank it all in one go. Then, Healer Marcus pulled a clipboard from the same side table and made a note.</p><p>“Can you tell me today’s date?” he continued, quill not leaving the sheet of parchment.</p><p>“May the second, 1998,” Hermione said, and though she believed it, something about the rate at which the quill was moving gave her reason to pause. “That’s not right, is it?” she asked, panic spiraling out in her chest.</p><p>“You’re doing great, Hermione,” Healer Marcus said, looking up from the clipboard to smile encouragingly. “I know this is a lot to take in, but we’re almost through.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“What about your occupation?” The quill paused as Healer Marcus waited for her answer. Could she tell him the truth? She likely wouldn’t have been brought in if it wasn’t safe for her to answer truthfully. Instead, they’d be holed up in some hut somewhere with half a bezoar and not even two sickles to rub together. But still.</p><p>“I can’t answer that,” she mumbled. “Not safe.”</p><p>“Hermione, you can trust me,” Healer Marcus leaned forward and looked at her meaningfully. “I’m well aware of your involvement in the war.”</p><p>“I—I can’t tell you. Not until I know Harry’s safe,” she said, heart pounding. Healer Marcus made another note, nodding.</p><p>“Would you like to see him, then?” he asked, standing.</p><p>“Can I?” Hermione’s heart leapt. He was safe?</p><p>Healer Marcus nodded. “Yes, he’s among the friends and family who are waiting to hear about your status outside. I think it would help reassure you of the safety of our facility and help to reintegrate you.”</p><p>The man walked swiftly from the room, and the door shut behind him. There were a few minutes of silence, and Hermione felt her mind start to drift. The medical staff around her didn’t look like Death Eaters, but one could never be sure.</p><p>The door eased open, voices echoed across the tile.</p><p>“She’s asked for Mr. Potter, sir, and it’s best that we follow her lead for now.” Healer Marcus sounded strained as he spoke over the others.</p><p>“But—”</p><p>The door swung shut once more as a tall, scruffy man with tired eyes and ruffled, black hair slipped into her room.</p><p>“Stop,” she said, voice wobbling. “What’s something only Harry would know?”</p><p>Harry’s eyes widened, and then flickered with what looked like concern.</p><p>“You broke my wand in Godric’s Hollow after I convinced you to go,” he said. Hermione blinked back tears.</p><p>“You’re okay?” she asked. He eased forward.</p><p>“Yes, Hermione, it’s okay. It’s safe. The war is over.” He stood over her bedside and placed his hand on hers. Hermione felt herself sag in relief; the muscles held taut suddenly loosing themselves. He looked the same but different. His shoulders were broader, and he stood straighter. An even coating of scruff—and not the least bit patchy—lined his jaw.</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione started. “How long has it been?”</p><p>The clamor from the hallway grew louder, and Harry looked over his shoulder, concern radiating from him.</p><p>He looked uncomfortable. “A bit, but don’t worry about it now. We’ll have you back on your feet soon, okay?”</p><p>Healer Marcus ducked his head through the door. “Mr. Potter, you’re needed out here,” he said.</p><p>“What’s going on?” Hermione asked as something cold settled between her ribs. “What are you not telling me?”</p><p>Harry looked down at her, sympathy in his eyes. “I know this is rough, Hermione, but things will start to make sense again soon. But for now, you’re surrounded by people who love you and want the best for you. Okay?” Healer Marcus put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to usher him out, and Hermione caught his eye before he vanished through the door. He seemed to believe what he was saying. Healer Marcus returned to her bedside.</p><p>“Do you believe me, now?” he asked. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“The war has been over for five years,” the healer continued with slow, purposeful words.</p><p>“What do you mean?” she asked, searching the other man’s gaze. Her fingers clutched helplessly at the rough blanket on her cot. “This-this didn’t happen in the battle at Hogwarts?”</p><p>The other wizard shook his head. “No, it happened during a debate on the floor of Wizengamot. The argument escalated, and some spells were caste. The ministry is looking into the perpetrators as we speak.”</p><p>Hermione’s mind short-circuited, and her expression went slack.</p><p>“It appears you’ve lost some memory, Hermione.” Healer Marcus cleared his throat. “Your accident—you were hit with a stray obliviate, among another hex that knocked you back. You hit your head, and we’ve been struggling to bring you to consciousness since.”</p><p>Hermione stared at her hands. They didn’t look any different. She supposed the callouses from writing were thicker than they’d been in a while—since her last year at Hogwarts, really. Apart from that, she felt the same. Harry, though…he’d looked different. Like the five years had been kind to him. But something still wasn’t lining up.</p><p>“There must be some sort of misunderstanding. Are you joking me?” She peered around the room, looking for a different answer. None of the other healers met her eyes.</p><p>“I’m afraid not,” the healer said. The clock ticked on the wall.</p><p>“Will my memories come back?” Hermione asked, voice small. “Is this normal?”</p><p>The healer scooted forward, holding Hermione’s hand more firmly between his own. “There’s no way to know for certain, but that’s not out of the question.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, mute with shock. The tip of her nose ached, and she cursed herself as a tear slipped out. She brought her hand up to wipe it away, realizing halfway there that the motion was a mistake, and pain wracked her frame. Her vision spun, and she groaned in frustration.</p><p>“Careful,” Healer Marcus reached behind Hermione and adjusted the pillows. None of this was right. She was alone with a stranger in a hospital room, and nothing seemed real. She needed something familiar.</p><p>“Are the rest of my friends here?” Hermione asked. The healer nodded, studying Hermione’s reaction. Just then, the door swung open, and the noise of the scuffle was once more projected into the hospital room.</p><p>“She’s my wife, Harry!” someone shouted. They sounded familiar. And, despite their volume, it made her feel…warm? But, she couldn’t place it, not with the way the room was spinning. She shook her head, confused.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley, I’m sorry, but it’s not yet safe—” the other voice in the hall was cut off by the door’s shut. Hermione’s head throbbed. Healer Marcus was studying her.</p><p>“Are they talking about me?” she whispered. Healer Marcus huffed, then stood.</p><p>“I’m afraid so. He’s been quite persistent, asking about you every time we leave the room, sleeping in the hallway, refusing to leave.”</p><p>“Who?” Hermione asked. Her heart lurched. She didn’t want to hear the answer. She knew what the answer was, but she didn’t want to hear it. What would it mean for her?</p><p>“Your husband,” he said. Healer Marcus had the good graces to smile awkwardly at her, as though that made up for the fact that Hermione was apparently married and didn’t even remember it.</p><p>“I married him, then,” Hermione said. Her brain was moving fast, now. Her and Ron must’ve gotten hitched at some point after the battle. Their kiss in the chamber had been fleeting, but she didn’t doubt his seriousness. They’d danced around the possibility, Merlin, Hermione had dreamed about it for years. So, why did she feel anxious, rather than exhilarated?</p><p>Healer Marcus raised a brow. “It appears so,” he said, tone wry. “Would you like to see him? In all honesty, he was quite calm until you grew vocal just before waking. I don’t blame him for his response, but we usually try to make sure visitors are calm before being reintroduced to patients.” Healer Marcus scratched at the back of his neck. “We were planning to wait until tomorrow, due to the circumstances, but if we allowed him in, I have a feeling that he’d calm right down. It depends on what you feel ready for.” He looked at her meaningfully, encouragingly. “It’s really up to you.”</p><p>Despite the throb in her head, Hermione found herself nodding. Another familiar face could only help to provide some grounding in this strange, scary nightmare she’d found herself.</p><p>“Ring the bell there if you need anything,” Healer Marcus said, nodding at the piece of polished metal next to Hermione’s hand.</p><p>The support staff filed out of the room, and then the head healer nodded at her, holding the door open for what was sure to be a very agitated Ron on their way out of the room.</p><p>He rushed through the threshold, stumbling forward to avoid the mess of cords on the floor. The way he moved made Hermione’s insides lurch. Something wasn’t quite right. The hair was red, but he was taller, leaner, a look of urgency etched into his features. A set of kind, warm, brown eyes met hers. It wasn’t Ron.</p><p>Terror laced through her.</p><p>It wasn’t Ron. It was George. George Weasley. With roughed up hair, clothes askew, and a little trickle of blood dripping from his nose.</p><p>He looped his foot around a chair and dragged it closer to her bed, sitting, bracing his forearms against her cot.</p><p>“I’m here, Hermione, I’m here,” he said, tripping over his words. He leaned forward and reached for her hand. Hermione’s eyes stung with tears. Then, he pressed a kiss into her palm.</p><p>What was happening?</p><p>“Merlin,” his voice shook, and he swallowed. “I’ve been praying out there, waiting for you to wake up, and when I heard you, I—” he shook his head suddenly, grimacing. He ran his hand down his face.</p><p>“George?” she asked, fog crowding her brain.</p><p>“Yes, Love, it’s me.” He was looking at her so earnestly. Hermione stared at him, mouth slack and brow furrowed. She couldn’t speak. There was a missing piece here that she didn’t know, some sort of mix up. A misunderstanding. But, something in his gaze tunneled into her, and her heart clenched. “They said you were confused,” he said as he studied her, and his thumb traced little circles over the back of her hand. “Are you feeling any better?”</p><p>“Where’s Ron?” she whispered. He paused and tilted his head, looking like he’d been presented with a particularly hard riddle.</p><p>“I'm sure he'll be here shortly,” George said, the words coming slowly. “I’ve been—”</p><p>Hermione cut him off, impatient, “They said he wanted to see me.”</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked, concern carving lines into his face.</p><p>“They said he hasn’t stopped asking for me, sleeping in the hallway—he must be so worried,” she trailed off.</p><p>“We all were, Love,” George whispered and gazed down at her in a way that set her on edge. The look in his eyes didn’t make sense.</p><p>“Y-you should send him in,” she said, flushing under his attention.</p><p>“Sorry?” He blinked, brows raised.</p><p> “I-I want to see Ron,” she said, finally bringing herself to look back into his gaze.</p><p>He paused at this, looking down to study the floor, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice the hurt flashing over his face.</p><p>But, she was brave, if nothing else, wasn’t she? She stared back. With a clear and level voice, despite the anxiety coursing through her, she asked, “Why are you here, George?”</p><p>He looked back up at her, his shoulders tight, and his mouth a thin line.</p><p>“You-you don’t remember, do you?” His words were hesitant, quiet.</p><p>Hermione shook her head, dread filling her.</p><p>Something shattered behind his eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ab Initio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A series of short vignettes that feature some of George's early, formative memories concerning both the brewing war and Hermione.<br/>---<br/>In August of George and Fred’s third year, they were assembling some experimental fireworks with their mates on the train when their compartment on the Hogwarts Express was unexpectedly slid open. In the threshold stood a short, owlish girl with large eyes and big, bushy hair.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey everybody! This is the first chapter of George's POV and the second, concurrent timeline that this fic will feature. This chapter's a little different because it's broken up into a series of short vignettes that feature some of George's early, formative memories concerning both the brewing war and Hermione. With the exception of an initial chapter or two, all of this timeline occurs during and post DH (five years before Hermione's timeline), but I wanted to lay a little background down. If any of this is confusing, please let me know. I usually make edits as I go. (No beta. SORRY.)</p><p>Thank you so much for reading!! Every hit, kudos, and comment means a great deal. This is a quirky little rare pair, and I so enjoy getting to hear all of your thoughts.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Two: Ab Initio</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>August 1989</em>
</p><p>George Weasley sat hunkered beside Fred on the couch. The 11-year-old balanced a plate of biscuits in his lap, taking a large, satisfied bite before looking back up to face his father.</p><p>“Do you think there’ll be any of the bad sort at Hogwarts, then?” he asked, thoughtfully chewing on the blueberry chunk treat.</p><p>Arthur scrubbed his hands through his hair and leaned forward. “Unfortunately, boys, I don’t doubt it.”</p><p>“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Fred said, reaching over George’s arm to pluck up another biscuit from the plate. “Anyone with more than rocks in their head would know that all blood is just blood, whoever you are.”</p><p>Mr. Weasley nodded, chin firm. “Yes, and don’t you forget it.” He paused, glancing back and forth between the twins. “It’s my hope that this won’t be a concern, but you need to be prepared, in case you have a run in with an extremist.” Arthur took a slow bite of his own biscuit and swallowed. “There are some who refer to our family as ‘blood traitors.’”</p><p>“Sounds pretty wicked to me,” George said, grinning. Arthur’s face looked pinched.</p><p>“It’s not,” Charlie’s voice floated down from the landing near the stairs. “It’s a horrid term used for ‘pure-bloods’ like us who don’t follow pure-blood ideology. It’s their way of trying to bully and shame others into believing the same, awful things that they do.” The older boy was strapping on his quidditch pads hurriedly.</p><p>“Will they call Fred and I blood traitors, Dad?” George asked, looking back at his father. Charlie came to sit on the arm of the sofa beside him.</p><p>“Perhaps. But, that’s not what Dad’s worried about. Everyone knows that a Weasley can protect their own.” Charlie said. He ruffled George’s hair and gave Fred’s shoulder a friendly shove before continuing. “At Hogwarts, most people are kind, but you may see some blokes treating the mugglebornes with disrespect, even violence if they can get away with it. Heck—a Ravenclaw in my year even called someone a mud—”</p><p>“That’s enough, Charles,” Arthur cut in, shooting the teen a stern glance.</p><p>Charlie shrugged. “It’s nothing they won’t hear themselves, Dad,” he said.</p><p>Fred rubbed at his shoulder, biscuits forgotten. “What’d they call them?” he asked.</p><p>George leaned in, hoping to catch the answer.</p><p>Mr. Weasley huffed and lowered his voice. “Alright. No telling your mother, but I agree with Charlie. I think you ought to know this term for yourselves. It’s a vile, horrible thing to call  muggleborne witches and wizards, and it’s something no son of mine will ever say. Are we clear?” Mr. Weasley stared intently at the twins. They nodded.</p><p>“Mudblood.” Arthur exhaled the word with a grimace. “Now, if you hear anyone say that, I want you to go straight to your head of house or a professor that you trust. Don’t just stand there. Intervene, even if it’s not the popular thing to do. Heavens forbid, if they’re picking on a muggleborne student, I expect you to stand tall for what’s right, you hear me?” Arthur’s eye contact was intense, and the twins nodded, solemn. Finally, Mr. Weasley placed his hands on his knees and stood. “With luck, your fellow students will all be kind, courteous young people who would never dream of using that sort of language. But, I felt you should know before your first year, just in case.”</p><p>The elder Weasley headed back to the kitchen in search of tea, leaving Charlie with the twins.</p><p>“Charlie,” George started, the cogs in his mind turning. “What’d you do when you heard that Ravenclaw said it?”</p><p>Charlie grinned. “Knocked him flat.”</p><p>“Did you get in trouble?” Fred asked, eyes wide.</p><p>“A bit, but not too bad, because McGonagall knows that anyone who uses that sort of language is likely coming from a household that supported You-Know-Who and his lot. She told me to get a professor next time, and I had detention. But, I don’t regret it.”</p><p>The twins nodded.</p><p> Charlie continued, “That word—it was used by the worst sort. The kinds of people who would hurt mugglebornes and try to take their magic away. A lot of innocent people died. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I were a muggleborne and I heard a pureblood call me that. Probably scared, though, especially after everything that happened a few years back.” Charlie’s brow wrinkled and he stared out the window. “I think Mum and Dad wish that we wouldn’t have to worry about this, but they don’t always understand how it is. The professors aren’t always conveniently nearby. Sometimes, you’re the only person able step in.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ll knock anyone who uses it right out,” Fred said, a hard glint in his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah,” George huffed beside him. “I’m not afraid to fight.”</p><p>Charlie threw his head back and laughed. “The both of you are far too scrawny, but maybe someday. Instead, just try to be kind to everyone—especially the mugglebornes. A fair number of them don’t know anyone when they first arrive. Change that. Don’t give the nasty sort a chance to catch them alone.”</p><p>Charlie finished strapping his arm pads on. “And if you get into any trouble, call for me, and Percy and I’ll come running. Alright?”</p><p>“Alright,” Fred and George said in unison.</p><p>“Now,” Charlie said, jumping to his feet. “Who wants to help me practice?”</p><p>                                                                        #</p><p>
  <em>August 1991</em>
</p><p>In August of George and Fred’s third year, they were assembling some experimental fireworks with their mates on the train when their compartment on the Hogwarts Express was unexpectedly slid open. In the threshold stood a short, owlish girl with large eyes and big, bushy hair.</p><p>“Excuse me,” she said, her pronunciation a smooth, crisp Queen’s English. Fred grinned at George.</p><p>“Oy, Ickle firstie?” Fred quipped, nodding at the girl’s plain, black tie. George grinned. The precocious child scrunched her nose and sniffed.</p><p>“Be civil, Fred. You’ll frighten them off,” Angelina said, nudging his twin on the arm.</p><p>“We’re only looking for Neville’s toad. He’s lost it, and I’m helping him find it,” she said, not flinching under the curious gaze of the cluster of third years in the compartment. The girl’s eyes slid down to the firework assembly line on the table between the boys. “Are those fireworks? I’m positive that’s not allowed,” she said. Angelina snorted. George leaned over the wrappings and bits casually, hiding them from view.</p><p>“Haven’t seen any toads here,” Fred said, nodding at the first year brightly.</p><p>“Alright, then,” she said, suspicion lining her brow. She looked over her shoulder into the main passageway. “Sorry Neville,” she said. Behind her hunched a mousy boy with a soft chin and frightened eyes. George rubbed at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Would you like any help?” George said, suddenly. Her eyes snapped to his for the first time. Her head cocked to the side and she studied him.</p><p>“Yes please,” came Neville’s frightened voice behind her. George nodded, standing.</p><p>“Right,” he said. He turned back to Fred, Lee, and Angelina. “This shouldn’t take long. Keep at it,” he said, nodding to their fireworks with a wink. Fred grinned back. Then, he stepped into the passageway with the first years, sliding the door shut behind him.</p><p>“I’m Hermione Granger,” the first year said, looking up at him with calculating eyes.</p><p>“Fred Weasley,” he said, reaching to shake her hand and grinning mischievously. Her eyes narrowed.</p><p>“No, you’re not,” she said. “The other one was Fred. I heard her say it.” His brows shot up.</p><p>“Right you are,” he said, grinning. “It’s George Weasley, actually. Not many people can tell us apart, so we like to have a bit of fun.” Granger finally took his offered palm, and they shook as the train thundered around them. It was nice to be recognized, even if it was just coincidentally.</p><p>Then, she paused and looked him up and down. “Weasley. Are you related to the first year with the rat?” she asked. “Ron Weasley?”</p><p>“Ron’s my little brother,” he said, smiling broadly as they proceeded down the corridor. “Have you got any brothers or sisters on board?”</p><p>Hermione stooped to check a crate lodged in the corner of the train car. After a moment, she stood, shook her head at Neville, and then answered. “No,” she said. “I haven’t any brothers or sisters, and I’m the first in my entire family to go to Hogwarts. My parents didn’t even know I was a witch until I got my letter.” She looked at him, hesitating and gauging his reaction.</p><p>“That’s alright,” George said, tone easy and light. “You can always borrow some of my siblings if you need any. There are loads of us. Keep an eye out. You’ll be surrounded by Weasleys at Hogwarts!”</p><p>Hermione smiled for the first time, her eyes crinkling. Her front teeth were marvelously large, and it made for a wholesome, mirthful picture. A happy jolt of warmth spread through his chest and all the way down to his fingertips. George Weasley was always one to make another person smile.</p><p>                                                                                    #</p><p>September 1992</p><p>The first time George heard a student use the term their father had warned them about, it was fourth year, and Charlie was no longer at Hogwarts to help. George was at the quidditch pitch with his team, when the Slytherin team appeared out of nowhere. Hermione Granger, that bossy (albeit quite brilliant) little witch and friend of his brother’s, dashed up to join them.</p><p>It appeared that Malfoy had made the Slytherin team and was attempting to give the Gryffindors a dressing-down from his self-important throne. The prat glared at Harry, then him, tossing out some comment intended to shame Fred and George for their Cleansweeps (which were perfectly adequate, thank you very much).</p><p>Money wasn’t something George felt ashamed of. Some people had it. Some didn’t. It was a tool, not a marker of merit. That didn’t stop Ron’s face from going red at the remark, though. Just as George was about to cut in with a reminder of he and Fred’s prowess, despite the brooms, Granger stepped forward, chin lifted.</p><p>“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent,” Granger said. George’s eyes widened, and a peel of laughter burst from his throat. He didn’t know she had it in her, the cheeky witch.</p><p>But, then Malfoy’s eyes were narrowing, and for some reason, George felt the need to step forward, closer to Granger and Ron. “No one asked for your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” Malfoy spat.</p><p>The world slowed, and George didn’t have time to notice the way that Granger’s face contorted before launching himself at that cocky, blonde bastard. Marcus Flint caught him with a forearm across the neck, slamming George to the ground. But, then Fred’s arms grappled Flint’s, and the Slytherin captain tumbled as well. George caught a foot to the stomach, then another to the shin, before a loud bang caused the fighting to cease.</p><p>There, in the middle of the field, was his little brother. Throwing up slugs. He struggled to his feet, dashing over.</p><p>“Ron, Ron, are you alright?” Hermione was frantic. The trio was off to see Hagrid before long, and George and Fred were left to consider what they’d witnessed.</p><p>“I want to beat them more than ever, now,” Fred said, staring grimly as the opposing team did warmups in the air above them.</p><p>“We will, boys,” Wood said, clapping them on the back. “We will.”</p><p>“Do you reckon Granger’s alright?” he found himself saying. He hadn’t had time to check on the muggleborne before she’d left to help Ron. Fred grimaced.</p><p>“We’ll keep an eye on her, Georgie,” his twin said. “And she’s got Harry—and Ron! Don’t worry.” George nodded, then made his way back to the common room to change out of his practice robes.</p><p>#</p><p>May 1993</p><p>George blinked the still, grey figure on the bed. It wasn't right. Granger should've been studying for exams. Snapping at Harry and Ron to quiet down from her usual spot in the common room—tucked into the overstuffed armchair by the fire.</p><p>Instead, she was stone.</p><p>And Hogwarts was closing.</p><p>And Ginny was missing. Maybe—maybe even—</p><p>He couldn't bring himself to think it, but the lump in his throat rose again.</p><p>George was only one boy in the face of danger he'd never anticipated.</p><p>What would they have him do?</p><p>But Ginny wasn't there to speak, and Granger couldn't give an answer.</p><p>He clenched the parchment in his hand so tight that it crinkled. "Fred?" he asked.</p><p>"Yeah?" His brother's voice was little more than an exhausted croak beside him. The two had snuck from their dormitory, unable to sleep.</p><p>"We've got mischief to manage," George said. He unfurled the map over the empty bed. "You watch the east corridors, and I'll watch the west."</p><p>"And if we see the heir?" Fred asked.</p><p>George gritted his teeth. "Then we'll fight our hardest."</p><p>He wasn't thick. He and Fred were proficient enough in charmwork and defense, but they hardly stood a chance against someone who'd outsmarted even Dumbledore. But with the professors run ragged and thin, the "defense expert" nowhere to be seen, and the hospital ward left tended by a sleeping, worn out Madame Pomfrey, someone had to hold the line.</p><p>Fred looked at him a moment. Then, he nodded.</p><p>Hours passed.</p><p>The two were still blinking wearily, standing guard over the parchment and the petrified when four names appeared—all at once, and George suddenly felt able to breathe again.</p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>August 16, 1994; 4:12 a.m.</em>
</p><p>George crept into the Burrow’s kitchen, his socked feet skipping over the creaky floorboards on his way to retrieve the last slice of carrot cake from the fridge. He loved carrot cake. They used to have it all the time when he was little, but now it seemed that it was only reserved for the most special of occasions.</p><p>Like today, when the whole family was together again for the first time in ages.</p><p>Still bedecked in pajamas but just too hungry to sleep much longer, he’d crept down to the kitchen for a snack. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock. All of the hands pointed to home. Fred was still sleeping in their room upstairs, doubtlessly tired after their all-nighter. They’d stayed up to finish off a new experiment—puking pastilles. Hiding them from Mum would be a challenge, but they weren’t about to give up their dream just because she was upset over the O.W.L.s still.</p><p>A twinge of guilt ran through him. They could’ve tried harder, but. But, they hadn’t wanted to waste their time with courses that wouldn’t help them towards their aims. Mum didn’t believe their lie—she knew they’d been capable of more. He scratched at the back of his neck. It was hard to explain that they felt, deep in their bones, that they really were meant to go into the joke business. This wasn’t just a momentary fascination for them. They had big plans.</p><p>The carrot cake slice sat wrapped with a fork on a small plate on the shelf before him, and he plucked it up hungrily. It wasn’t till he turned towards the table that he saw Granger deep in a book. Of course.</p><p>He slipped onto the bench across from her. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a terrycloth bathrobe not too different from his own was wrapped tightly around her pajama-ed form. Her lips moved along to mouth the words as she read.</p><p>“Getting a head start on your homework?” George whispered. Hermione bolted upright, face coloring at the sight of him. George grinned. “You know, the school year doesn’t start for another week or so, Granger.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “Some people read for pleasure,” she said, sullen. “And you could do with a bit of reading, George.” She eyed him, clearly hinting at his spectacular failing in the academics department. He let it roll of his shoulders.</p><p>“Now, don’t start on that,” he whispered, voice low and amused. “It’ll spoil a perfectly good slice of carrot cake.” He paused. “And beside—I do read.”</p><p>Hermione raised a brow. “Really?” she said, incredulous.</p><p>“Loads,” George said, taking a far too large bite. Hermione smiled and shook her head at him. “What are you doing up?” he asked leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the material that had deprived her of rest. Hermione shut the book, sighing.</p><p>“I wanted to try to finish this Ancient Runes chapter before we had to leave. I didn’t anticipate it taking so much time.” She stared at the carrot cake in front of him. George pushed it and the fork across the table to her, and she smiled, took a bite, then pushed it back.</p><p>“So, Ancient Runes brings you pleasure,” he said, having a bit of a laugh at her. She crossed her arms. “They ought to give you tenure and an office already,” he quipped. Hermione’s face relaxed at the compliment, and she laughed. George’s chest warmed, and he forgot about the carrot cake.</p><p>What this girl saw in Ron, he’d never know. But he supposed she did, and Ron was a lucky bloke for it. That is, if Ron ever figured it out. He chuckled to himself as he went to wake Fred in preparation for their early departure to the World Cup. They had business plans to attend to. New order forms to make. Potential investors to impress.</p><p>                                                                        #</p><p>
  <em>The next day.</em>
</p><p>Smoke singed George’s nostrils. The dark, bobbing hoods in the distance turned his stomach. Not here. There were so many of them.</p><p>He whirled, looking for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Ginny was crying, choking on the fumes at his side, and he didn’t let her go. Where had his younger brother and the rest of the trio gone? Sometimes, George could swear that he’d spent a quarter of his adolescence looking for them. Every time they disappeared, they came back scraped up and having encountered life-threatening danger. He used to think it was totally wicked, but every year, it grew more worrisome. And now there were Death Eaters on the loose, out in public for the first time since he was in nappies. If they found Hermione, a muggleborne… George’s heart hammered in his chest. They couldn’t find Hermione.</p><p>The Weasleys elbowed through the crowded forest’s tree line, roaring the fourth years’ names. “Ron! Harry! Hermione!” But there was too much noise for them to be heard. The crowds’ screams of terror and the howls of the fire were too loud. Their voices wouldn’t reach them like this.</p><p>“Freddie, we’ve gotta go deeper into the forest,” George shouted, gripping Ginny tight as a stranger tried to sprint between them. “If they find Hermione—”</p><p>Fred nodded, his eyes scanning the surrounding brush for a flash of the muggleborne. “Hang on, Gin,” Fred shouted, pointing to the west. They clambered around fallen trees and panicked witches and wizards, feet hurtling through the brush in the race to reach Hermione before the hoods could find her.</p><p>A tree root caught his foot, and he hit the ground with a thud. Pain twisted up from his ankle to his knee, and he cried out. Fred’s hands came down to steady him, and his twin pulled him to a stand. He looped his arm around Fred’s shoulders, gritting his teeth.</p><p>“Set it. Quick,” George said, biting the inside of his cheek. He looked up at the tree canopy while Fred murmured a quick spell, and the bone jolted back into place. A wave of nausea crashed over him, and he lurched.</p><p>“You good, Mate?” Fred said, worry creasing his brow.</p><p>George gasped, leaning heavily on Fred’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, wheezing.</p><p>“Keep breathing through it,” Ginny said, speaking for the first time since the fires had started outside of their tent. George lifted his head. The spinning and chaos around him abated as he saw his baby sister straighten her shoulders and settle into a fighter’s stance. Her eyes flickered over their surroundings, alert for danger. For the first time, she didn’t look like lost, little Gin. She looked…fierce. Determined. Like a warrior. Pride washed through him.</p><p>“Alright, Gin,” he managed, gripping Fred’s shoulder and raising himself back to a stand. “Let’s keep going.”</p><p>Together, they plunged deeper into the forest. They would find Ron, Harry, and Hermione. It wasn’t like a Weasley to give up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Suaviter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey everyone! Here's chapter three. I'll probably polish it up some, but I'm posting it now so I don't lose my nerve. :P <br/>Thanks for the feedback on the last chapter! I'm so excited for where the story's going. If you want some songs that might pair well with this chapter: "Unsteady" by the X Ambassadors and "Hold Me While You Wait" by Lewis Capaldi (especially the chorus).</p><p>As always, I don't own the rights to these characters or this story world.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos: Chapter Three</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Suaviter</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>2003</em>
</p><p>Hermione sat with her feet dangling off the Mungo’s cot. The scratchy robes they’d dressed her in were a horrid shade of salmon pink. At least she was still wearing what she could presume were her own socks. She must’ve switched brands at some point, because the familiar red stitching that she was accustomed to around the toe and heel was a muted grey instead.</p><p>The healer checked her reflexes, making notations on his pad. No one mentioned the elephant in the room. The fact that they wanted her to go home with a man that she had no rhyme or reason to be with.</p><p>She struggled to keep her breathing even at the thought.</p><p>George was doubtlessly sitting in the corridor where they’d banished him after she asked them to. Having him close to her felt…wrong. Guilt worked its way to the forefront of her conscience, and she fiddled with the hem of her shirt to distract herself.</p><p>No one had let Ron in to see her, yet, even though he was the only one she wanted to see right now.</p><p>She blinked up at the ceiling, recalling the horrible moment that the realization had sunken in.</p><p>
  <em>“Why are you here, George?” Hermione asked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looked back up at her, his shoulders tight, and his mouth a thin line.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You-you don’t remember, do you?” His words were hesitant, quiet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione shook her head, dread filling her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something shattered behind his eyes. He seemed lost for a moment, and then his gaze dropped. His arms, though braced against her cot, trembled the slightest bit. His mouth opened and closed as he took a short breath. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry—I—” he said, his hands twisting together. “This is probably a lot, then,” he whispered. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione nodded, mouth dry. “Where’s Ron?” she asked, knowing that it probably wasn’t the right thing to say, but needing to ask despite it. “They said they’d send him in.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ron’s not your husband, Hermione,” George said, voice catching on her name. His shoulders rose and fell with his breath. He met her eyes. His meaning hit her, and she reeled away from him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No,” she said, the word escaping before she could pull it back. George’s hands dropped from the cot.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was speaking, probably an explanation of some sort. It poured over her, but none of it sank in past the rushing static of her panic. She called for the healers, and they hurried in. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Please, I need to be alone—” she gasped. The healers pulled a very confused and distraught George from the room. </em>
</p><p>Even after he’d gone, the sick feeling in her stomach wouldn’t fade.</p><p>How had things gone so monumentally wrong? Had she lost her mind at some point along the way? George? George Weasley? Not Ron? Thinking of her best friend summoned another wave of hurt and longing. It seemed beyond cruel that after everything, she didn’t get to choose her life partner. Yet another normal life experience that had been taken from her and twisted beyond repair.</p><p>She took another sip from her cup of orange juice.</p><p>“We’re prepared to release you.” Healer Marcus’s voice cut through her fog. Hermione let out a short, disbelieving huff. She was in no state to go home. Wherever that was. She raised her head and appraised the man. He clicked his pen. A muggle pen. “Hermione, look,” he said, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his knees. “I know this seems impossible, but in some cases, living one’s daily life is what sparks the return of memories. We, erm, can’t say whether that will be the case for you, but we can cautiously recommend that you give your brain every opportunity to recover. That includes going home and trying to get back into the swing of things.”</p><p>George was surely waiting outside. Hermione couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not like this. She took a deep breath in through her nose and held it. Under her skin, her chest was tight. Everything felt shaky. She needed to find some semblance of calm before letting herself meet his eyes again. Regardless of everything that had happened and her emotions, George didn’t deserve to be faced with the brunt of her feelings. He’d done nothing to warrant this hurt, and she refused to shovel it onto him by being careless while she processed her grief. She refused to embed more shrapnel into the world around her.</p><p>The war had done enough of that.</p><p>The last memory that she could recall flashed through her mind. He’d shook in her arms on the cold floor of the Great Hall. Fred’s shell transformed from a lifeless husk to a breathing, living being. Perhaps this twist in reality had something to do with Fred’s return. Unless… unless Fred hadn’t really come back, and that had all been a lovely dream. In which case, she really couldn’t afford to let George see her pain. He had enough to cope with.</p><p>But, where had Ron gone? After everything, after leaving and then coming back, working to earn her trust…surely, he hadn’t just up and abandoned her. Had she run to George’s arms the moment Ron left? Or had she left him? Hermione swallowed back the wave of nausea.</p><p>“Mrs. Weasley-Granger?” Healer Marcus waved a hand in front of her face. She blinked. The world zoomed back into focus. What had he called her?</p><p>“Sorry?” she said. Healer Marcus peered at her, then leaned back and sighed. “We’ll be monitoring your situation closely. Nurse Sam will be back with your discharge papers shortly, and we’ll get you scheduled for a follow-up,” he said. He patted her hand and stood.</p><p>Hermione stared at the dragon pox poster on the wall and shut it all out.</p><p>#</p><p>She’d gotten dressed in the clothes that she’d arrived in, apparently. Nurse Sam said that they’d had to scourgify the blood from them. The pieces were unfamiliar, but at the very least a bit more comfortable. Faded blue jeans and a thick, cable knit jumper. Her trainers were different too, but they molded perfectly to her feet inside of them.</p><p>She resolved to study the Hermione who walked in these shoes. If she wanted to make peace with her situation, she’d have to understand the reasons for the choices that the other Hermione had made.</p><p> Nurse Sam insisted on pushing Hermione in a wheelchair, even though she was perfectly capable of walking herself into the foyer. They emerged into the hall together, and a flash of copper hair alerted Hermione to George’s presence. She knew it would be him, and not Ron, but that didn’t stop the bolt of disappointment from shooting through her when she met his eyes.</p><p>Instantly, his gaze dropped and he hung back, trailing after them as they proceeded to the foyer of St. Mungo’s. When they arrived at the lift, he hesitated.</p><p>“Are you coming?” Hermione asked, looking up at him from beneath her bushy hair. George’s gaze lifted from whatever he found so fascinating on the floor, and he took a shaky breath. Nodded. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stepped into the enclosed space with them.</p><p>“It’s cold outside,” Nurse Sam said, watching the arrow as it counted down the floors.</p><p>“We’ll use the floo,” George murmured. Nurse Sam nodded.</p><p>“You have Healer Marcus’s contact information?” Nurse Sam asked. George nodded.</p><p>“I haven’t got it,” Hermione said, her brow wrinkling. Suddenly, she felt indignant. Who were they to treat her as if she wasn’t in the room?</p><p>Wordlessly, George pulled a folder from his shoulder bag and handed it to her. Inside, there was paperclipped a business card with Healer Marcus’s office floo, fax, and extension number.</p><p>“Oh,” she said.</p><p>“I’m your emergency contact, so they gave it to me when you arrived,” George said, staring down at the leather strap on his bag.</p><p>“I see,” she said, face heating.</p><p>“I have the auror report, too, if you’d like to see it,” George said. He lifted his head and looked at the lift wall, jaw firm. She could see every year she’d missed in his face. He just looked…more weighed down. A bit more worn. His usual, quipping manner was absent. Hermione’s walls wavered.</p><p>“Are-are you alright?” she asked without thinking. George blinked and peered at her as though she’d grown a second head. The warmth of her blush spread to her ears. He exhaled a short laugh.</p><p>“Only you would ask if a bloke’s alright while being discharged from Mungo’s in a wheelchair,” he said, shaking his head and snorting.</p><p>The lift doors opened, and they walked into the lobby. A flash of red streaked across the crowded room and collided into George. “Forge!” the man cried. George’s arms tightened around him.</p><p>It was Fred. It hadn’t been a figment of her injured brain. Fred was alive. The bricks sitting in Hermione’s chest dropped off, and something cool, clear, and calm floated in.</p><p>Fred turned to appraise her, and she stared back at him. While George’s hair was cropped similarly to how it’d been in the battle at Hogwarts, Fred’s was shaggier, touching his shoulders. He’d tied the pieces closest to his face back behind his head in a small knot. It was strange to see them look different after so many years. The stubble sprinkled over both of their faces was a similar length, however. And both were sporting bags under their eyes. Were those normal, or because of her?</p><p>“It was pretty rough for a minute there, Granger,” Fred said, eyes twinkling. “Thought you might be packing it in altogether.” George shot him a warning look.</p><p>“No, I’m still—unpacked,” she said, faltering over the metaphor and its implications.</p><p>Fred’s gaze wandered over her face and her tense shoulders. He frowned and glanced back at George. George shook his head.</p><p>“Right then, will you be needing anything else?” Nurse Sam asked.</p><p>“No. Thanks, though,” Hermione said, pushing herself to a stand. She straightened her shoulders. George’s eyes followed her, wide and searching.</p><p>“Which way to the floo?” She said, more clipped than intended.</p><p>"I'll owl you," Fred murmured to George. He fixed Hermione with a concerned look, then turned to leave through the front doors.</p><p>George cleared his throat and gestured to the set of visitors’ floos across the way from the reception. Right. They crossed to the powder bowls, and Hermione wrapped her arms around her torso. The green powder seemed to taunt her.</p><p>“I’m not sure where we’re going,” she admitted, worrying her lower lip.</p><p>“Would you like to floo together?” George asked, offering his arm. She paused, taken aback by the strange yet mundane moment. He had gone quite still, as though he was holding his breath and waiting to hear her answer. Still extended, his arm didn’t falter. The first unknown in what was sure to be an upcoming series of unknowns. She breathed deeply, summoned her inner lion, and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He nodded.</p><p> They stepped into the fireplace together.</p><p>#</p><p>The green flames whooshed, and the world around her jolted as Hermione was sucked through the floo system. Her surroundings whirled, spinning around her. Caught unaware, she threw her arms around the solid presence beside her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the chaos and centered herself on the warm arms that had come to rest around her shoulders.</p><p>As quickly as it’d started, it stopped. A small tug, and Hermione stumbled onto a solid surface once again. Hermione exhaled the remnants of the bitter smoke. She hadn’t been prepared for how jarring the trip would be. It hadn’t been safe to travel by floo for quite some time, from her perspective. She opened her eyes and stared up at the man beside her. George studied her, a streak of soot marring his cheek. Her heartbeat spiked up and into her throat.</p><p>“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—that is—I’m sorry.” She stepped from his embrace and out of the fireplace.</p><p>He gave her a faint smile. “It’s quite alright, Granger. I’m not suffering under any delusions here. I know you, and I know that you need time.” He shrugged and scuffed his creased, dragon leather shoe against the dark brown floorboards.</p><p>It’s like he’d read her mind. She swallowed.</p><p>“It’s just that, to me, you’re—you’re…well…George,” she said, struggling to find the words. His smile turned lopsided, tugging up at the right corner.</p><p>“Right,” he drawled. He chuckled. The silence hung for a moment. Then, he sighed and rubbed at the scar of his ear, pushing his hair back. “This won’t be easy. But, that’s alright.” He peeled off his coat and hung it from a coat rack beside the floo. “Would you like a tour?” he asked.</p><p>“Pardon?” Hermione replied.</p><p>“Of the flat,” he spoke slowly and purposefully, nodding at the room around them. Hermione flushed.</p><p>“Right. Yes, that would be helpful,” she said. George nodded and pushed his dress shirt’s sleeves up to the elbows.</p><p>“Brilliant. Well, this is the sitting room,” he said, gesturing around them. Hermione took it in, tearing her attention from the awkwardness between them to gaze around the room.</p><p>A window lined wall betrayed the flat’s location as Diagon Alley. Despite the evening hour, witches and wizards still bustled around the streets outside. Just below the sill, she could see the outline of an enchanted prop wizard, lifting its hat. So, they lived above the shop. She turned to examine the rest of the space. Before the fireplace squatted a large, brown sofa and a high-backed, navy armchair. A dented coffee table was centered between them, littered with stacks of books and parchment.  Twin bookshelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling behind the sitting area, and Hermione recognized some of the titles. They were hers, she realized with a jolt. She crossed to the shelves. Here was <em>Work</em> by Louisa May Alcott, still dog-eared and worn. And her four editions of <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>. And…was this a new sequel to one of her favorite trilogies by Melinda Brinkerhop? She flipped open the cover. The publishing date was different. In the future and past, all at once. She swallowed and replaced the volume. Her eyes travelled upwards, and she realized that yet more books were crammed onto a shelf that wrapped around the room’s walls, near the ceiling.</p><p>George’s eyes followed her as she circled the room, taking in the books. Wizarding law. Culture. Potions. Ancient Runes. He seemed to understand that this was important and didn’t interrupt. Finally, she returned to the first shelf and pulled her oldest copy of <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>. Hermione opened it, breathed in the smell. Fireplaces, feasts, and the Gryffindor common room flashed through her mind. She clutched it to her chest, feeling a bit calmer.</p><p>With tentative steps, she crossed into the adjoining kitchen. It was open to the sitting room. The click of George’s shoes trailed after her.</p><p>It was a galley kitchen, but with enough space to be functional. She opened the fridge, curious. Containers of rotting produce greeted her, and she gagged. George’s hand shot out and closed the fridge door.</p><p>“Sorry, I haven’t had time to clean it out since the accident,” he stammered, cheeks pink. She nodded, taking in the copper pots and pans that hung from a rack suspended from the ceiling. “We both cook,” he said. Her brows lifted. Ron hadn’t been one to help with food while they were hunting for horcruxes, and she’d thought that the other Weasley boys were apt to be the same. A simple side effect of being young and raised by a woman who ran a strict kitchen.</p><p>“You made that same face when I offered to make you dinner for the first time,” George said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.</p><p>“And that went well?” she asked.</p><p>The smile morphed into a grin, and George shrugged and lifted his hands, palms up. “I like to think so. Her face warmed. He cleared his throat and pointed towards a set of double doors. “That’s the pantry.” She cracked open the doors. A cozy room with simple, built in shelves greeted her. Lining most of them were large, glass containers that held rice, beans, dried pastas, spices, and other dry goods. A wire basket was tucked almost out of site on the bottom shelf to the right of the doors. Brightly colored packaging from Wizarding and Muggle candies alike peeked at her from between the bars. A florescent purple dark chocolate bar from Dulces called out to her.</p><p>“Oh, that’s my favorite,” she breathed. She hadn’t had one since before the war started.</p><p>“I know,” George said, mirth creeping into his voice. “You hide them all over the flat, and I’m very much forbidden from eating them.”</p><p>Hermione reached out and snagged the bar. She unwrapped it then and there and took a bite. The familiar flavor felt like a lifeline, singing softly to her that maybe some things could stay the same. She turned to George, light on her toes.</p><p>“I haven’t had one of these since before—” she started, her voice louder and more animated than she intended. She paused. “Well, I suppose other Hermione’s had more than a few, but for me, I mean,” she said. George tilted his chin, watching her.</p><p>“Other Hermione?” he asked, voice soft.</p><p>She stared back up at him. “Yes,” she said. She crossed past him, rewrapping the exposed end of the bar and tucking it into the freezer’s door.</p><p>“Does Fred live here, still?” she asked, mainly to change the subject. There was a pause before he finally closed the pantry doors and crossed to her side.</p><p>“No, he has his own place with Angelina,” he said. “Although, sometimes they stay in the guest room when it’s busy or when we’re developing a particularly difficult product.”</p><p>“That’s handy,” she said, filing away the information on Fred’s partner. It made sense. He’d been crazy about Angelina for years, and they’d been dating since Yule Ball.</p><p>George stepped lightly around her and proceeded to the hall behind the sitting room. She followed him. He eased open the door at the end of the hall to show a sizeable loo. Twin sinks and a toilet were grouped on either side of the door, and just beyond them was a standing shower and a clawfoot tub wedged into the far corner. Fluffy, white towels hung from two bars on the wall.</p><p>“It’s nice,” she said. George pointed out the light switch.</p><p>“You use those,” he pointed to a matching, green set of glass bottles. “You said you switched a few years back because they’re better suited for your hair.” He opened the closest cabinet beneath the sink. “Your other products are under here.” A small crate of skincare products, a wide-tooth comb, and a few boxes of tampons peeked out at her. Heat spread over her neck. It was entirely too strange to have someone else explaining your personal care products to you. Not noticing, George nudged the cabinet closed.  </p><p>“I picked these out?” she asked, voice faltering. George turned, assessing her with his warm, brown eyes.</p><p>“Yes,” he said. “But, if you’d rather we grab some things you’re more familiar with, we can.” Hermione took a deep breath.</p><p>He turned back into the hall and opened the next door. “This is the bedroom—you can sleep here and I’ll take the office,” he said, the words coming out rushed.</p><p>“Okay,” she whispered. She passed by it and stopped at the last door, directly across from the sitting room.</p><p>“This is the office,” George said. “But we sometimes use it as a guest room.” He eased the door open. Twin desks faced the two walls opposite of the entry, and three more bookshelves lined the other walls. Crammed between the door and the third shelf was a small, red loveseat with velvet cushions. A tall, brass lamp with a green shade was nestled into the corner between the desks. Hermione crossed to it and flipped it on. Light poured over the parchment on the desk to her right.</p><p>The document’s heading read “Representation of Magical Creatures in Wizarding Law.” She looked up at George, standing in the frame with his arms folded. “Is this one mine?” she asked. George shook his head.</p><p>“No, that’s mine actually,” he said. “Yours is the one in front of the window.”</p><p>“But…” Hermione said, flicking her gaze back down to the paperwork and then back up at him.</p><p>Catching her meaning, George stood up from his spot against the frame and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I help with things, sometimes,” he said.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said. A tiny piece of other-Hermione clicked into place. “I see.” She spun, trying to see if there were any details she’d missed. It was getting late. Her head hurt. The flat was a lot, all at once. And while information was certainly helpful, that didn’t stop the throb behind her temples from intensifying. She pushed through it. “Thank you for being so thorough,” she said. “It’s helpful to know where I can find things.”</p><p>George took a breath and crossed closer to her, but not too close. Just out of arm’s reach.</p><p>“Does any of it—I don’t know, seem a bit familiar?” he asked, biting his lip and searching her eyes. Hermione’s chest tightened.</p><p>“Not really, no,” she said. George’s face fell. While she could sense traces of herself throughout the flat, it was as though someone else had left them there. The other Hermione. She reached up and massaged at her temples, trying to relieve some of the tension. George’s brows creased.</p><p>“You’re tired,” he said. Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“Would you like anything to eat before bed?” He tried again, voice soft.</p><p>“No, I’d just like to lie down,” she said. George nodded.</p><p>He followed her to the bedroom but didn’t come inside. “Let me know if you need anything,” he said. She nodded, avoiding his gaze, afraid to see the flickers of the disappointment he was surely feeling. “Hermione?” he asked. She steeled herself and finally met his eyes.</p><p>He stood, hands still in his pockets. Rather than the hurt look she’d expected, his face was relaxed, and his eyes radiated with warmth, care, and something she couldn’t quite put a finger on, but it felt foreign. Crossing into territory that she was not yet accustomed to, especially with George. “Goodnight,” he said. Her chest tingled pleasantly.</p><p>Panic slammed through her.</p><p>What was this?</p><p>It was dangerous, that’s what it was.</p><p>She swallowed and closed the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Igniculus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As George goes about the rest of his sixth year, Voldemort's rise smolders like a heavy weight, just beyond the horizon. To make matters all the more chaotic, something strange seems to be sparking in his friendship with Hermione Granger. He admires her pluck. That's all there is to it, really. Truly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! I have a couple of announcements before this chapter.<br/>One: Thank you so much for your patience as I wrote this. I had to go back and look through the timeline of Fred and George's product development, and it was a bit of demanding process (but very fun!).<br/>Two: Somehow, I made a silly Tik Tok about writing this fic that got the attention of many kind people, and a handful of them have found their way here. I have cried over the kind words and encouragement from commenters more than once. I was not expecting this response whatsoever. Thank you thank you thank you THANK YOU for liking my video, finding me here, and taking the time to read, kudos, or even comment. &lt;3 &lt;3 And to people who found me originally on Tumblr or AO3, THANK YOU, TOO. There are like, five of you, but without you, this fic would not the way it does now.<br/>Three: If you'd like, you can take a peek at my sideblog, where I talk about making this fic quite a lot (ProtectGeorgeWeasley.tumblr.com). That's just if you're bored or something. We have fun over there, and I post a lot of analysis about George's canon and AU character development. :)<br/>Four: This chapter takes us back to George's perspective! In it, you may recognize a few lines from the books. That's because I wanted to expand on these moments and show them more from George's perspective. I'm moving through the Hogwarts-era content relatively quickly, because I envision this fic as happening primarily during and post-war in George's timeline. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. We're just having a bit of fun with them.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lumos</p><p>Chapter Four: Igniculus</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>George's Perspective</em>
</p><p>Friday, October 30, 1994</p><p>George stared across the table at Angelina with envy. Although a member of their year, the lucky witch had an early birthday and would be permitted to enter the tournament as a result. His stomach clenched at the thought of losing the Triwizard winnings that would surely kickstart his and Fred’s dreams of obtaining a storefront for their fledgling business. They thought they’d had it made at the Quidditch World Cup, but the heavy sack of galleons from Bagman had vanished by morning.</p><p>He grimaced as he recalled the way they’d searched frantically through their bags at the Burrow, certain it had simply been misplaced. It hadn’t been misplaced. Bagman had cheated them, and the look in Fred’s eyes of pure anger and disbelief still haunted him. They’d been saving for years, and now all of it was gone.</p><p>To compete in the Triwizard Tournament would be a lucky break. He felt certain that if he or Fred were chosen, they would do brilliantly. They were top of their class in Charms, and they were pretty scrappy to boot. The measure of a handful of months locking them out of the opportunity was a bit much to take.</p><p>On the other side of the Gryffindor table, Hermione was watching Ron, who was watching the Beauxbatons girls. The git didn’t realize that Hermione’s eyes followed his every move. George sighed. They’d sort it eventually, he had no doubt, but it was still painful to watch Ron be so oblivious.</p><p>Dumbledore finished his speech with a warning about the dangers of entering the competition. He’d made eye contact with George more than once during the night, as though he knew what the twins planned to do. George crossed his arms. Professor Dumbledore had given them no choice. The bearded wizard dismissed them, and the students began to filter into the hall.</p><p>If he or Fred were given a chance, he knew…he just knew that with the help of the other, they’d come out alright. Maybe even win.</p><p>That’s when he heard Hermione say it.</p><p>“But I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance,” said Hermione. “We just haven’t learned enough.”</p><p>His neck heated. So, this is what she thought?</p><p>“Speak for yourself,” said George shortly. The conversation poured past his ears, but he didn’t hear anything said after that.</p><p>Sure, he and Fred hadn’t pulled many O.W.L.s, but that had been intentional. He’d thought she knew that. But, instead, she didn’t believe they could pull it off. The realization deflated him.</p><p>Did she think that they’d happened upon all of their inventions by accident? That their flying prowess was merely coincidence? They’d worked hard, and they’d keep working hard. He’d show her.</p><p>                                                                        #</p><p>George aimed a perfectly shaped snowball at Harry, then ducked behind the wall of snow that he and Fred had charmed to bounce off the enemy’s fire. The wind and snow were cold, but Mum’s jumper was warm as always. Gazing out on his siblings, he saw them wearing each of theirs respectively, and Harry’s had a dragon on it this year. Fitting. It’d been totally wicked when he’d flown circles around the Norwegian Ridgeback.</p><p>Hermione sat on the sidelines, cheering whenever either side landed a particularly good shot. When the occasional snowball rolled within her reach, she’d pick it up and chuck it to one side or the other, claiming she was alternating to keep the outcome of the battle fair.</p><p>His mum hadn’t made Granger a sweater, which was strange. She spent so much time with the family, that if Harry got one, she probably deserved one as well. He’d have to have a word with her about it. Ginny snuck up on him while he was deep in thought, and he felt a shower of ice and snow coast under his collar, down his back.</p><p>“That’s cold, Ginny!” he roared.</p><p>“That’s kind of the point, George,” she called, dashing out of his reach.</p><p>They’d been at it for hours. Though his fingers were numb, he didn’t want to head in yet. This was his favorite part of Christmas as Hogwarts. Just now, there were no dragons or danger or in fighting. It was just the group of them, breathing in the frosty air and feeling alive.</p><p>As the afternoon stretched on, Hermione rose from her spot on the stairs where she’d placed a warming charm. “I’ve got to get ready for the Yule Ball,” she said, apologetically shrugging, but the witch’s eyes sparked with excitement.</p><p>Ron cocked his head to the side. “What, you need three hours?” he said. Hermione lifted her chin. George couldn’t resist chucking an extra-hard packed iceball at his younger brother. Granger smiled, but then hid it behind the back of her wrist.</p><p>“I’ll see you all later tonight!” she called, heading inside.</p><p>“I ought to go as well,” Ginny said, dropping her artillery and heading towards the dormitories.</p><p>Ron slumped onto the ground, abandoning the game. “I don’t know what ‘Mione’s getting at,” he said. “She keeps acting as though she’s going when she clearly hasn’t got a date. Should’ve said yes when I asked her.”</p><p>Annoyance flared, hot and harsh in George’s chest. “You’re joking,” George said.</p><p>“No?” Ron replied, curling his lip. His arms crossed defensively. Fred snorted.</p><p>“Granger’s been asked loads of times,” Fred said.</p><p>“And if you hadn’t undercut her and treated her as a disappointing alternative, she may’ve said yes,” George couldn’t help but add. “If some girl treated Harry like that, you’d be up in arms. Why’s it alright when it’s Hermione?”</p><p>Ron’s eyes rounded in surprise, then narrowed.</p><p>Alright then. His brother would be angry at him on Christmas. So be it. It was high time Ron grew up a bit. While George didn’t expect him to be perfect, Ron could at least manage to be a better friend to Granger.</p><p>                                                                                    #</p><p>February 24, 1995</p><p>George sat with Hermione outside of McGonagall’s office. Inside, McGonagall was speaking with Ron. He and Fred had just escorted the duo to their Head of House, and Fred had left to seek out Angelina. George, however, was curious to see what their professor wanted with the two.</p><p>“So, you’re what Krum will miss the most?” George said, raising his brows at her and flashing a grin. Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>“That’s only because he hasn’t made many real friends here. He’s sweet, but it’s…not like that,” she said. “I’m surprised I was chosen for this at all, really,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I’m never any fun, and that’s why everybody finds me irritating.”</p><p>“I think you’re plenty fun, you just have a reputation for being a rule follower—even though that’s not exactly true,” he said, giving her a wink.</p><p>Hermione blew out a short “hmph” and looked towards the windows.</p><p>“I wasn’t irritating when I tried to stop you from entering the tournament?” She said, pinning him with an incredulous stare.</p><p>He squirmed. “I wasn’t upset that you thought the aging potion was silly. I was upset that you didn’t think we could do it—that Fred and I hadn’t learned enough. I know we didn’t get many OWLs, but we aren’t stupid,” he said, fiddling with the seam of his jumper. Hermione’s gaze softened.</p><p>“Oh, George, I know you could do it just the same as Cedric or Harry or anybody. I just didn’t want Harry or Ron to enter at the time. We’re a bit younger, and we haven’t studied or perfected the same charms that the sixth and seventh years have,” she said.</p><p>“You were worried about Ron getting hurt?” George asked, quirking his lips.</p><p>“Oh, stop it,” Hermione’s face reddened.</p><p>“He was a prat about the Yule Ball,” George said.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>“You deserved more respect than that. Fred and I have been trying to work on him for you.”</p><p>“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said faintly. George raised his brows and gave her a pointed look.</p><p>“Right,” he drawled, pushing himself to a stand. “Well, you’re bloody brilliant, and Harry probably owes his life to you several times over by now. He’s lucky that you’re helping him with all of this. I’m a tiny bit jealous, to be honest.” George paused, realizing the sound of his words. “That he gets to compete, I mean,” he added hastily, face coloring. Hermione laughed, and the tension evaporated. He felt himself grinning without really meaning to.</p><p>February 27, 1995</p><p>“He did what?” George’s voice exploded in the sixth-year boys’ dormitories of the Gryffindor tower. His shirt was half buttoned, forgotten in his shock at Lee’s story.</p><p>“Yeah, Mate,” Lee said, pulling on his striped tie. “Patil said he read it aloud to the whole class, Scarlet Woman bit and everything. Made a bit of a joke about it.”</p><p>“How’re we going to get him back?” Fred’s tone was casual as he lay back on his four-poster, tossing and catching a Quaffle.</p><p>“Canary Creams in his pudding?” Lee asked. George shook his head.</p><p>“It’s too good for the crime. He’s a professor. They’re not supposed to step in and-and egg things on like that,” George said, rubbing a hand down his face.</p><p>“We’ll think of something, Mate,” Lee said, patting George’s shoulder on his way from the room. After he’d gone, Fred sat up in bed and fixed George with an assessing stare.</p><p>“We’ll get Snape,” Fred said, his words slow. “Just like we always do.” George nodded, returning to his buttons. Fred continued to look at him, as though expecting something.</p><p>“Stop it,” George said.</p><p>Fred raised his brows.</p><p>“It’s not that, Freddie,” he grumbled, exasperated. “She’s like family.” His slipped his fingers under the knot in his tie and adjusted it so that it was just slightly loose and askew.</p><p>Fred shrugged, then slouched off the bed. “We could modify the formula on the Ton Tongue Toffees—give him a fat lip instead,” he said. George grinned in return, and the two proceeded down to breakfast.</p><p>Later that morning, George had just left the Great Hall early, after filling his stomach with eggs, toast, and orange juice. He had a free period next. He figured he’d pick up his work for Charms class and give it a go.</p><p>A wild bang interrupted his train of thought.</p><p>Frantic footsteps echoed across the stone, and George turned to see a tell-tale bushy head rush around the corner, tear marks tracking down her cheeks. Without thinking, he spun and hurried to catch her. “Hermione!” He called, but her steps didn’t slow. Despite his long legs, he had to dash to reach her side.</p><p>“Alright, Granger?” he said, unsure if she’d heard him before. He was a bit winded. The break from quidditch was starting to take a toll on him. Her steps finally slowed, and in the empty corridor, she turned to face him. Her eyes were full of tears, but that was nothing compared to the angry outbreak coating her hands. Large, frightful blisters were bubbling up along her fingers, knuckles, and palms. His stomach lurched, and it felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. “What happened?” He asked, voice soft.</p><p>She shook her head. He swallowed.</p><p>“Right, then. You don’t have to say if you don’t want to. I’ll walk you to Madam Pomfrey’s, if you like?” he said. Hermione paused, then slowly nodded. She wouldn’t look at him. It was as though she was embarrassed. Whatever it was, it likely wasn’t her fault. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked beside her, keeping up with her brisk pace. After a minute of silence, she spoke.</p><p>“I-it was,” small sniffs interrupted her speech. “—was because of Skeeter’s article,” she said. George’s easy stride faltered. “People think I’ve b-broken Harry’s heart, and they sent me some awful letters and-and one of them had B-Botuber puss in it.”</p><p>“They’ve sent you hate mail?” George’s voice was laced with shock. Hermione nodded, her head drooping, miserable.</p><p>“They even cut out little letters to make the message, like a ransom note,” she said. They crossed towards the staircase leading to Madam Pomfrey’s.</p><p>“I wonder how much time they spent on that,” George said. Hermione snorted. He snuck a glance. She was wiping her tears off on her sleeve. “Imagine,” he said, a bit louder now. “A grown up sitting down to cut out those itty-bitty letters, one at a time. How pathetic can you get?”</p><p>A smile played at the corner of Hermione’s mouth. They reached the entrance to the ward.</p><p>“I can sit with you, if you like. I’ve got a free period,” he said, shrugging. Hermione considered him for a moment, then nodded.</p><p>“That would be nice, actually. Thank you, George,” she said.</p><p>“Y’know, Fred and I have gotten rashes from testing our products loads of times,” George said. She laughed, and they entered Madam Pomfrey’s together.</p><p>                                                                        #</p><p>June 24, 1995</p><p>George stared out over the crowd, the screams rushing like thick currents of a dangerous river around him.</p><p>Harry bent over a body clad in a black and yellow. Cedric wasn’t moving.</p><p>“He’s back,” Harry cried.</p><p>At the words, George felt every one of his seventeen years. Like they had all risen up and pushed down to suffocate him.</p><p>In the row in front of him, Hermione and Ron fought their way through the torrent of people. He reached for them, but a mass of bodies separated them. Visions of the Triwizard Tournament filled his mind. The flames. The dark mark filling the sky. In the chaos, the perpetrator had gotten away. What if this time, the perpetrators found their way into the castle? He gripped Fred’s forearm.</p><p>“We’ve got to check the perimeter,” he shouted into Fred’s ear. Fred stared back at him, eyes wild. Out of everyone in the school, they knew the secret passages best. Until order was restored, they’d have to guard them.</p><p>                                                                                    #</p><p>August 1995</p><p>George and Fred sat in their room at Grimmauld Place, silently twisting fireworks together. It was more to give them something to do with their hands and to give their stomachs a bit of a break from the new sweets’ prototypes. The Puking Pastils still lacked a second dose to cure the taker of the effects. If George vomited one more time, he might become truly ill.</p><p>The last couple of months had been strained, more so than any summer he could remember. His mum and dad hadn’t intervened in their growing business nearly as much he and Fred had feared, but that’s because they were busy organizing the Order to prepare to fight. An Order that, despite their recent birthday, they were not being permitted to join. Even though they were pretty good in a fight. Even though they’d come of age. Even though everyone involved was being totally unfair about it. Life with his family was more and more strained, of late.</p><p>Percy’s absence felt like a wound. One that only he and Fred were willing to openly talk about. Everyone else seemed eager to place Percy out of sight and out of mind. Just that morning, Mrs. Weasley had scolded them when they made a joke about Percy’s abandonment. Mr. Weasley’s hands had tightened around his mug as he pretended not to hear. It was out of the ordinary for George to willfully make his family emotionally uncomfortable but pretending this situation away wouldn’t do. You had to face these sorts of things head on, as a family.</p><p>Footsteps clamored up the stairs, and a knock sounded on the door. Fred eased off his mattress and swung it open. Ginny and Hermione stood in the dim corridor. The latter’s arms were crossed, and she was worrying her lower lip like she usually did when she was stressed or focused.</p><p>“Mum made us leave,” Ginny said by way of explanation as she proceeded into the room and flopped onto Fred’s bed. Hermione trailed slowly after her.</p><p>“It’s ridiculous that they won’t let us listen in. We’ll be up against some of the same threats that they are,” Hermione said, frustration sparking an edge in her voice.</p><p>“Don’t let Mum catch you saying that,” Fred said. “She’s already nervous enough about the lot of us going back with old Voldy on the prowl.” Hermione snorted and slid down the wall to sit beside the door. George rose and gestured to his spot in the armchair, but she shook her head.</p><p>He crossed and sat beside her.</p><p>“If there was a way for you to listen in on the meetings, would you?” He asked. Hermione drummed her fingers against her jeans, then answered.</p><p>“In these situations, information is power. If there’s to be a fight, I want to be prepared,” she said, her mouth a thin, grim line.</p><p>“Then, we’ll just have to make some spare ears for you, won’t we, Freddie?” He said, turning to his brother.</p><p>Later that evening, Hermione emerged from the room she shared with Ginny, tugging her dressing gown tighter around her pajamas. Her curls were wild from her sleep, and a few stuck to her neck and forehead with sweat. She jumped at the sight of him. He raised a finger to his lips, pointing down the stairs towards the meeting room.</p><p>“Are they?” She mouthed silently. George nodded, gesturing at the extendable ear. Hermione crept closer, easing up to his side. He could feel the heat radiating off of her. His ribcage tightened, tingling and unsettling him.</p><p>He pushed the feeling aside.</p><p>“Here,” he mouthed, holding the ear between their faces. She leaned in, and he did too. Their cheeks were inches apart, poised on either side of the gadget. Sirius Black’s voice crackled through the speaker.</p><p>“First they take him off the Wizengamot, and now his position on the International Confederation of Wizards. It’s only a matter of time—”</p><p>“I expect that Fudge will dip his grubby little hands into the school before long. He can’t stand to see Dumbledore have any sort of influence.” A different voice was saying. Hermione’s eyes widened, and she raised her brows at George.</p><p>“If Shacklebolt’s right—if the ministry really plans to intervene at Hogwarts, then it may not be safe for the children to return,” Mrs. Weasley said. His mum wasn’t in favor of their return, this was no surprise, but the thought of never going back sent a sickening jolt through him.</p><p>“How’s Harry today?” This time it was his dad’s voice crackling through the speaker. Hermione’s shoulder brushed his as she leaned closer, and all thoughts fled from him. He took a deep breath, clearing his head. He was far too tired to be standing in a drafty corridor at this time of night.</p><p>Hermione smelled sort of like chamomile, probably from her evening tea.</p><p>George felt himself lean closer, just to better hear the conversation surrounding Harry. But, it was a bit too close, and he found himself looking into Hermione’s startled, owlish eyes. Bloody—</p><p>“Oi,” Fred’s clipped whisper sounded above their heads, from their bedroom door.</p><p>George’s face flamed. Nothing was happening, so why did he feel uncomfortable with Fred’s appraising stare? What if Hermione thought he’d been making a pass? What if Fred got the wrong idea?</p><p>“Where’s Ron?” Fred asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them.</p><p>“Dunno,” George said, shrugging and lifting his brows, trying his very best to look nonchalant. Because he was. Nonchalant, that is. This was normal. Everything was normal.</p><p>“They’re discussing Harry,” Hermione whispered. Fred was at their side in an instant, awkward moment forgotten.</p><p>“He seems to want to go unnoticed for now, but how long can we count on that tactic?” Shacklebolt was saying.</p><p>“When they do start taking people, it’ll look like madness at first,” Lupin’s voice was low and quiet. The children on the stairs stilled, and the moment stretched out as the twins and Hermione gazed at each other with the first signs of real fear that night.</p><p>“You mean like Alice and—” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“Yes,” Shacklebolt said. “Exactly like that. When left unchecked, extended Cruciatus aftermath is one of the nastiest curses to do cleanup for.” George’s heart hammered in his chest. “No use obliviating. By the time we arrive on scene, the victims have usually succumbed to the residual effects of the curse in their system. Only the most talented legilimens can help in severe cases.”</p><p>“How many of those have we got?” Sirius asked. A silence.</p><p>“Not enough,” Lupin said.</p><p>He looked at Fred. They had to do something.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Oculus Procellae</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hermione tries to adjust to life in the wake of the accident and receives an unexpected visitor...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is up a day late, but here we are! Thank you so much to everyone for commenting, leaving a kudos, and/or taking the time to read. It's so very motivating. &lt;3 So, grab some tea and a snack and dig in! Did I mention this a slow burn? Enjoy some embers. :P </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. <br/>Stay safe and well, everyone! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Chapter Five: Oculus Procellae</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>2003, Hermione's Perspective</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Hermione stared up at the ceiling fan as it moved in slow, gentle circles. If she closed her eyes and returned to sleep, all of this would go away. The churning in her stomach. The unfamiliar walls. The husband she didn’t ask for. The expectations that she step into this life that felt all too foreign.</p><p>She turned her head, taking in the round clock on her side table. 11:14. The sun was streaming fiercely through the curtains, blazing a path across her bed and into her eyes. She could roll over and escape it. Maybe hide her head under the pillow. 11:16. She had to find some sort of bearing in this new world.</p><p>A loud yelp echoed from the other room, followed by a string of muffled curse words.</p><p>Hermione pushed her feet from the mattress and padded over to the bedroom door. If she opened it, she may be required to interact, but it really did sound like something bad had happened. She cracked it open and peered out from around the wood surface.</p><p>George crouched over the coffee table in the living room, sucking on his finger and frowning down at a smoldering heap of fuchsia packaging. He wore a headband laden with glasses that carried multiple, extra magnification lenses, but it was pushed out of its proper place and was resting on his forehead. A clear case with small, metallic parts was open on the floor beside him. He scrubbed his forearm across his brow. Then, he happened to look up and spot her. His brown eyes lit up.</p><p>Something unnervingly warm spread through her chest. It was involuntary, as though her body knew how it felt, but her mind had yet to catch up. She wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around her form and eased through the crack in the door.</p><p>“Are you alright?” she asked, craning her neck to see the scorch marks on the table’s surface. Oh dear.</p><p>George pulled the knuckle from his lips and gave an eager nod. “Food’s on the counter,” he said, gesturing. A carton of orange juice, some eggs, and a peeled orange were waiting on a tray, under a stasis charm. When Hermione’s hands passed through the glimmering barrier, the charm shimmered and vanished.</p><p>“Iced coffee’s in the fridge,” George added. “But you usually like to eat some before having caffeine, or—”</p><p>“My stomach gets upset, yes.” Hermione finished for him. George’s face turned pink and he busied himself with the gadget on the tabletop. An uncomfortable bolt of guilt shot through her.</p><p>She took the plate and crossed to the living room, settling across the space in an armchair. George did a double take, his eyes widening the smallest bit. Then, he rolled his shoulders back and lifted his tinker’s tools once more. She needed to say something—anything, but the words kept sticking in her throat. George was steadfast in his focus on the mechanism, and she took the opportunity to study him. The dark circles had lightened, but just a bit. He was clean shaven. His freckles were still visible, albeit a bit more faded than they were in her memories. The scar on his ear was no longer angry and red. Instead, it was a raised, white, jagged line that crept from under his hairline and faded just before brushing his jaw. His shoulders were broad, but they were stooped as he leaned over his project. He wore a plain, light purple Henley with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a grease stain near the hem, as though he’d wiped his hands there instead of a towel. He seemed to have paused over the project. His hands hadn’t done anything in a minute or two, but his gaze was still fixed to it with razor precision. His neck and the back of his ear were flushing a deeper red.</p><p>He knew she was looking.</p><p>Hermione almost jumped back at the shock from the realization. She wanted nothing more than to run back to her bedroom and burrow under the covers. But that would surely make the situation worse, not better. Instead, she took an overly large gulp of orange juice and braced herself.</p><p>Finally, she worked up the courage. “Thank you, George,” she said.</p><p>He blinked and turned to take her in. “You’re welcome, Hermione,” he said. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then he shook himself free and returned to his work, this time in earnest.</p><p>She turned the empty glass over in her hands. No chips or cracks, and it had a heavy base. She ran her thumb over its smooth edge and spoke her mind. “I want to know about everything. I do. But I need to hear it from Ron, first. I hope that’s not terribly hurtful, George, but that’s where I’m at in here.” She tapped her head. “I need to see him and talk to him so I can start to sort through everything. I just—I can’t make sense of this in my head without talking things out. Everything’s a jumble, and he’ll know better why things…came out the way they did between him and I.” She plunked the glass onto a side table as she finished the sentence. She couldn’t look at him after saying it.</p><p>“I understand,” he said. She lifted her head. He was staring at her with a frankness and openness that threatened to crack open the shell of armor she’d constructed around herself the moment he’d tripped into her hospital room. He studied her, his brown eyes tracing over her features with the same concern that had barely left his expression since she woke for the first time in St. Mungo’s.</p><p>“I’m not sure what to say,” she said.</p><p>“Me either,” George said, snorting through his nostrils. “But that doesn’t stop me from opening my mouth and mucking it up far too often, which I am determined to not do at this moment.” He grimaced. Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.</p><p>“Honestly, what’s with this pressure?” she whispered. “I feel like I’m onstage in a play, and I didn’t learn my lines.” George’s face softened.</p><p>“Maybe we should speak about our worries? ‘Air them out’ as your Mum says?” he offered.</p><p>“My parents are alive?” she said, all other thoughts fleeing her. George’s brows shot up, and he stuttered.</p><p>“Oh, Merlin. Oh, yes-yes. Of course. They’re alive—” he rushed to say. “They haven’t seen you yet because—well, because after they gained their memories back, they became a bit skeptical of magic, and I wasn’t sure if you’d want to introduce them to the current dilemma. I should’ve thought to clarify sooner…” He was rambling, now.</p><p>“They remember me?” Hermione cut him off. He nodded. Relief flooded her chest. “Skeptical of magic?” she asked. George hesitated.</p><p>He pulled the contraption from his head and eased back to sit on the sofa across from her. “They were unsettled by how magic took away their lives without a word of consent from them. I know why you did what you did, and it probably kept them safe, but they were less understanding.” Hermione nodded, throat tight. “Things were tense between you for a bit after the war, but they came around. They’re still wary of magic, though, and prefer that you keep that part of your life separate from them for now.” He was studying her again, speaking softly, searching her face. She held her head in her hands to hide from him, swallowing thickly. She couldn’t process this while being watched. It was too much.</p><p>“So that’s one worry, then,” she murmured.</p><p>“How about another?” George prompted.</p><p>“Not fair. It’s your turn,” she said.</p><p>George was still for a while.</p><p>“I’m worried that I won’t finish this in time,” he said, putting on an easy grin and pointing to the gadget on the table. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He was clearly obfuscating. Hermione rested the plate on the side table, alongside the cup, then steeled herself for conflict.</p><p>Whoosh.</p><p>The fireplace lit up and a perky, redheaded woman stepped through. She scanned the room, and when her eyes fell on Hermione, she gasped and leapt over the coffee table, tackling Hermione in a fierce hug.</p><p>“Sure, Ginny. Come on in, Ginny. Thanks for calling ahead, Ginny,” George said, rolling his eyes. He got to his feet and grabbed the dishes, patting his sister’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen.</p><p>“You know I hate sticking my face near the floo coals,” Ginny called after him. “And how dare you keep her from me for a whole 24 hours?” Her tone was scathing as she tightened her arms around Hermione’s shoulders. The gesture brought Hermione out of her shock, and she hugged the girl back just as hard.</p><p>“Do you have any questions?” Ginny asked, finally. “Things you’re too nervous to ask—” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “George about.” Hermione flushed.</p><p>“Honestly, Gin, I just…don’t believe it yet.” She finished, lost for how to express the ever-present feeling that she was living someone else’s life.</p><p> </p><p>#</p><p>They’d been tip toe-ing around each other for three days. After their conversation about Ron, Hermione had sent two owls to him, but he wasn’t responding. To make matters worse, Ron was clearly far away, as neither of the owls had found their way back yet. George said that Ron had left the country several years back and gone off the grid. He didn’t have to add that her relationship with the younger redhead seemed to be strained.</p><p>While Hermione had said that she wanted to hear Ron’s perspective first (and that was something George had respected thusfar), doubt was starting to trickle into her plan. She’d taken up a comfortable notion that when her and Ron were able to finally speak, things would make sense again. Life would stop feeling as though it were on pause, and she’d be able to move on—whatever that looked like.</p><p>She’d know how to feel about how things ended. She’d know…if she could trust herself. Trust George.</p><p>She crossed to the bin, cracking it open to dispose of an orange peel. Inside, a rumpled copy of The Prophet peeked out at her. Her name was stamped across the front back in big, blocky letters. What now? She grabbed the paper, dusting the fruit peelings from it.</p><p>“<em>Hermione Weasley-Granger Released from St. Mungo’s,</em>” the headline read. She knew the paper was less than reputable—at least, it had been last she knew. She really shouldn’t give them the time of day. But, a headshot of herself, with folded arms and a confident smile drew her in. The picture was clearly from the last year or two. She wore formal robes and looked to be standing in front of the ministry.</p><p>
  <em>“After being attacked in Wizengamot last week, the activist seems to be struggling to regain her footing. Sources close to the situation say that the poor witch has lost a significant bit of her memory, as she continually asked for Ronald Weasley, her former flame and one third of the golden trio, from her hospital bed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘She seemed to think they were still together,’ an anonymous source from the hospital said. ‘She didn’t want anything to do with Mr. Weasley-Granger, despite him tending to her quite carefully. She was quite short with him, really.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We’ve received no comment on the record from any of Mrs. Weasley-Granger’s associates, and there’s no word on the case that was being argued at the time of the incident. ‘I suspect she’ll need to speak to Ronald Weasley before being able to move forward with her life, and the case for that matter. She’ll have a hard time getting ahold of him, though,’ a second source, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This development is a deeply sad twist for the couple who’ve already overcome quite a lot to find happiness. Ron Weasley hasn’t been seen in London in several years, and as of yet, our sources are uncertain as to his standing with Mrs. Weasley-Granger.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione crumpled the paper in her hands. The study door clicked open and closed. George stood in the threshold of the living room, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His eyes tracked over her, taking in the paper in her hands. His shoulders slumped.</p><p>“I’ve spoken to Mungo’s. They’re trying to track down the leak,” he said softly. “Don’t pay them any mind.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you show this to me?” Hermione held the paper aloft. George winced.</p><p>“Figured it was rubbish. Besides, you have a lot to deal with already, and the way they talked about you wasn’t accurate to the truth,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the study door.</p><p>“It seemed pretty spot on to me,” Hermione said, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him. “I lost my memories. I asked for Ron instead of you. Isn’t that the truth?”</p><p>George sighed and tilted his head back. “Yes.” But then he lowered his chin and pinned her with a frank look. “But, you’re not helpless like they make you out to be.”</p><p>Warmth washed over her ribcage. That same, persistent, nagging warmth that cropped up whenever George said or did something that was…unexpected. He had to stop doing that. It was infuriating.</p><p>“Then don’t treat me as such, and keep me informed,” she said, voice crisp. He snorted and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. Finally, he shrugged.</p><p>“Fair enough. As you wish,” he said.</p><p>“Thank you,” Hermione said, unnerved by the sudden intensity in his gaze.</p><p>He advanced toward her, slowly. “What would you like to know?” He reached her side, and Hermione took a step back, faltering. As if guided by instinct, George lifted a hand and steadied her at the elbow.</p><p>He was closer than expected, and something about his expression struck a familiar chord. Unbidden, the image of George looking deep into her on the staircase at Grimmauld Place flashed through her mind. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought about the summer before fourth year in ages.</p><p>And here he was, looking into her again, reading her like a copy of a great, old book—one that he already knew the ending to.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she said, only it sounded too sharp. Too anxious. George halted, lifting his brows.</p><p>“I was going to take a seat.” He gestured to the barstool tucked against the countertop’s edge. “And have this out, because you seem to have something on your mind.”</p><p>Hermione let her breathe out with a whoosh. “R-right,” she said.</p><p>The fireplace whooshed. Fred stepped out and started in surprise at the sight of the two of them so close together, George’s hand still resting on Hermione’s arm.</p><p>“Well, this is cozy, innit?” Fred said. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He carried a box, and some rolled blueprints tottered precariously at the top of the box. “I just needed some approval on these plans, but I can come back later if—”</p><p>Hermione didn’t let him finish his sentence. “Nothing was happening.”</p><p>Fred’s face fell. “That’s a shame,” he said.</p><p>“Y-You can hardly expect me to leap into his arms just because he’s here,” Hermione said, frustration licking at her. “There’s a lot that I need to process. I don’t even—I mean—he’s George.”</p><p>She made the mistake of glancing up at him. He flinched as the words came out of her mouth.</p><p>“Oh-oh, Merlin, I’m sorry—I don’t—It’s just been difficult to see things differently” she stuttered. George nodded, but he didn’t seem present behind his eyes. Almost as if he’d…gone.</p><p>“I wouldn’t count on it, Granger,” Fred’s voice lilted from the couch, where he’d taken a seat. He propped his feet on the coffee table. “Gin’s told me that our boy here knows just how to get you heated up—”</p><p>“Enough, Freddie—” George started, trying to cut his twin off, but Fred continued to speak.</p><p>“Rather disgusting, but I figured it’s worth mentioning, since you’re not aware of the so-called ‘sparkler effect’ he has on you.”</p><p>“Fred.” George’s voice was louder, firm. Fred bounded from the couch to the kitchen, where he whipped open the fridge and retrieved a bowl full of grapes.</p><p>“Excellent, someone’s finally gone shopping,” Fred said. Hermione shook her head, clearing it from the aftereffects of shock at Fred’s declaration.</p><p>“Ginny did,” she said, trying to find some footing after this turn. So, the feeling of warmth that seemed to chase her whenever George was close by—that wasn’t a fluke? That was…simply how their magic intertwined?</p><p>If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was like coming home to a roaring fire in the hearth, but that didn’t make sense. George specifically had never been home to her any more than any of the other Weasleys. It must be some residual effect from the other Hermione’s bond with him.</p><p>“I think I need to be alone,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George nodded. “Fred and I need to go down to the shop and sort some things. I’ll see you tonight?” he asked, tilting his face to catch her eyes. Hermione nodded. After a few hours to herself, she’d be able to have a somewhat-normal conversation again. She just needed some space to unwind.</p><p>As the twins left the flat, she headed to the kitchen and reached for the largest mug. It was time for some tea. She could sort through her feelings once she’d grounded herself a bit. Hermione fixed herself a cuppa and curled up on the couch with <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>. Something familiar, safe. Not at all dangerous.</p><p>George and Fred had been gone for less than an hour when the floo roared to life once more.</p><p>But this time, a different Weasley stepped out. He wore a hulking overcoat and a fur hat. A large beard covered the lower half of his face, but Hermione knew who it was at once.</p><p>“Ron,” she breathed.</p><p>“What’s this about, then?” he said, dumping dozens of letters onto the ground.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Insurgo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Life is far too complicated, and it seems to get more dangerous each and every day. George and Fred race against the clock to develop products that both bring smiles and (hopefully) will save lives while living in a world that tells them they're too young to take a stand. Things that were once so simple--Hogwarts, Quidditch, his friends (in particular, a certain Gryffindor fifth year), and his family--are suddenly riddled with conflict and confusion. It's enough to fill a young man with unease. But, he's got to do something. It's time to cause a ruckus.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! First: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for the comments, kudos, and encouragement! I'm sorry for the little bit of a cliff hanger last chapter. I'm trying to post the next chapter a bit faster so you don't have to wait too long. &lt;3</p><p>In this chapter, I took a lot of inspiration from some of the events in OOTP. As with the last George chapter, you’ll see some conversations that happen in the book, but through George’s eyes. I wanted to thoroughly explore his perspective during OOTP because I think 1995-1996 was really critical to George’s development into adulthood.<br/>Also: It was really hard to pick and choose which scenes I wanted to cover, so I’m sorry if I left one of your favorites out!<br/>Moving forward with George’s timeline after this chapter, you can expect to see the story diverge more and more from the established canon. (No spoilers, yet, though.) </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or characters, but every single mistake is my own. :P </p><p>Grab your snack, a cozy blanket, and some tea/coffee, and let's dive in. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lumos: Chapter Six</p><p>Insurgo</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>August 1995</p><p>George peered over the bubbling caldron. Fred had managed to nick it during their jaunt to Diagon Alley earlier that month. His mum and dad would hardly approve the trip for this cause, but they were seventeen now. Although they weren’t permitted to join the Order, they’d find other ways to help.</p><p>He flipped back a couple pages in <em>Magic in the Mind: Legillimency, Occlumency, and the Magical Internal Life</em>, frowning over a set of runes. On the surface, they were developing their most complicated product yet—Daydream Charms. Boxes that users could carry and open to experience a living dream. It was a novel idea and one that involved a tricky combination of spell and charm work, transfiguration, and potions expertise. With luck, the product would be adaptable in situations where a witch or wizard’s internal life was in danger due to magical trauma. The idea was based on the theory that legillimency could be used to plant visions in the participant’s mind, but what if the charm left a shield or some sort of protection instead? Fred had said that the idea was brilliant. That was three weeks ago.</p><p>Now, none of it was working. All this effort and all those galleons with absolutely nothing to show for it. They’d be looking at an extended development cycle with this one. Probably at least a year for the simpler form of the charm alone. Definitely more for the defensive capabilities they hoped to imbue it with.</p><p>They’d split up the duties. George was taking the head on the spell work—developing his Occluding and Legillimency abilities, and Fred was working on the charms and potions. Luckily, this wasn’t completely uncharted territory.</p><p>The twins had been fascinated with the concept as children and had managed to practice a bit at school. They’d convinced Flitwick and Lupin to help them through the basics their fifth year (should the infamous Sirius Black try to enter their minds to discover Harry’s whereabouts), but the current project was far and beyond anything they’d tried with the spells before.</p><p>The caldron’s contents belched out a puff of purple smoke smelling of burnt rubber.</p><p>“Not again—no, no, no—” George spoke through his teeth, ripping his wand from behind his ear to give the mixture a counter-clockwise stir. He dropped the book on the table and covered his nose with his shirt collar.</p><p><em>Crack.</em> Fred apparated into their room, arms laden with smuggled goods.</p><p>“Smells delicious,” Fred said, leaning over George’s shoulder and peering into the caldron.</p><p>“Yeah. Fancy a taste?” George offered up a spoon, making as though to shove it into Fred’s mouth.</p><p>“Come off it,” Fred smacked his hand down and shouldered George away from the caldron. “Who knows. This may be salvageable.” George rolled his eyes and retreated back to his cot, where he flopped onto his back and continued to flip through the heavy tome. With a flick of his wand, the book hovered above his face, its leaves spread open to page he’d marked.</p><p>They worked in silence for a while, until a soft knock cut through the room. They paused. Fred looked at George. George looked at Fred. Fred caste a rapid concealment charm over the table, but it didn’t reach the full shape of the caldron, which poked out at the top. George dashed across the room, leaving the book to hover in midair.</p><p>“Who is it?” George called, struggling to keep his tone even while he helped Fred hoist and levitate the heavy, steaming caldron behind their trunk.</p><p>“Hermione,” the voice said.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The twins stopped, the caldron hovering in midair, then they reversed their movements, letting it rest firmly back in its place on the table.</p><p>“Come in,” Fred said. George flopped back onto the bed and snapped his fingers. The door swung open. A wave of dizziness hit with the wandless motion. He’d just discovered he could do it last week, and with practice, he was sure he could improve. It might be useful in a pinch.</p><p>Hermione stood in the corridor, pinching the bridge of her nose. She glared at them, doubtlessly readying the scathing lecture that they were about to receive. George grinned.</p><p>“In case you didn’t know, the entire upstairs smells like hot tar, and I’ve still got the trace, so I can’t scourgify it,” she said. She didn’t bother stepping into the room. The smell had gotten rather bad. Maybe the dizziness was actually from the caldron. “You need to be packed and ready before tomorrow morning as well, and it looks like you haven’t done a thing.” Her eyes flicked over the clothing stacked around their trunk, the lumpy blanket covering their smuggled supplies, and the concealment charm that wasn’t really doing enough concealing. Finally, they rested on him.</p><p>“I’m sure you can understand that we need everything to go smoothly so the Order—Oh,” she took in the book hovering above his head. “What are you reading?”</p><p>George froze, and the book suddenly plummeted, smacking him in the face. Hermione winced.</p><p>“Oh you know George—always got his nose in a book,” Fred said wryly from his station at the caldron. The smell of tar was lessening. He’d added something to the brew to take away the stench.</p><p>“I think you’re confusing me with a certain prefect, Gred,” George said, shaking his head and swinging his legs off the cot. Hermione didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she was too busy craning her neck to read the title of the volume off the spine.</p><p>“That’s a clever use of that charm. How did you get it to hold your place?” She asked as she stepped into the room as though unaware of her motions. George’s chest warmed and expanded at her praise. No harm in showing her the wand movements.</p><p>He walked her through the charm, careful to leave ample space between them and plenty of pauses for Fred’s interjections.</p><p>#</p><p>September 1995</p><p>“Feel alright?” George knelt over a dark-haired first year named Sarah and gave her an encouraging smile. She’d volunteered to test the Fainting Fancies in exchange for a couple galleons. It’d gone brilliantly. The second half of the treat had revived her, right on schedule.</p><p>Sarah nodded. “That was fun!” she said, beaming up at him. Excellent. George pressed the coins into her hand and turned to see Hermione, seething.</p><p>Ah. So this again.</p><p>He opened his mouth to stave her off, but she was already starting in on them. She ripped the clipboard from Fred’s hands. The stiff prefect badge was pinned neatly on the front of her Gryffindor robes, as always. A stray curl bounced free from her tight braid, springing into her face.</p><p>“You can’t do this, what if you made one of them really ill?” she was saying. She smacked Fred’s shoulder with the stolen clipboard to drive the point home.</p><p>“We’re not going to make them ill,” George hastened to say. “We’ve already tested them all on ourselves. This is just to see if everyone reacts the same—”</p><p>Granger cut him off. “If you don’t stop doing this, I’m going to—”</p><p>“Put us in detention?” Fred said, smirking.</p><p>“Make us write lines?” George added, crossing his arms. They’d worked hard on this project, and Hermione assumed that they’d just give untested, unsafe goods to underage witches and wizards. They were bold, yes, but they weren’t thick.</p><p>Granger placed her hands on her hips, and her eyes narrowed at George. Her look was molten, furious. “No,” she said. “But, I will write to your mother.”</p><p>George froze. “You wouldn’t,” he said, his arms falling to his sides as he stepped back. She knew how hard they’d tried to keep things out of the way over the summer. To ruin that now? It would be cruel. They were running on a tight budget. They didn’t have time for any delays—especially ones caused by his Mum trying to stop them. Mrs. Weasley simply didn’t understand that this was what they were meant to do. It was silly, yes. But important.</p><p>“Oh, yes, I would,” Hermione said, her chin tilted up and an unsettling coldness filled her eyes. “I can’t stop you from eating the stupid things yourselves, but you’re not giving them to first years.”</p><p>She shoved their supplies into Fred’s chest, and with one last, withering look to George, she stalked back over to Ron and Harry at the fireplace.</p><p>George watched as she tried and failed to get comfortable, frustration filtering through him. He brushed past the gathered crowd of students, striding towards the dormitories.</p><p>“It’s no good, I can’t concentrate now. I’m going to bed,” Granger said from across the room.</p><p>That made two of them.</p><p>#</p><p>September 1995</p><p>Ron had made the Quidditch team. It was quite a surprise, but he’d pulled out the necessary saves and was officially keeper. Most of the team had returned to the common room together to celebrate with a handful of friends.</p><p>George tipped the cold butterbeer down his throat, watching as Hermione emerged from the girl’s dormitories, knitting in hand. Ron crossed to her, speaking animatedly, and Hermione’s face brightened. She looked at his brother warmly, then wrapped her arms around Ron in a tight hug.</p><p>George tipped his bottle back and finished it.</p><p>“We could test some of the Nosebleed Nougats?” Fred asked quietly. George nodded.</p><p>They emerged from a throng of volunteers some time later, a sheet full of notes in hand. A group of fifth years were clustered around Ron near the study tables. A fire roared in the hearth on the opposite side of the room. Hermione Granger was curled into the oversized armchair beside it, looking considerably more exhausted than everyone else. She dozed in silence, a bottle of butterbeer propped loosely in her hands.</p><p>George’s chest warmed inexplicably. She really needed looking after. As he’d suspected, O.W.L. year was proving quite formidable to the bookworm. It didn’t help that she voluntarily overextended herself constantly with prefect duties and S.P.E.W.—which was being shunned by the house elves in the kitchen. There had to be a better way for Granger to go about all of this.</p><p>They were all tired, weren’t they? But, it seemed Granger’d been carrying more than her fair share of the work. A jolt of guilt zipped through his ribcage. Granger curled closer into the armchair’s plush surface. Maybe she was cold, despite the fire?</p><p>Without giving it much thought, George slipped to her side, peeled the jean jacket from his shoulders, and draped it over her. Then he returned to stand beside Fred. His twin raised his brows at him, but George simply nodded.</p><p>“She’s just tired,” he mouthed. The steady drone of conversation was interrupted by the occasional bark of laughter, but thankfully, Granger dozed on. When Harry finally crept through the portrait hole, looking as though he’d seen a great and terrible ghost (an expression that was becoming altogether too frequent on the younger boy’s face), Ron rushed through the remnants of the crowd.</p><p>“I did it! I’m keeper,” Ron was said, gripping Harry’s shoulders. Fred passed a Butterbeer to Ron, who placed it in Harry’s hands. Harry had been kept back from tryouts due to standing up to Umbridge. The old bat seemed intent on parsing out the Ministry’s drivel. No matter.</p><p>According to the way Hermione told it, Harry had been brilliant. Besides, everyone who mattered knew that Harry was telling the truth. Everyone except Percy. Percy would no doubt approve of Umbridge’s actions. George swallowed back his fury and tried to paste a smile on his face for Harry’s benefit.</p><p>“I can’t believe it,” Ron was saying. Then, his little brother paused and turned, searching the room. “Where’s Hermione gone?”</p><p>“She’s there,” said Fred, pointing to Hermione, who was still dozing under George’s jacket by the fire. Ron colored at the sight.</p><p>“Well, she said she was pleased when I told her,” said Ron with a huff, his voice growing in volume.</p><p>“Let her sleep,” said George hastily. Harry gave him an odd look, but it didn’t hold a candle to the way Ron was staring at him. Ron’s shoulders were suddenly tight, eyes narrowed, and his jaw jutted out as though he’d been insulted. Something like an accusation floated in his eyes.</p><p>George’s heart stuttered, his insides lurching.</p><p>Rubbish. He hadn’t done a single thing wrong.</p><p>Suddenly, Fred cracked a joke, and the room filled with laughter. Ron’s posture relaxed. George snuck glances at Granger to ensure that no one disturbed her. He ignored the way Fred kept trying to catch his eye. Granger needed taken care of tonight. That’s all there was to it.</p><p>#</p><p>October 1995</p><p>“George!” Hermione’s loud whisper cut through the common room, and George lifted his head to see the bushy-haired witch striding towards his work table.</p><p>“Miss Granger, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He rose and gave her a goofy, dramatic bow. Granger rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Keep quiet, will you?” she said, tucking into the chair beside his own.</p><p>“Are we being stealthy, then?” George said, leaning forward and bracing his forearms against the stack of books in front of him. He folded his hands, then bit back a grimace as his thumb brushed too close to the patch of raw skin. It still smarted from last night’s detention. The dung bombs had been worth it, though.</p><p>“Obviously,” Hermione said, flashing a grin. What was this? “Listen, since we’re getting next to no help from our instructor,” George snorted at this, but Hermione continued. “I’ve asked Harry if he might consider sharing what he knows about fighting the dark arts.” George straightened in his chair, then ducked even closer. His pulse raced. Finally.</p><p>“Excellent,” he whispered. “Brilliant idea, Granger. Has he agreed?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lip and nodded, looking over her shoulder. When she’d ensured that the coast was clear of unfriendly ears, she leant back in. One of her curls brushed George’s forehead. He blinked. She didn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“He has. Good thing—too. If all of this gets worse before it gets better, and I expect it will, we’ll need to be able to defend ourselves and others far better than we’re being prepared to.” Fire flashed in her eyes. “I’ll organize the meeting, but I was hoping you and Fred might help me spread the news to the right people,” she whispered.</p><p>“Of course,” George said, warmed by the thought that she trusted them with this.</p><p>Furthermore, if they were caught, he and Fred could claim responsibility for the idea. They could distance themselves from the trio. Take the heat. They’d spoken about leaving Hogwarts early, so it wouldn’t be a big loss for either of them. For now…they’d see Granger’s idea through and help her, Ron, and Harry as best they could.</p><p>Granger flashed him one, final, mischievous grin. Then, she assumed a neutral, stern expression before ducking back out through the portrait hole, as though she wasn’t organizing a covert resistance force. She was a lion, through and through. Absolutely, bloody brilliant. A rogue sparkler flipped and turned through his chest.</p><p>He could get used to Hermione’s rule-breaking side.</p><p>#</p><p>November 1995</p><p>The roar of the Gryffindors in the crowd washed over George’s ears. Fred’s grin was wider than it’d been in months, and the team clapped each other on the back. His arms were aching, and his side hurt from a stray bludger he’d missed, but nothing could dampen this feeling. Winning was sweet, but winning with his team was incomparable.</p><p>Malfoy’s voice carried over the din of the crowd, saying something about the song he’d written about Ron. “Weasley is Our King” didn’t even have a good rhyme scheme. He didn’t know what the nasty little gargoyle was so proud of.</p><p>“We wanted to sing about his mother, see—we couldn’t fit in useless loser either—for his father, you know—”</p><p>He stilled. He could faintly hear Angelina’s voice, telling them to shake it off. Let it go.</p><p>“But, you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” Malfoy kept at it. The whole of George burned like a pressure keg, but Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. “Spend holidays there and everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay—”</p><p>George lunged forward, but Harry’s hands caught him by the arms and held him back. How dare he. How dare he.</p><p>“Or perhaps,” said Malfoy. “you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it.”</p><p>Harry’s arms loosed, and George took off. He slammed into the blonde, taking him to the ground. Malfoy’s elbow caught him in the face, and he swore, but landed a good hit to the smaller boy’s eye. Harry was on him too, now. In the fray, a second Slytherin’s foot caught George in the groin, and he stumbled.</p><p>
  <em>Impedimentia! </em>
</p><p>Madam Hooch’s spell knocked him off his feet and onto his back. His whole body was stiff, and the cheery sky seemed quite a bit darker in his vision than it’d been just moments earlier.</p><p>It wasn’t fair. Malfoy was always having people swoop in to rescue him. Never had to face the consequences of his actions. Probably how he ended up the way he was.</p><p>Fifteen minutes later, his ears were still ringing from the blow he’d taken to the head when he heard Umbridge declare his Quidditch career as over.</p><p>He’d known when he lunged that he was taking a sizeable risk. But, for Umbridge to ban Fred, who hadn’t even laid a blow… it was downright criminal. Umbridge stared back and forth between he and Harry, as though waiting to see if he’d react. George kept his shoulders back, and his face free of emotion. If this is what being Harry’s friend meant, then that was alright.</p><p>Alright then. So, they’d go out with a bang. A great and terrible bang.</p><p>As they trudged back to the Gryffindor tower together, George said, “I’d do it again.”</p><p>“Really?” Harry stared at him, disbelieving.</p><p>“In a heartbeat,” George said, looking straight ahead.</p><p>#</p><p>December 1995</p><p>“George, you’ve got to wake up,” Hermione stood over his bed, shaking his shoulder. He must be dreaming. Granger would never enter the boys’ dorms. He blinked back the sleep from his eyes. Was she looking for Ron? Harry? Hermione stood at the foot of his bed, wrapped tightly in a dressing gown, breathing hard as though she’d run as fast as she could. Her braid was coming undone, and a splotch of ink marred her cheek.</p><p>“What’re you doing here?” George drew the covers up to his chin, confused.</p><p>“Never mind that,” she rushed. “The Fat Lady said that Harry and Ron are in Dumbledore’s office. Something’s happened. They’re coming to get you, George. And Fred. I already woke Ginny.”</p><p>George leapt out of bed, grabbing his own robe. He smacked Fred on the shoulder, waking him.</p><p>“Up, Fred,” he said. “Lee!” George shouted. Lee’s groggy head appeared from between the bedcurtains across the room. “You know where to hide…everything.” Lee nodded. The daydream charm’s ingredients would be kept safe.</p><p>“What’s happening?” Fred asked, tripping as he followed George’s lead and pulled a jumper on over his pajamas.</p><p>“What exactly did she say. When did this happen?” George turned back to Hermione, thrusting his feet into his slippers.</p><p>“I’d fallen asleep by the fire—I was reading, and I don’t know. She was crying, and all she’d say is that they’d be ‘coming to collect the Weasley children.’ It sounds bad, George,” Hermione said. She was visibly shaken, twisting and untwisting her hands together. He paused in his pacing, gathered his courage, and rested a hand on her head.</p><p>“It’ll be okay, Hermione,” he said, even though the same fear in her eyes was racing through his bloodstream. If his mum or dad. Or Bill. Or Charlie. His chest constricted, and suddenly, his head felt altogether too light.</p><p>A sudden rap interrupted him.</p><p>“Come in,” Fred said. Professor McGonagall stepped through the threshold, not blinking at Hermione’s presence. “I’m sorry, boys, but I need Fred and George,” she said.</p><p>“Professor,” George couldn’t keep the shake out of his voice. “What’s happening?”</p><p>“It’s your father,” she said, and though her voice was gentle, her words stole the last bit of breath from him.</p><p>“No,” Fred said. “There’s been a mistake.”</p><p>“I’m afraid not,” Professor McGonagall said. No. No, no, no. George’s breaths were coming hard and fast. The room seemed to sway. A small hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he anchored to it.</p><p>“We must move quickly,” Professor McGonagall said, but her voice sounded distant. “Miss Granger,” she turned to Hermione, who stood at George’s side. “I trust that you will use discretion…” his head of house’s voice seemed to fade in and out. “…as though you know nothing of this.” Then, McGonagall nodded to Lee. “You as well, Mr. Jordan.” She beckoned for George and Fred to proceed with her.</p><p>“It’ll be okay, George.” Hermione’s voice was soft in his ear. He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and felt her fingers slip from his shoulder. It was a fledgling, unproven hope. One that could be easily shattered at any moment. But, it was enough to propel him across the floor. George dared to hope for a miracle and followed his twin from the room.</p><p>#</p><p>December 1995</p><p>In the end, Hermione had been right. Due to Harry’s insight, his dad had been found in the nick of time, and now, they’d all be together for Christmas—except for Percy, of course. Git had sent back his jumper, unopened. For the rest of them, though, they sat side by side around the table at Grimmauld Place.</p><p>Hermione had surprised them by turning up for holidays, snow in her hair and cheeks red from the cold. George suspected that she rather liked spending time with the Weasleys, and maybe preferred it to skiing (although she wouldn’t admit this). He smiled. She was more than a school friend. She was family.</p><p>“Come, come everyone,” Mrs. Weasley called, distributing parcels over the table. His mum hesitated when she reached Fred and him, finally opting to thrust a package into each of their hands before moving on. She’d guessed wrong in her merriment. He grinned and traded with Fred, who was delighted by the mix-up. Hermione giggled beside him.</p><p>George watched from the corner of his eye as Mrs. Weasley handed Hermione a brightly wrapped gift. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said.</p><p>“It’s for you, Granger, so stop waffling and open it,” George said, laughing and nudging her in the arm with elbow. Ron watched eagerly from across the table.</p><p>A rich, purple jumper tumbled from the wrapping and onto Hermione’s lap. Her face lit up, and pleasure zipped through him.</p><p>“See, you’re one of the family, now,” Ron said, a wide grin stretching across his face. George didn’t miss the way Ron’s gaze followed Hermione as she leant forward to give his mum a hug. So that was coming along, then.</p><p>“Have been for quite some time,” George added, stretching back to place his hands behind his head in contentment. Laughing, Hermione pulled the jumper on over her clothes. No wonder Ron couldn’t look away. She was like magic embodied, beaming softly with the candlelight glowing on her hair, her curls falling all over the cozy stitch work. Finally, it was official. she was an honorary Weasley, sort of like Harry. He was suddenly overcome with an urge to pick her up and wrap her in a tight hug.</p><p>“Can’t believe you helped Mum knit that,” Fred whispered, pulling George from his admittedly sappy thoughts. Christmas was getting to his head.</p><p>“I did no such thing, brother,” George said, ears warming. “I was knitting…something else.”</p><p>“Right,” Fred drawled. “Well, Ron seems happy.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, nodding firmly, but his eyes didn’t leave Hermione. Her smile was just like her patronus—glowing and vibrant.</p><p>Nothing could put on a damper on his festive spirit for the rest of the day. Not even the inexplicable gnawing feeling in his stomach every time Hermione touched Ron’s arm.</p><p>#</p><p>January 1996</p><p>George and Fred performed before the raucous students, sweeping their newest invention on and off of each other’s heads. With each turn, their faces popped in and out of sight, and the younger students around them grew more and more excited.</p><p>“And off again!” shouted George. He grinned as Fred made a show of trying to find the invisible hat on top of his invisible head. Suddenly, a familiar voice drew his attention to the side, causing him to miss his cue.</p><p>“How do those hats work, then?...it’s rather clever…” Hermione said as her, Ron, and Harry walked by. George’s face flushed.</p><p>A jog in the side from Fred’s elbow brought him back to the present.</p><p>#</p><p>February 1996</p><p>Each night, the scar on his hand ached. </p><p>He bent over the quill, scrawling the familiar phrase.</p><p><em>"I must not cause trouble." </em>The words had ceased disappearing months ago, and now lay permanently etched into his skin with what felt like cold fire.</p><p>This time, it was for a Filibuster a second year had set off in the hall. He and Fred had taken the blame. They always did, when possible. But, sometimes, they weren't close enough, and Umbridge was always swift. The sharp sniffs to his left were evidence of this, and George shot the younger boy an encouraging nod.</p><p>"Hem-hem," Umbridge tittered. She paused just slightly in her tight pacing to smile at him. </p><p>George glanced to his right. Fred's hand was a bloody mess.</p><p>George directed his eyes towards the front, tightening his jaw. In the row before him, Hermione wrote steadily, and he could see the scrawl, faint on her skin.</p><p>
  <em>"I will not speak out of turn."</em>
</p><p>When he looked back up, Umbridge was still smiling directly at him.</p><p>Taunting him to speak out.</p><p>The woman seemed to enjoy it, and her cold smile sank deep into George's chest, stoking fury.</p><p>George fisted the D.A. Galleon in his pocket.</p><p>#</p><p>March 1996</p><p>It was high time he and George bid these hallowed halls adieu. The new Inquisitorial Squad was mucking up a storm, and Umbridge coasted through the halls each day like a vampire seeking fresh kill. Disruption was needed, and fast.</p><p>They’d finally collected enough savings and stock to open their storefront, and they weren’t going to stick around to let Umbridge swipe it from under their nose. Besides, in a more neutral space, they’d have more freedom to invent. Their defense line was in sore need of testing, and now that the D.A. had been broken up, they could fight better from outside the school. They could finally join the Order.</p><p>Fred and he had repeated these reasons between each other countless times over the last few weeks, but George still felt a twinge of regret at leaving Hogwarts behind. After all, once they left, that was it. Their time at Hogwarts was over.</p><p>Despite all their mischief, he could swear the school seemed to take to them. It always opened up the right nooks, crannies, and staircases when they needed it. When George pressed his hands to the stone walls, he could swear that he could feel the building hum with contentment. It was hard to imagine leaving all of the others behind, especially the younger students, who looked quite lost now that Dumbledore had left.</p><p>That’s why he and Fred had decided to go out with a bang. For Hogwarts and all of its denizens. They’d leave a lasting impression. Something to inspire and invigorate the everyone to keep trying, even in the darkest of times.</p><p>That’s what found him sweating, legs cramping as he set the fifteenth bundle of fireworks up in a nook near the Slytherin dungeons. In this territory, they had to work quickly. They had multiple batches for each floor, and some were timed to go off hours after the others. After what they had planned for the week, their whole fireworks stock would be used up, but it was worth it.</p><p>Finally, he finished securing the load. Then, as planned, he flicked his wand, setting off the first of many batches. The Whiz-Bangs zipped around the corner, multiplying and whistling as they went.</p><p>All day, they plagued classrooms, and Umbridge raced back and forth, failing to maintain control. George was delighted to hear that the professors on their side of the conflict played at being stupefied by the fireworks. He knew for a fact that Flitwick could disarm them, but the quiet little man merely called for Umbridge, pretending to be inept. It was probably the faculty’s shelter that had kept Fred and him from Umbridge’s office thusfar. Even still, it was surprising that they hadn’t been named by some pesky Slytherin yet.</p><p>Even more surprising, however, was Hermione’s response.</p><p>That evening, in the common room, she pushed her way through the crowd and took George by the elbow. He took a deep breath, expecting a scolding, but instead, he looked down to see her smiling at him, exuberant.</p><p>“They were wonderful fireworks,” she said, a bit breathless.</p><p>“Thanks,” George choked out, surprised. “I mean, they’re Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs.” He grinned back at her. He felt a bit like a firework himself, inside. Hermione and he were friends, but she’d never shown much positive interest in their Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes inventions until recently. He wouldn’t take it for granted.</p><p>Fred picked up where he’d left off, and began passing around an order form, quoting prices. George between between his twin and Hermione, Harry, and Ron, hoping to catch more of the conversation.</p><p>“Oh, why don’t we have a night off?” she was saying. A second year shook his hand, and George flashed him a smile, then edged closer. “—d’you know…I think I’m feeling a bit…rebellious,” Hermione said.</p><p>George’s eyes widened. Fred had to yank on his shoulder twice to catch his attention.</p><p>They needed a fresh order form. Apparently, the first one was already filled up.</p><p>#</p><p>March 1996</p><p>The morning of the Great Caper (as he and Fred had taken to calling it) was much like any other. The owls brought the mail in. Filch nailed up another decree on the wall. Then, one by one, their pranks began to fire. It was seamless, as though Hogwarts itself was egging them on. The largest batch of fireworks erupted in the third-floor corridor, and the Portable Swamp went off without a hitch. Everything was perfect.</p><p>That is, until the members of the Inquisitorial squad cornered them.</p><p>Umbridge stared down at them, triumphant. Students crowded around, leaving them in the middle of the clearing but encircled by onlookers. Some of the younger Gryffindors looked about to cry. No, no, no. That’s not what today was about.</p><p>Filch bounded up, panting. “—I’ve got the form, and I’ve got the whips waiting…” he wheezed. George raised a brow at Fred, who threw his head back and laughed. As if.</p><p>“You two are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers at my school,” Umbridge said, practically quivering with either rage or happiness. Honestly, George couldn’t quite tell.</p><p>A first-year Gryffindor cried out from the crowd, bursting into tears. George gave the smaller boy a kind smile and mouthed, “It’s okay.”</p><p>“You know what? I don’t think we are,” Fred said, turning to him. “George, I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” he answered back, careful to keep his voice light and playful. This was a performance, after all.</p><p>“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you reckon?” Fred said. George’s heart drummed inside of his chest.</p><p>“Definitely,” he said, voice easy and smooth. There, there they were in the crowd. Hermione, Ron, and Harry. The trio were frozen, eyes fixed on Fred and George. He winked at them, and they broke into grins. Excellent.</p><p>“Accio Brooms!” George roared in time with Fred, and castle was all too happy to oblige. A deep rumble sounded, then a clanging, coming closer, closer, then it smacked right into the palm of his outstretched hand. George shook the chain and chunk of pavement from his broomstick as the crowd of students screamed and cheered, surging between Umbridge and the twins.</p><p>They shouted their pitch, and George relished in offering a discount on products to be used against Umbridge. Then, they kicked off, tossing a handful of the last fireworks (some of the biggest ones) into the air. The explosions followed them out to the courtyard, forming a large, golden “W” in the sky.</p><p>Fred was shouting to Peeves, who swept his hat off and gave them a dramatic salute. George searched, anxious for one last, final look.</p><p>There. At the edge of the crowd, the trio clapped and cheered. Hermione’s smile was brighter than he’d ever seen it, and Ron was waving his scarf victoriously through the air. The school’s silhouette was a gleaming against the falling sun. This was Hogwarts. This, right here, would always be Hogwarts to him.</p><p>They zoomed off into the sunset. His mum would kill him when they got home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Take Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“What’s this about, then?” Ron asked, dumping dozens of letters to the ground.</p><p>Hermione’s mind blanked. It was as though a friend had left the room for only a moment and come back a completely different person. There was no warmth. No spark between them. Just a cold vacuum of loss, and it threatened to swallow her whole.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I finished this chapter last night, and I figured that since I was a day late a couple weeks back, maybe I could post this one a couple days early? :) </p><p>First: I'm sorry for the bit of a cliff hanger that I left you all with! Thank you for being patient and waiting all this time!! &lt;3</p><p>THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for reading, and/or leaving a kudos/comment. I've cried numerous times reading you guys' kind words, and the fact that anyone takes the time to read this at all blows me away. I have had such a blast talking with you all, and reading your feedback really does help me know whether what I'm writing is making any sense. You all are so kind, and I'm so grateful. &lt;3 </p><p>This chapter isn't necessarily a song fic, but if you wanted to listen to a couple songs that might pair well with it, then I'd recommend "Exile" (Taylor Swift) in the first scene and "Chiquitita" (Abba) in the second. Also: I don't usually do this, but I've actually included some lyrics in one of the scenes. They are italicized, and all credit there goes to the song writers/performers. (If this sort of thing isn't your style, my apologies! Feel free to ignore it. This is truly just meant as a fun sort of side thing for those who might enjoy it. :) &lt;3) </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or this story world. :)</p><p>Grab yourself a snack, a comfortable blanket, and your beverage of choice. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Seven: Take Heart</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>2003</p><p>“What’s this about, then?” Ron asked, dumping dozens of letters to the ground.</p><p>Hermione’s mind blanked. It was as though a friend had left the room for only a moment and come back a completely different person. There was no warmth. No spark between them. Just a cold vacuum of loss, and it threatened to swallow her whole.</p><p>Ron lifted his eyes from the mess on the floor and took her in. He tilted his head just a fraction to the side. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” he asked. Then, without giving her time to reply, he exploded into movement. He pushed past her into the hallway behind the living room. “George!” he shouted. “George!” He yanked open the study door. When he found no one there, he strode to the other side of the hall and ducked his head into the bedroom. “Bloody—” he started, then turned on his heel, brushing past her other side on his way to the kitchen.</p><p>Hermione’s voice came out shaky. “Ron—wait,” she tried, following him. Ron spun, and she nearly collided with him. His eyes wide were wide, and his breath came in short, furious gasps.</p><p>Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and the front door to the flat flew open. George stood in the threshold, his eyes flickering over the two of them. For one, horrible moment, he strode towards Ron, and Hermione feared he might attack his brother. But, instead, George paused, then threw his arms around him.</p><p>“You finally came, you git,” he said, breathless.</p><p>“Doesn’t seem like you gave me much of a choice,” Ron said roughly. Hesitating, he raised his left hand and gave George a faltering pat on the back as a weak return to the embrace. George released him, and Ron paced back to the fireplace.</p><p>“Now,” he said, flinging his arm toward the abandoned mail. “I got one of these this morning, and I was about a sentence in when fifteen more arrived, followed by another twelve. You’re going to blow my cover, and the Russians aren’t very forgiving about that sort of thing, you know.” He threw his hands upward, staring hard at George.</p><p>“It was an emergency,” George said, rubbing the back of his neck.</p><p>“It better be!” Ron said, voice growing in volume.</p><p>“You wrote all of those?” Hermione asked, eyes widening. George’s gaze skipped over to her for a moment, but he didn’t answer. His mouth opened, closed. Then, he looked back to Ron.</p><p>“Not all of them,” he said quietly. “A few are from Harry and Ginny. One’s from Mum—”</p><p>“Point being, you’re not to abuse the auror office’s owl network, and that’s exactly what you’ve done!” Ron cut in, practically roaring. “It’ll take them weeks to sort out a new route. It’s almost certain that the old one is being watched now.”</p><p>“Ron!” Hermione cried, desperate to diffuse the situation. “I’m sure he didn’t realize.”</p><p>“No, I did,” George said, folding his arms. Hermione rubbed at the bridge of her nose. This was going about as well as she could’ve expected.</p><p>“Are you <em>trying</em> to get me offed?” Ron said, screwing his face up. “Are you thick? You can’t play with international wizarding law when it suits you. This isn’t one of your bloody toys, mate!”</p><p>Enough.</p><p>Ron paused, taking a deep breath. Before he could continue, Hermione stepped forward.</p><p>“Ron, I was in an accident.”</p><p>Ron faltered. He looked at Hermione. Then at George. Then back at Hermione.</p><p>“But, you’re fine now,” he said, as though it was the most obvious statement in the world.</p><p>Hermione shook her head slowly. George put his face in his hands and collapsed back onto the sofa.</p><p>“There was an attack in the Wizengamot, and now Hermione’s in a tough spot,” he said. Ron didn’t say anything for quite some time. Then, looking quite put out, he crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge.</p><p>“If we’re having this out, I need a sandwich,” he said, refusing to look at either of them. “Do you have any corned beef?”</p><p>George tilted his head up and back until it rested on the top of the sofa. “‘Fraid not. Sliced turkey, though,” he said. Muttering, Ron crammed a hunk of turkey in between two slices of wheat bread. He seemed more familiar in the apartment than Hermione did, ducking into drawers for cutlery and the pantry to retrieve an un-opened jar of relish. At some point along the way, he shed his heavy, fur coat onto one of the bar stools. Underneath, he wore red-checked flannel and some brown trousers.</p><p>Finally, Ron waltzed back into the living room, holding a dish laden with his sandwich and some crisps he’d dug out. “So, what’s the trouble? You need me to testify or something?” He asked, mouth full. He opted to sit in the chair furthest from George, focusing on his food.</p><p>“Not in court,” Hermione said, wishing she could shrink back into the wall behind her. She walked to the bag she hadn’t touched since leaving St. Mungo’s, retrieving the file from it. Wordless, she returned to the living room and held it out to Ron. Her hand trembled the slightest bit. But, he took it from her, and she was able to retreat back behind the armchair on the other side of the room.</p><p>“What’s this,” he said, flipping it open, still chewing. As he read, his shoulders tightened, and his jaw stopped moving until he was completely still. Silence descended over the flat.</p><p>“I’ll let you two talk,” George said softly. He proceeded to leave the room, but as he passed Hermione, he hesitated. “I’ll just be…” he trailed off, nodding at the study. Hermione ducked her head, grateful for his understanding. The door clicked shut behind him.</p><p>Hermione finally sat, wrapping her arms around her knees. Ron snuck a look at her from over top of the folder, then his eyes moved back down to the parchments inside it. The clock on the wall over the mantle ticked.</p><p>“It says you lost five years?” Ron said, sounding much younger than he had moments ago.</p><p>“I can remember the final battle, but after that…” Hermione trailed off, wishing she could shrink inward even further. She knew they’d kissed. That was all. And surely that had led to more. How could it not have? After all that time?</p><p>“Then you don’t remember us breaking up?” he asked. Then: “Or dating, really?”</p><p>In her head, she’d been bold and confident in this conversation. She’d imagined that it would feel stable. Familiar. But, it wasn’t. Sharing a room with Ron felt like the reopening of an old wound—one that she didn’t remember receiving or inflicting. It was even more confusing than it had been before.</p><p>“Probably best,” Ron said heavily. Then: “Look, ‘Mione. I don’t know what you’re asking from me right now.” The familiar nickname caught her unaware. Ron still wouldn’t look at her, though.</p><p>“Did I do something wrong?” Hermione asked. “I just… don’t understand how things went from where they were to how they are now.”</p><p>Ron swore, leaning forward and sticking his dish on the coffee table. His half-eaten sandwich sagged and capsized on the plate. “Let me get this straight—you want me to explain to you why we broke up?” Hermione’s faced burned, but she found herself nodding anyway. “Just my luck,” Ron said. He slumped in his chair, rubbing his hands over his cheeks, almost hiding behind them. A pause.</p><p>“You couldn’t just go to the archives—read the papers?” he said flatly.</p><p>“Yes, because they’re always accurate,” Hermione said, voice sharp.</p><p>“Look, you-you can’t just. I mean. It’s not—I don’t…I don’t know how to tell it,” he said. He sounded strained, as though every word was a monumental effort. “One minute, we were together, the next, we weren’t.” Ron’s face contorted, and Hermione recoiled as she realized he was angry—with her, no less. “You-you said that we could be happy or we could be together, but you couldn’t see a way for us to be both.” His tone was quiet as he rubbed at his forearm.</p><p>“Why weren’t we happy?” she asked, pushing harder. She needed to know. To understand.</p><p>Ron leaned back in his seat and turned his head to stare at the empty hearth. “The same reasons we weren’t happy before we got together, I reckon. I wanted to take this position abroad for the auror office. We would’ve had to move. You wanted to stay and work on your activism. You didn’t seem to think we could do both and keep things up, not with how they’d deteriorated. We’ve always fought, but I wanted to make it work. You didn’t.” He turned and looked her in the eyes, and it wasn’t a forgiving sort of look. It left her feeling deflated. Guilty for a crime she hadn’t committed.</p><p>But was it a crime to leave Ron Weasley? Did the other Hermione know something she didn’t?</p><p>“Then you started showing up to Sunday dinners with him, instead,” Ron said. “And it was only a matter of time, after that.” He pushed himself to his feet, looking haggard.</p><p>Hermione couldn’t breathe. It didn’t make sense. From her perspective, she’d always worked through things with Ron. Yes, they’d had more than a few rough patches, but nothing from which they’d been unable to recover.</p><p>Except for when he left them in the forest. That had seemed permanent and hopeless.</p><p>But he’d come back. And she’d thought she had forgiven him.</p><p>So what was all this? How had things unfolded this way?</p><p>In the back of her mind, a small, irksome voice was telling her that perhaps this was different because they’d grown up. Maybe being someone’s friend and being their partner required different compatibilities. Maybe Hermione hadn’t been the right person for him. Maybe, by presuming she was, she had done something lasting and irreparable.</p><p>“Are we still friends?” Hermione asked quietly, the room whirling around her. Her head ached. This was not how this talk was supposed to go. She’d hoped for an anchor, but she’d gotten more heartache instead.</p><p>“I-I don’t know,” Ron looked at her, dark circles under his eyes, and shoulders slumped. He sighed, and it was the same sigh he used to utter while wearing the horcrux. He was tired. So was she. “It’s like, on the one hand, I suppose we’ll always be friends. Couldn’t be any other way, after everything.” He paused. “But, it’s not the same, I guess. I mean, this is the first time we’ve talked in over a year. It’s only recently that I can stand to be in the same room as—” he jerked his head toward the study door. “All those years he sat on the sidelines, pretending to support me, only to—and all along—well.” He punctuated the end of his sentence by flinging his hand in the air towards her. “It used to eat me up inside. For a long time. It’s not the sort of thing a bloke likes to think about.”</p><p>Hermione rubbed her temples. The migraine was threatening to consume her, and now Ron wasn’t making any sense.</p><p>“You used to shout at me when I said things like that,” Ron said, stepping towards the floo. “It’s strange—not hearing you defend him.” He frowned, looked to the study, then took a handful of green powder from the mantle. “Tell him that one letter’s plenty, next time.” And with that, Ron Weasley shouted “The Burrow!” and disappeared into a puff of green smoke.</p><p>Hermione sank down on the sofa.</p><p>#</p><p>She awoke to darkness outside and the feeling of a soft, pleasant weight descending around her torso. She blinked up. In the gentle glow of the lamp, George was draping a knit blanket over her form. That confusing, warm tingling in her chest was back. The lamplight flickering over his eyes and face plucked the words from her mouth, and she found herself unable to speak. When he stepped back, he caught her looking. A small, lopsided smile stole over his face.</p><p>“Hello Sleepy,” he said softly, kneeling beside the sofa. “I made you tea.” The tingling spread through her ribcage, nipping at her throat and shoulders. He reached behind him, pulling a dark purple mug to his chest. “If you want it.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, mouth dry. Something about the way he knelt before her now was familiar.</p><p>Her head spun. Sand. Harry sobbing. Bill with fresh, angry scars. Luna. And George. Kneeling over her.</p><p>Like a puff of smoke, then gone. The memory—if that had been what it was—slipped through her fingers. She pressed her knuckles to her brow. What had she been thinking about?</p><p>She took the offered mug into her hands, centering on its heat.</p><p>“Are you feeling alright?” George asked, tilting his head to meet her eyes.</p><p>“I-I’m not sure,” she said. “My head hurts.” She’d had a thought, but it had vanished. George’s brow wrinkled.</p><p>“I figured it might. The tea should help,” he said. Hermione took a long draught, and the ache lessened. He waited, fiddling with the button on his sleeve. She set the cup aside and propped herself up on her elbows.</p><p>“Ron was upset,” she said. George grimaced. “I thought that everything would make sense after hearing him talk about it, but, I’m more confused than before.” Her cheeks burned. “He made it sound so…sudden.”  </p><p>“He made what sound so sudden?” George asked. He leaned in, propping his forearms on the couch cushion. She could feel the heat of them close to skin above her elbow.</p><p>“Us getting together,” she said. George barked out a laugh.</p><p>“It wasn’t,” he said. “But he’d have thought it was sudden no matter the timing,” he added, his tone more serious. The admission brought Ron’s contorted face to mind. The way he moved stiffly in her presence, now. Her throat constricted.</p><p>“I don’t know what I expected, but right now, it feels like nothing will be right again,” she whispered. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She pushed herself upright and stood abruptly.</p><p>George took a deep breath, studying her. Wordless, he padded softly to the bookshelf and pulled a record sleeve from the top of it. The player buzzed with static as he switched it on, then the needle caught.</p><p>Gentle, strummed chords blossomed through the room. Hermione’s heart stuttered. What was this?</p><p><em>“Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong…”</em> the record player crackled. The tingling sparked, catching onto a tide of warmth. It washed over her, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. George crossed back to the couch, hands thrust in his pockets. She met his eyes, and he gave her a small, uncertain-looking smile.</p><p>
  <em>“In your eyes, there is no hope for tomorrow…”  </em>
</p><p>“My Mum used to play me this,” Hermione said. George looked up and met her eyes.</p><p>“I know,” he said.</p><p>
  <em>“There is no way you can deny it…”</em>
</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said. What was this sudden, glowing feeling that had stolen over her?</p><p>George gave her a silly smile and began to mouth the lyrics along with the record player. Hermione snorted, hiding her watery smile behind her hand.</p><p>“<em>Chiquitita, tell me the truth.</em> <em>I’m a shoulder you can cry on…”</em> He shrugged with that part, stepping forward slowly. He clasped his hands over his heart and gave her a goofy grin, slipping into the performance as though he’d rehearsed it a thousand times before.</p><p><em>“You were always sure of yourself,”</em> he mouthed, with a wink. Hermione rolled her eyes. <em>“I hope we can hash it out together…” </em>George grinned, and the piano came in.</p><p>
  <em>“Chiquitita, you and I know…”</em>
</p><p>George lifted his hands to shoulder level, bobbing his head to the music and spinning in a slow circle. He moved across the floor, doing his ridiculous spin dance in time with the song. Always turning to face her, smile as bright as ever.</p><p>And, the strangest part was that Hermione felt like smiling too. As though propelled by some hidden instinct, she began to move. Then turn. Then sing—out loud, the song her mother sang to her when she cried at night.</p><p>She sang it. She sang it loud, the words pouring out of the deepest part of herself. Grasping her wand as though it were a microphone, turning about the living room. Whirling beside George. The problems were still there, she knew. But for now, she could take solace in this. This beautiful, wonderful, healing chaos.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Burrow is Burning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tensions mount in the Weasley family, and George is caught in the crossfire.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! I hope you're all safe and well this week. &lt;3<br/>This chapter's a bit long, but I had to fit a lot in. I hope that's okay!<br/>Our boy is sort of...going through it. In re-reading HBP and watching the films, I found George in a bit of darker place than before, which makes sense, given everything that's happening in his world and the sizeable changes he's been through in a short span of time. I wanted to explore some that in his development here, and I hope I didn't butcher it too badly. &lt;3</p><p>(If you're the type of person who likes a song to go with a chapter, "Home" by Machine Gun Kelly pairs with this one.)</p><p>Also, we're going to start seeing a bit more of Angelina and Fred, because Angelina is amazing. </p><p>Thank you so much for your comments, clicks, and kudos on the last chapter. You all are so kind and so motivating! The routine of writing and planning this fic has been helpful to me, and I so appreciate all of your support. </p><p>We're finding George in the midst of a dark time in this chapter. I hope that you, like him, remember to look for the light. &lt;3<br/>Grab your favorite pair of slippers, a mug of tea, and your favorite snack. Let's jump in.</p><p>(As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Eight: The Burrow is Burning</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>June 20th, 1996</p><p>George laid on the floor, his arms and legs sprawled and limp. He and Fred had spent the last several hours levitating, boxing up, and moving all of their possessions into their storefront and the small apartment above it. Some of the goods were quite reactive, and they’d had to take some extra precautions. Mrs. Weasley had refused to speak a single word to them during the process, still too frustrated with them to give them her blessing. She had, however, packed a few sandwiches into a small basket, which she’d left on top of the last crate of boxes. Good thing, too. They didn’t have any food or running water at the flat, yet. That would have to be for tomorrow. For now, his body would gracefully decompose into the horrid shag carpeting that covered ever square inch of this apartment—even the loo.</p><p>“Fred! George!” a frantic cry echoed from the fireplace. George stumbled over a set of boxes, ignoring the painful twinge in his neck. Fred was closer, so he reached the hearth first. There, in the embers was Lupin’s panicked face. “We’ve just received word, Harry and the others—”</p><p>The traces of weariness fled his body.</p><p>“We’re coming through,” Fred cut in. Lupin hesitated, but then his face backed from the hearth. Fred and George grabbed for a handful of floo powder, tossed it in, then shouted “Grimmauld Place!” in tandem.</p><p>The world whirled, then their feet hit the familiar stone of Sirius Black’s home. It was pandemonium—and not the good kind. When they’d departed hours before, a couple of Order members had milled about (mostly Sirius and Mrs. Weasley). Now, bodies were rushing between the kitchens and entry way. Moody was standing on a kitchen chair, shouting instructions.</p><p>“I’m going!” Mr. Weasley shouted.</p><p>“No, you’re not, Arthur!” Sirius shouted back. Mrs. Weasley stood by the window, wringing her hands.</p><p>“What’s happened?” George said to the only person standing still.</p><p>“Harry’s gone to the ministry to confront the Dark Lord,” Lupin said, the words spilling out fast and frantic. A rushing filled George’s ears.</p><p>“Alone?” he said. It felt as though all the air had gone out of the room. It bloody well might have, with all the people crammed together.</p><p>Lupin shook his head. “No, some of the other students are with him—”</p><p>“They’re <em>my</em> children!” Mr. Weasley shouted. George wasn’t sure if his dad was speaking about Ron or Harry at this point. If both boys were there, Hermione was as well. Sirius brushed past Mr. Weasley without responding, raising his wand to help Tonks caste some protective charms over the grounds.</p><p>“The floos into the ministry will be blocked. Grab your brooms,” Shacklebolt roared. George looked around for his, but it was missing from its spot in the kitchen. Oh. They’d moved it to the flat earlier.</p><p>“We’ll need brooms,” George said.  </p><p>Lupin stopped. “No. Absolutely not,” he said. “You’re not experienced enough. We need to get in, get children, and get out. We can’t be worried about you two as well.”</p><p>“We aren’t—” Fred shouted over the noise.</p><p>“You’re staying put,” Moody said, shouldering between the twins and grabbing a handful of black powder from the mantle. He stuffed it into a pouch on his hip. Then, he rushed through the front door of Grimmauld Place, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and Shacklebolt at his side.</p><p>George worked his jaw, holding back the fire that threatened to burst forth. Holding the group up could mean lives. But, so could staying behind. Ever fiber in his being protested as the group kicked off, hurtling into the night without them.</p><p>A stifled sob shattered the grim silence. Mrs. Weasley pressed her shawl to her mouth, and the sound stopped. George crossed to the windows and took his mother into his arms.</p><p>He thought of Granger’s hand on his shoulder last December, of the fragile hope that kept them all aloft. “We’ll watch with you,” he said. Then he looked down. In his mother’s arms was the Weasley clock.</p><p>All nine hands pointed to “mortal peril.”</p><p>George stretched his hand out. Gripped the window frame. Hold tight. Hold tight.</p><p>                                                                        #</p><p>June 21, 1996</p><p>He’d never seen Granger looking so small and pale, almost swamped in the blankets of the hospital cot. She was still. Too still. A rushing filled his ears. Was she breathing? He watched intently, waiting for her chest to rise and fall.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley paced around Hermione’s bed, adjusting the heavy, knit blanket over her limp form.</p><p>“Careful, Mum, she looks pretty suffocated already,” Fred said, leaning against the frame of the empty bed to the left. Mrs. Weasley made a shushing noise.</p><p>“Her parents haven’t arrived yet, and until they do…” Mrs. Weasley kept talking, but her words didn’t sink through the thick veil of regret that pressed in on George from all sides. Madam Pomfrey pushed between Mrs. Weasley and the cot, pulled the blankets back, tipped a potion down Granger’s unconscious throat, and bustled back out again. Mrs. Weasley hurried to pull them back up.</p><p>“You’re awfully quiet, Mate,” Fred whispered near his ear. George shook his head slightly, not wanting to speak. Then: “She’ll be alright, George. Even Dumbledore says so.”</p><p>“Right,” he managed to say. Hermione shifted in bed. Her curls tangled and stuck to her neck in face. She was sweating. His mother meant well, but Granger was going to overheat under all the bedding.</p><p>“Distract Mum,” he murmured. Fred gave him a curious look, but tapped their mother on the elbow, guiding her to the side. George ducked down by the cot and flicked his wand. The heaviest of the quilts vanished, leaving some lighter sheets and the knit blanket. That was better.</p><p>He snuck a look at his mother. She was busy scolding Fred. Honorable of him to take one for the greater good. He stepped back from Hermione’s cot to assess his handiwork.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, and George’s breath caught.</p><p>“George?” she whispered. George had to stoop to catch the sound.</p><p>“Hey Prefect,” George said. Hermione stared off into the distance, looking confused. She didn’t acknowledge his taunt. He knelt, concerned. “Should I go for Madam Pomfrey?” he asked. Hermione shook her head.</p><p>“Water,” she said. George reached for the glass on the side table, whispering “Augumenti.” He held the glass for her, and she drank the whole thing down. When she collapsed back onto her pillows, she looked more herself.</p><p>“You’re pretty scrappy, Granger,” George said, fighting to keep his tone casual. “You a part of some underground fighting ring?” Hermione snorted. Encouraged, he continued. “I ought to write you up.” That earned him a faint smile. He prattled on, talking nonsense. Mrs. Weasley and Fred hovered around them, adjusting the potions supply cart and speaking in hushed tones. George didn’t pay them any mind, focusing only on bringing more of the life back to his friend’s face. After far too short a time, Ginny appeared at his elbow.</p><p> “You want your hair pulled back?” she asked. Hermione nodded. George stepped back from her bedside.</p><p>“You ready to go?” Fred asked. George took a last look at his friend. Memorized the image of her breathing, listening to Ginny’s animated retelling of the battle at the ministry.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, finally turning and proceeding with his brother to the exit.</p><p>“Where’s Ron?” Hermione’s soft tones echoed across the stone floor. George’s step faltered on his way through the door.</p><p>#</p><p>June 29, 1996</p><p>George craned his neck over the thin, opalescent stream, directing it down into the cauldron. Last night, he’d dreamed of bolt of grey magic hitting him. His teeth had broken into shards and fallen out of his mouth. He’d woken up sick, his breath rattling. He was tired.</p><p>But they had to finish this. They were so close. The caldron shimmered, and George tensed, awaiting the results.</p><p>The door swung open, and George jumped as it banged against the wall.</p><p>“Get dressed,” Fred said, tossing a garment bag onto the chair. “We’re needed with the Order.”</p><p>“Really?” George said, scrambling upright. He cast a stasis charm over the caldron.</p><p>Fred was threading a tie around his collar, examining himself in the mirror. “They need a few more bodies when they go to escort the others from Platform 9 3/4.”</p><p>“What’s this?” George unzipped the bag, peering inside.</p><p>“Something that’ll help us get taken a bit more seriously around here,” Fred said. “No worries. Ethically obtained. Charlie knows a guy.”</p><p>George drew the fitted suit from the bag, eyes widening at the feel of dragon leather under his fingers. “Brilliant,” he said. He swapped his rumpled sleep shirt for the crisp, white one in the garment bag.</p><p>“That’s what I said,” Fred continued, shoving his arms through his own jacket. “And Angie agrees, you know. Said we’re more than capable to be taken along on more missions. We’re well trained and ready. She figures the only reason they’re being so stubborn is because they don’t see us as adults yet. Today, that changes.” Fred’s jaw was firm as he tightened his tie.</p><p>George tripped as he shoved his feet through the pants. He felt rather more like a kid playing dress up than an adult exhibiting maturity with ease, but perhaps Fred was right.</p><p>Either way, the suit fit like a dream.</p><p>#</p><p>August 3, 1996</p><p>The shop was chaos, but the good kind of chaos. George twisted to fetch a whiz-bang from a high shelf and handed it to the grinning parent before him. “Adult supervision required,” he said. The bell jangled loudly at the front, and he brushed by to greet the new customers.</p><p>A mass of curls bobbed amidst the crowd. George stepped forward and frowned, staring harder. Was that—a nudge on his arm drew him from his thoughts.</p><p>“What are you looking at?” His father’s voice said. “By the by, George, that is the most atrocious suit I’ve ever seen. It’s wonderful.” George whirled and took his father in. The older man was munching on a dark chocolate wand, his cheeks rosy and his eyes crinkled in kind lines.  George threw his head back and laughed, wrapping his father in a warm hug.</p><p>“Isn’t it, though?” he said, clapping Mr. Weasley on the back. “Dad, you’ve got to see what we’ve got in the back.”</p><p>“Just a minute now, what’s caught your eye? You seemed quite focused. Didn’t even hear me the first time I called your name,” Mr. Weasley raised his head, peering around his son to catch a glimpse of whatever George had found so interesting.</p><p>“I had no idea you’d be stopping by today,” George swiftly changed the subject. “Is everyone with you?”</p><p>“Yes, we figured it’d be safer to take the kids all at once,” Mr. Weasley said, glancing out the tall windows at the front of the shop. Outside, stark streets and a muted, grey sky greeted them.</p><p>“We have security measures in place, Dad,” George dropped his voice. “If there’s something out there, we’ll know.” Mr. Weasley finally nodded and proceeded to follow George to the back.</p><p>“Bring Hermione or Harry with you?” George asked. What would they think of the new defense line? Surely that could prove useful.</p><p>The following hour was quite happily spent walking his father through the shop, shoving products into young Harry’s hands, and teasing Ginny about her love life. All too soon, his family bustled back through the doors to return to the Burrow. George seemed to have just missed Hermione at every turn, and after the shop’s busiest hours calmed down, Ron, Harry, and Hermione had disappeared for a while before the rest of the group. A real shame, seeing as he wouldn’t be returning to school with his friends the following month.</p><p>That night, George and Fred locked the doors together, and a feeling of heaviness descended.</p><p>“It feels a bit strange, doesn’t it?” George said, staring out at the street. “Not going back, I mean.”</p><p>Fred hummed in response. On the street, a shady fellow wearing a dark trenchcoat lumbered past. George’s eyes followed the figure until it disappeared. It was only a matter of time until the death eaters came for their shop. His mouth settled into a grim line.</p><p>“Y’know, Granger said the Daydream Charms were ‘extraordinary magic,’” Fred said, sticking the keys back into his pocket.</p><p>“Did she, now?” George said, feeling a grin slip over his face. Suddenly, the grim street was less frightening. His wand was light in his hand as he cast the protective wards.</p><p>“Yeah. I gave her a free one,” Fred said. “The pirate one.” His twin looked at him out of the corner of his eye, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.</p><p>“You didn’t,” George said, face going slack.</p><p>“Yeah. Think she’ll fancy your acting skills?” Fred asked, exploding into laughter. He pantomimed George’s shoddy but dramatic fencing from the daydream they’d created, ending with a flourish and deep bow. George tried not to give him the satisfaction, but Hermione’s praise echoed in his head, and he found himself laughing.</p><p>George clicked off the light, chuckling. “Probably not.”</p><p>#</p><p>September 30, 1996</p><p>
  <em>Dear George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was surprised to receive your letter last week, but I do think it’s a good idea that we keep in touch. Thank you for asking after our health—we’re all well here. How are you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry to have missed saying hello at the shop, but you seemed rather busy. Congratulations on that, by the way. To answer your question, there’s certainly plenty of mischief at Hogwarts, despite you and Fred’s absence. It seems you can’t turn a corner without a Weasley’s Wizard Wheeze causing some sort of ruckus. (Please stop selling fanged frisbees to the younger students. I’ve had to confiscate four just this week, and the first years are starting to call me names.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You asked if I’d like anything else from your shop, and honestly, I’m alright, but Ginny keeps asking about the sweets you carry. She’s having a bit of a rough time with everything, and I think it would mean a lot to her if you sent her a care package. She really misses you. We all do. I’m starting to realize that when things were difficult, you two had a knack for saying just the right thing to ease the tension. I’ve tried to pick up this helpful habit, but so far, I’ve been rubbish at it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know that’ll make you smile. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I worry about the two of you. With things so uncertain, it’s good to stick close to the ones you love.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stay safe, George!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your friend,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione Granger</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. I’ve changed my mind. Ginny said you had Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion? I could use some of that, if you don’t mind. Let me know the price, and I’ll owl you the funds.</em>
</p><p>George rested the letter back on his desktop. Across the room, Lee was working on composing a song for the Weird Sisters. He bent over his parchment, humming notes and making scribbles. Angelina slept on the overstuffed sofa, her feet in Fred’s lap. Fred was fiddling with a trick wand, trying to make it change colors.</p><p>The living room was warm and smelled of pumpkin pasties that had long since been eaten. He sighed contentedly, picked up the letter, and began to formulate his reply.</p><p>
  <em>To the Most Honorable Prefect Miss Hermione Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hello. Received your letter. It was rather long, so I couldn’t read the whole of it (being so busy and successful, as I am, you know). I gather you’d like me to continue selling fanged frisbees? (Only joking, I read the whole thing. The fanged frisbees were Fred’s idea, but I’ll see what I can do.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Things are strange here, as I’m sure they are there.</em>
</p><p>At this, George paused. He had to be careful not to reveal anything potentially dangerous, as the mail was hardly confidential these days. A bother, but a necessary one.</p><p>
  <em>I’m sure you know what I mean. But, we’ll be alright. Don’t you worry about us. Fred and I can manage.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How’s the new professor? I hear he’s quite taken with Harry. Ginny said he took a liking to you as well? Not surprising. You’ve always been brilliant, and he’d be thick not to see it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sending the Sleekeazy’s with this letter, and you can expect Fred and I’s care package to arrive soon as well. It’ll be addressed to both Ginny and you, however. Consider it my apology for all of the pranks you’re having to manage as a prefect this year. You can share with the boys if you’d like, so long as they’re not being gits.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How’s quidditch going? How’d the team look at tryouts? Angelina said that Katie said that Peakes and Coote have replaced us as beaters. Are they any good? I hope they are. Fred and I have a legacy to protect, after all. </em>
</p><p>“Say, George, Fred and I’ve been talking about a radio project. Care to lend a hand?” Lee’s voice ruptured George’s concentration. He looked up. Lee had forgone the parchment, drawing a dinged-up metal box from his shoulder bag. It looked like some sort of transmitter. Fred was bent over it, eagerly poking at the buttons.</p><p>“Sure thing. Just let me finish this letter,” George replied, flashing the other boy a smile.</p><p>
  <em>I must admit I’m flattered at your praise. Merlin! I ought to read that to Fred, but he’s already got such a big head. But, really, when it comes down to it, we’re just tossing a bit of silliness about, rather than doing anything truly brave. I’ve always admired that about you, Granger. You’re brave and loyal, and you stick by your friends even when they’ve gone out of fashion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fred, Angelina, Lee, and I miss you all as well. Please do your best to stay out of harm’s way. It always seems to find the group of you, though. Let us know if you need any help at all, will you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tell McGonagall we said hello. I’m certain she misses us dearly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fred sends his warmest regards to all of you, as do I.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your friend,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>George Weasley</em>
</p><p>#</p><p>October 22, 1996</p><p>“Thanks for your help today, Verity,” George called as he locked the register. The bell jangled as she left, and a crisp, October wind slipped in through the gap. George shivered. He’d left his suit jacket in the back room, where he’d been helping Fred brew all afternoon. It got quite stuffy when they had more than five caldrons going at once.</p><p>The door jangled once more. “Forget something?” George said, an easy smile ready, but it froze on his lips. Percy Weasley stood in the threshold, accompanied by two, hulking men. “What d’you want?” George asked, hopping over the counter and landing before his older brother with a thud. “Finally come to apologize?” He folded his arms.</p><p>“Hardly,” Percy said, lifting his chin. The back-room door clicked open.</p><p>“Oy, George, the alarm’s been—” Fred strode out, his voice fading as he saw Percy and the others. “We’re closed.” Fred’s voice had suddenly turned to ice.</p><p>“We’re here on ministry business,” Percy said. “On behalf of the minister.”</p><p>“Are you now?” George said. He rolled up his sleeves, taking care to keep his movements calm and smooth. Fred was close at his side, tense and ready like a wiz-bang that’d just been lit.</p><p>“You’ll have to make an appointment,” Fred said.</p><p>“We don’t need an appointment,” Percy said, thrusting out a bit of parchment. Fred stepped forward, batting the parchment away. Percy flinched, then continued. “I’m afraid we’ve received reports that this establishment is disseminating improper, dark magical artifacts that could be used in service of the Dark Lord.”</p><p>“You heard wrong,” George said, fighting to keep his voice level. “And I figure we both know that.”</p><p>“Then I’m sure you have no reason to object to a simple search,” Percy said, arching his brow and nodding to the men beside him. Wordlessly, the blokes started pacing the shelves, rifling through bins. George stiffened.</p><p>“What is this, Perce?” George asked. As though the git really believed that they’d been trafficking dark objects. “We’ve worked with the ministry thusfar. Helped supply your lot with our defensive line.”</p><p>“I assure you, we’re most grateful,” Percy said, looking right past them as though they weren’t there. Anger flared in the pit of George’s stomach. “This is simply ministry business.” Then: “Make sure to check the back,” he added, raising his voice to address the two goons.</p><p>“I don’t think it is ministry business, Percy,” Fred said, taking another step towards Percy and closing the space between them. “I think you’re trying to throw your weight around.”</p><p>“I take no pleasure in this,” Percy said, checking his pocket watch.</p><p>“You still keep Mum and Dad’s watch, then?” George spat. Percy jumped and thrust the watch back into his trouser pocket.</p><p>“If I were you, I wouldn’t be able to look at it,” Fred said. Percy’s expression hardened. “Not after the things you’ve done.” Fred’s eyes were liquid fire.</p><p>“I did what I thought was best, given the available evidence,” Percy said, his face flushing. “You’ll have to pardon me if I didn’t want to leap into a war based on brash emotions and the stories of a child.”</p><p>“So we’re back to calling Harry a liar, then?” George said, letting the flame lick up his collar, reach his tongue.</p><p>“I didn’t say that,” Percy snapped.</p><p>“But, you did.” Fred said, voice low, quiet. “Last year.” There was a pause, and the only sound was Percy’s men yanking things off shelves in the back. Glass shattered somewhere in the back room. Percy didn’t react.</p><p>“I had reason to doubt. Dumbledore’s been undermining the ministry’s integrity for years, and now when we need most to band together, his ilk are doing their best to create more problems—” Percy started, his volume growing louder. He looked Fred up and down, stepping even closer, a sneer marring his features.</p><p>Fred shoved Percy back. “Don’t you<em> dare</em> talk to me about banding together!”</p><p>Percy’s jaw tightened, and his eyes bulged out.</p><p>“The shop is clear, Mr. Weasley,” one of the two men called from the back, but Percy didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he turned on Fred, his voice sounding dangerously close to breaking.</p><p>“You think I’m the problem? You treated me like rubbish for all those years, sneered at my accomplishments, and now that I’m in a position close to the Minister of Magic himself, finally doing right by the Weasley name, you behave as though I’ve signed onto the Dark Lord’s side.”</p><p>“That’s because you did, Percy!” George shouted, striding forward, pushing between Fred and Percy. “And you still haven’t apologized!”</p><p>“There was no evidence—” Percy tried, but George cut him off.</p><p>“Harry was there!” George shouted.</p><p>Percy laughed, but it was cold and harsh, laced with bitterness.</p><p>“You care more about Harry than your own brother,” he said.</p><p>“Harry is my brother,” George said. His breath was coming fast, now. “I’m proud to call him that. But you? You’re a fool. And a coward.”</p><p>Percy flinched, an expression of unfiltered rage flashing across his face. His fist flew into George’s nose. It cracked, and George stumbled to the floor, hitting a shelf. Product crashed around him, glass shattering in its wake. Waves of shock washed over him as warm liquid dripped down George’s lips, down his chin. He hadn’t seen it coming. Not from Percy.</p><p>The sound of Fred’s angry roar was muted, and there was a strange ringing in his ears. He looked up, straining to see through the spinning in the room. Percy limped away, waving off the two men he’d entered with.</p><p>“Here, Mate,” Fred knelt, suddenly in front of George’s face. He slipped the second end of a Nosebleed Nougat into George’s mouth. “Nicely done. I think you broke his fist with your face.” The quip didn’t have the usual spark to it, and George didn’t bother to fake a laugh.</p><p>They limped up to the flat in silence together, George pressing a handkerchief to his nose. He was too exhausted for magic.</p><p>Shortly after they arrived, the fireplace roared, and Angelina stepped out of the floo.</p><p>“Verity just called—said she saw Percy—oh, no Fred,” her eyes widened as she took in Fred’s battered face.</p><p>“We won,” Fred said weakly, collapsing onto the couch. Angelina disappeared into the hall, then returned with a tin of their Dittany Paste.</p><p>“You’re both so impulsive sometimes,” she said, dabbing the paste onto Fred’s eyebrow. George sank into the easy chair. The blood had crusted beneath his nose, but he could still taste it in the back of his throat.</p><p>“We didn’t throw the first punch, Percy did,” Fred replied, sounding a bit affronted. Angelina snorted.</p><p>“I didn’t know Percy could fight,” she said.</p><p>“He can’t,” Fred was said. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”</p><p>“Who cares,” George said, staring into the fire. “Pass the Dittany when you’re done, please.” Angelina gave him a nod, but Fred was studying him, head tilted to the side.</p><p>“You alright?” Fred asked. George shrugged.</p><p>“Tired,” he said.</p><p>Restless, he crossed to the table, picking up the draft of his letter to Ginny.</p><p>
  <em>Hello Gin,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Glad to hear fifth year isn’t too terrible (yet). Just wait, though. Once exams come ‘round, everyone gets a bit barmy. We’re alright here. Fred and Angelina are still nauseating. She says cheers to you making the team again. (As do Fred and I!) The same to Ron as well. I hear he barely beat out McLaggen. Good. McLaggen was always a prat.</em>
</p><p>George looked over the parchment, feeling the heaviness in his chest. Then, he picked up the forgotten quill, and scratched out a few more lines.</p><p>
  <em>Not sure why you said I’d want to know about Hermione taking Ron to Slughorn’s party? Unless he’s being a git about it—then Fred and I can pay him a visit. I suppose you’ll be taking Dean? If not, you might think to ask Harry. He seemed pretty taken with you this summer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Keep your head up. Fred and I are so proud of you. Give Ron, Harry, and Hermione our best.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your brother always,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>He gazed at the words in his note until they blurred together. He must be getting tired.</p><p>Slowly, he folded the parchment, stuck it in an envelope, and whistled for Calliope, who swooped through the window. He handed it off, watching the owl as she disappeared into the night.</p><p>#</p><p>December 24, 1996</p><p>“When’s Hermione getting here?” George leaped around the banister at The Burrow, landing in the center of the living room. It was strange staying in his old bedroom with Fred over the holidays, but it also made things feel simpler. Like they did before everything got so tangled up. Ginny looked up, bit her lip.</p><p>“She’s, erm, not coming,” she said.</p><p>“What?” George frowned.</p><p>“She probably felt a bit awkward, you know,” Ginny said, gesturing to the kitchen.</p><p>“What for?” George asked.</p><p>Ginny’s mouth opened. She looked a bit taken aback. She rubbed at her brow. “Where to start,” she mumbled. “Well, Hermione’s not speaking to Ron.”</p><p>“But what about the party—” George stuttered.</p><p>Ginny shook her head, cutting him off. “They didn’t go together. After the first Quidditch match of the season, Ron snogged Lavender Brown in the common room in front of everyone,” Ginny whispered.</p><p>“What?” the word exploded out of George, unbidden.</p><p>Ginny winced. “Yeah, it was messy. Now Lavender and Ron are all over each other, and I suppose Hermione felt strange coming for Christmas, given everything.”</p><p>How dare that little prat. And right before Christmas, too. This was shameful behavior. Totally unacceptable. Ungentlemanly.</p><p>Stomach turning, George stepped around Ginny, striding to the kitchen. Just as he reached the door, an arm caught him around the stomach.</p><p>“Whoa there, Brother,” Fred said, voice cool and calm in his ear. “Let’s take a second to talk outside, shall we?”</p><p>George exploded into movement the second they hit the gardens. The air was frigid, blasting against his skin.</p><p>“Stop, Fred, I don’t want to hear it,” he whirled on his twin, voice low and dangerous.</p><p>Fred lifted his hands. “I’m not saying anything, Georgie.” He sat on the bench, staring up at George expectantly.</p><p>George huffed.</p><p>“It’s not like that, Mate,” he said, turning away from Fred’s searching gaze. “I can’t believe the git would—” he struggled, swallowed. He picked up the stone, wound his arm back, and threw it as hard as he could. “Especially with everything going on.” His throat threatened to close up.</p><p>“Is that all there is, though?” Fred’s voice was careful, measured.</p><p>“What bloody else could there be?” George whirled around, breathing hard.</p><p>Fred’s mouth became a thin line. “Right,” he said. George shook his head, scrubbing his hands down his face.</p><p>“She’s my friend. I want her to be okay,” George said, more quietly this time. He slumped onto the bench beside Fred, and they looked over the snow together.</p><p>“She’s like—she’s like a part of the family, and Ron treats her like this?” He shook his head in disbelief. His mum and dad had raised them better. Ron should’ve known better.</p><p>Fred clapped a hand on George’s shoulder. “Yes, but Ron’s an idiot,” he said cheerfully. “How’s about you and I go and take the mickey out of him?”</p><p>George tilted his head back and took a deep breath. Finally, he looked sideways at Fred. “Couldn’t hurt,” he said, giving Fred a small smile.</p><p>#</p><p>He’d only meant to vanish the sprout that Ron had been peeling, but Ron’s knife had slipped, and it’d cut him. Fred was quick, doing a bit of magic to vanish the cut—and Ron’s thrown knife. But, still. It shouldn’t have happened, and George could admit that.</p><p>But watching the git stand there, looking pleased with himself when they’d confronted him about Lavender…George’s judgement had lapsed, and all he’d wanted was to wipe the smirk off his brother’s face.</p><p>The snow crunched under his boots as he and Fred walked to the perimeter. Fred had suggested they blow some steam off.</p><p>“What is it you want, George?” Fred said, his face serious as he took in the horizon.</p><p>George stilled, took his brother in. Waited for the punchline. But there was none.</p><p>“What d’you mean?” George asked, scratching at the back of his neck.</p><p>“You know—what do you really want? What’s the future look like in an ideal world?” Fred asked, his brows drawn together. The last time Fred had given him this look, they’d spent the summer experimenting with explosives and started a business.</p><p>George let out a long sigh and hooked his hands behind the back of his neck. “I dunno. Merlin, Fred.”</p><p>Fred shook his head. He exhaled, and it was a cloud. “I mean, what would make you happy?”</p><p>George swallowed. The image of everyone grouped around the table at Grimmauld Place last Christmas flashed through his mind. Of them playing in the yard with Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Ron, learning to ride a broom. Of Hermione and Ginny laughing over headless hats. “I guess, I’d like us all to be together again,” he said. Fred’s expression softened.</p><p>He nudged George’s arm. “It’ll happen,” he said. “Speaking of getting together, Angelina and I are paying a friend a visit for the afternoon. Would you like to come?” he asked.</p><p>George shrugged. “Sure.”</p><p>#</p><p>They pulled up in front of the quaint, Muggle house. At least, that’s how it seemed at first. But, there were wards. So many wards. They stepped through them effortlessly, the magic tingling over him. George’s brow wrinkled. Where were they?</p><p>he asked. Fred raised his brows and whistled a Christmas tune as he raised his hand and knocked on the door.</p><p>There was a thumping, like someone racing to the door, and then it cracked open and Hermione appeared, wand aloft. Her eyes widened, but then narrowed.</p><p>“Stop. When did we first meet?” Hermione asked, her tone firm.</p><p>“You banged on our compartment door on the Hogwarts Express,” Fred said.</p><p>“Looking for a toad?” Angelina added.</p><p>“Neville’s toad,” George said quietly. Hermione’s face opened up. Then she squeaked and threw herself into his arms.</p><p>George stumbled back, then righted himself, tightening his arms around her. The hug was quick, but warm and wonderful. He hadn’t seen her in months and months, and he couldn’t help but sneak another look at her as she launched at Angelina next, then Fred. She turned back to him, eyes sparkling. “Come in!” She grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him inside.</p><p>“We’ve come to give you a proper Weasley Christmas,” Angelina said, as they hung their coats on the hooks near entrance. Hermione shut the door, and when she turned to face them, her eyes were watering.</p><p>“It’s been a bit quiet, just Mum and Dad and I,” she said.</p><p>Angelina and Fred took the armchair and the ottoman respectively. And somehow, Hermione and George ended up next to each other on the sofa. Mr. Granger stepped into the room, carrying a tray laden with steaming mugs.</p><p>“Green tea, anyone?” he asked. When his eyes rested on the twins, they lit up. “Fred and George!” he said. “Tell me, how is your father?”</p><p>“Excellent sir, thank you,” George said, accepting a mug. Hermione nudged a coaster on the coffee table towards him, and George tucked his mug onto it. “How are you and yours doing?”</p><p>Mr. Granger’s smile faded a bit. “Well, we’ve been better I suppose. I’ll be far happier after this war business is over.” George nodded.</p><p>“I think we all will, sir,” he said.</p><p>“Oh, enough of this ‘Sir’ nonsense. You all can call me Thomas,” Mr. Granger said, nodding at George. “And what’s your name?” Mr. Granger turned to Angelina, offering a cup.</p><p>Angelina smiled, took it, and replied, “I’m Angelina. I was in Hermione’s house at school. I used to play Chaser on the Quidditch team.”</p><p>“Oh right, with the brooms and all?” Mr. Granger asked. “Hermione said that you all are quite good.”</p><p>“Did she now?” Fred asked, a mischievous smile slipping onto his face. “Tell us, Hermione, who’s your favorite player on the team, now that George and I are gone?”</p><p>Hermione snorted, raised her drink to her lips, and took a long sip. “Ginny,” she said. The room rang with laughter.</p><p>They passed several happy hours that way, playing games of exploding snap, making cookies in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and sharing butterbeers (courtesy of Fred’s bag) next to the fire. The embers were dying when George leaned over, nudging Granger’s elbow. They were both sprawled on the rug, watching the hearth and ignoring Fred and Angelina’s whispered conversation on the armchair.</p><p>“I’m sorry I don’t have a present for you,” George whispered, ducking his head closer to Hermione during a quieter moment. “It’s not a very good Weasley Christmas without something hand knitted.” She looked up, surprise etched on her features.</p><p>As she opened her mouth to reply, a shimmering dog bounded through the window. “Fred. George. Come quick, the Burrow’s under attack,” Ron’s panicked voice boomed through the Grangers’ living room.</p><p>“I’m coming too,” Angelina said, firmly, grabbing Fred’s wrist. Fred nodded, and the two of them blinked out of existence.</p><p>“Me as well,” Hermione said, suddenly, taking hold of George’s arm. George gaped down at her, frozen. Bring Granger into whatever mess they were about to enter? Put his friend in danger? “George, please,” she said, catching the look in his eyes. “I can help. Let me help.” George swallowed.</p><p>“Right,” he said, voice faint. “Stick close to me.” He steeled himself, and thought hard of the spot in the garden, just outside the apparition ward. The world sucked away at his insides, and the two of them popped into existence outside of the Burrow.</p><p>A sudden, deafening roar threatened to split his ears open. Searing heat assaulted their faces, and the two of them stumbled back. Someone was screaming. Fire.</p><p>Hermione’s hand slipped from his wrist.</p><p>The Burrow was burning.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Until Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While the situation seems bleak, hope remains.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone!<br/>This week's chapter came out rather fluffy. I hope you like it! Hold tight, because things are about to get wild. For now, I hope this week's chapter is a bit of solace in this time.</p><p>Thank you so much for taking the time to read, kudos, and comment. Your encouragement means so much to me, and I cry over it more than is probably healthy. &lt;3 </p><p>If you want a cozy song for this fic, Hozier's "Shrike" fits pretty well with the last scene in this chapter.</p><p>I wanted to give you all a heads up that my internet access next week will be spotty. I'm going to try my best to get the chapter uploaded on time, though!</p><p>(As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world.)</p><p>Grab some fluffy socks, a mug of tea, and maybe some crackers or whatever your snack of choice is. Let's dive in. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Nine: Until Morning</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>2003</p><p>Hermione sat on the cold, papered table at St. Mungo’s, watching Healer Marcus scribble on his clipboard. It’d been a week since she woke up in this place, detached from the flow of time around her. She’d hoped that by now, things would have been sorted out. Whether that meant her waking up from the nightmare or having her memories suddenly return, she’d hoped that this struggle wouldn’t be prolonged. Returning for this follow up appointment was shattering that illusion.</p><p>“And you haven’t had any memories return?” Healer Marcus asked. Hermione looked from him to George, who was sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room. George stared down at his folded hands, not moving.</p><p>Hermione’s brow wrinkled. “I—I’m not sure. There was a moment—”</p><p>George’s head lifted, his eyes wide. Hermione tried her best to not let the fear of crushing him stop her response.</p><p>“—when it felt like I might have been about to remember something, but when I tried to dig deeper, it just…vanished.”</p><p>Healer Marcus nodded, made a few more marks. Hermione bit her lip, trying to find the words for her next request. She was stuck, for now. And the wheels of time would start to spin, and she was tired of feeling adrift.</p><p>“I was talking with George this morning, and I think I’d like to return to work,” she said, hesitating over the words. Healer Marcus looked up from the clipboard, and his eyes widened a fraction. Hermione summoned a grin smile. “I need something to work on or I get…jittery.” Healer Marcus took her in slowly, then flipped through her chart. Finally, he nodded.</p><p>“If you feel ready, the routine would probably be helpful. I’d urge you to take things slowly, however,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. Hermione nodded, grounding herself in the connection to the table. There. Now, that wasn’t too difficult.</p><p>The next question would be a bit more prickly. Based on the little reading she’d done in sixth year, before making the decision to obliviate her parents, she knew the probable answer. Things that seemed too good to be true with magic usually were. But, what if her understanding had been wrong? It was such an obvious, logical route to take for recovery.</p><p>She cleared her throat, steeling herself. “I’ve been wondering, would Pensieve help?” she asked. Healer Marcus’s writing slowed. He placed his clipboard on the counter.</p><p>“The mind is a delicate instrument, Mrs. Weasley-Granger.” His voice was patient, warm, and kind, but Hermione bristled anyway. She shouldn’t have asked. “While the Obliviate has been reversed, your mind has experienced significant trauma. By exposing you to your memories through the eyes of others, we risk contaminated your own, lived experience. It’s generally recommended that patients suffering from magical memory loss do their best to let their experiences return naturally.”</p><p>The image of Gilderoy Lockhart in fifth year flashed through her mind.</p><p>“And if they don’t?” Hermione said, carefully keeping her eyes on the piece of abstract art on the wall. The tip of her nose hurt, and her throat constricted. She would not cry. She would not cry in this place. Healer Marcus sighed.</p><p>Across the room, George shifted to a stand. He crossed the floor and eased onto the opposite end of the examination table. Hermione blinked at him. At his ruffled hair, the scarred remnants of his ear, the way that his oxford sleeves were rolled up at his forearms. His left hand was steady at his side, braced against the examination table’s crinkled paper.  His hand was close. Close enough that she could reach out and take it, if she wished. Grab hold of something warm and tangible and real amid this sea of fear.</p><p>But, George deserved better than to be used like that. She didn’t feel those feelings towards him, yet, and sending a mixed signal would be cruel. She looked away.</p><p>Healer Marcus tilted his head, taking them both in. “I don’t think we’re there yet. Do you?” He waited for her response, face open and searching.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip even harder, breathing deeply through her nose. If she made any sudden movements, she would fall apart. “I don’t want to give up,” she said, finally. “I’d just like to consider all of my options.”</p><p>Healer Marcus nodded. “I can refer you to some research materials, if you’d like?” Hermione’s head swiveled upright. Finally. This was something familiar. She could do research.</p><p>“Th-that would be excellent, thank you,” Hermione said.</p><p>“In the meantime, I’d encourage you to do your best to continue with your regular, daily routine,” Healer Marcus said, scratching down a few more lines onto a fresh sheet of parchment. Hermione took the paper from him, gripped it in her fist.</p><p>She could do this. She would do this.</p><p>#</p><p>George waited for her to step up to the floo before following her through it. He was always doing that—stepping lightly, giving her plenty of space. It was as though he was afraid to make contact, lest she burn him. Not that Hermione was complaining. While she’d known George for years, she didn’t really know him as her husband, yet. She didn’t know him in the same way that he knew her.</p><p>She wasn’t sure how’d she feel if he were to close the space between them. The space was a comforting shield between her and the unknown. She stepped from the floo into the living room, surrounded by books. If only she could crack one open and discover how to be married to George. How to be happy again. She ran her thumb over the slip of folded parchment in her fingers. If only she could research their relationship, like she could history and magic and whatever was wrong with her brain.</p><p>The thought struck her like a lightning bolt, but before she had time to comprehend it, the floo roared.</p><p>George’s soft footsteps echoed on the hardwood flooring. With a jolt, she realized that she knew it was him because she could <em>feel</em> it. Like a magnetic pull towards the hearth, tugging in her chest. It was exhilarating—and completely illogical.</p><p>“George,” she said faintly. “Would you—” she paused in her pacing and turned, caught by surprise at his nearness. He was preoccupied, dusting a bit of soot from his coat sleeves. He halted at her words, raising his brows. What had she been about to say?</p><p>“Would I…?” he supplied, still waiting. He was wearing a black peacoat, like the sort that grown up men wore.</p><p>The thought was silly, she supposed. After all, she was a grown up now, too. They all had been, from the moment Voldemort returned, really.</p><p>“I—um,” Hermione tried and failed. He stepped forward, brow wrinkled. He smelled like parchment. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. The image of George laughing, their feet entwined on a sofa by the fire.</p><p>What was that? She stretched out her mind, but the image was gone. Again. As though it had never been there. She tried and tried to pull it back from the depths of her mind, but it was like ramming herself against a steel wall. And just as suddenly as the image had come to her, she forgot that it had been there at all.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was hammering, but she couldn’t imagine why. Her vision swam, and her head spun.</p><p>The room was cold. Had it always been cold?</p><p>“Hermione,” he spoke her name, and it was like a beam of warmth amidst the ice. She stumbled toward it, felt a sturdy, woolen collar beneath her fingers.</p><p>It was like a thaw, first soaking her fingertips, then up to her elbows, then her shoulders. Something warm and solid came around her arms, bracing her. The world came back into focus.</p><p>“Hermione, can you hear me?” his voice was frantic. She was pressed tight against George’s chest as he held her upright. He was warm, and it was as though it spilled out of him and into her, chasing away the cold. His features sharpened, and she blinked.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry. I suddenly felt faint,” she said, stepping back. George kept his hands on her arms, as though afraid to let her go. He guided her back to the sofa, kneeling in front of her.</p><p>“It looked like you were about to,” he said, brow furrowed. “I think we should go back to St. Mungo’s.” The thought of the cold hospital sent a shiver through her.</p><p>“I-I hardly think that’s necessary,” she said. He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued in a rush: “Truly, George. I think I forgot to eat before the appointment. It was rather cold in the lobby, and the floo must’ve upset my balance.” George’s gaze traced over her features.</p><p>“You’ll tell me if it happens again?” he asked. Hermione nodded, even though worry that she was wrong gnawed at her. Surely, she was just being paranoid. She was simply hungry</p><p>“I’m alright,” she repeated. His face relaxed a bit. A few moments passed. The paper crinkled in her fingers. Suddenly, the idea from before rushed back to her.</p><p>“George, I remembered what I was going to say,” she spoke softly, hesitating. George perked up.</p><p>“What is it, Mione?” he asked. His eyes searched over her face, brown and gentle.</p><p>“What’s your favorite color?” she asked. It seemed like the most obvious place to start.</p><p>George’s expression shifted, and something like puzzlement came over his face. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>Hermione ducked her head. “I don’t know.” Her face heated, and she brought her legs to her chest, tucking her arms around them. She peeked at him from over her knees, working up the courage. “I just thought I might study you a bit, along with everything else.” Her voice trailed off.</p><p>The corner of George’s mouth quirked. “Study me?” he sounded faint, but his head cocked to the side, and his eyes sparked with something like amusement.</p><p>“Honestly, George, we live together, and I don’t even know your favorite color,” she said, voice stronger this time. “It’s a bit untoward.”</p><p>“Right, right,” George said, nodding. A slow grin spread across his face. “You want to research me. Sort me out.” Hermione’s ears burned.</p><p>“If you don’t want to—” she started. George held up his hand.</p><p>“Oh no, Granger, I’m quite a willing participant,” he said. “But, I think I should fix you some lunch before we dive into the deep, murky waters of my psyche. Alright?” His voice was singsong as he pushed off his knees and strode to the kitchen. Hermione trailed after him.</p><p>“I can do that, you know,” she said, pulling up a chair at the bar top.</p><p>“I know,” he said, simply. He grinned roguishly at her, then began to pull ingredients from the pantry, whistling. He threw some olive oil in a pan, flicked his wand, and several cloves of garlic floated from the pile, promptly peeling and chopping themself.</p><p>“Now,” he said, levitating a bunch of tomatoes onto the cutting board. “I’m partial to red and gold, but that’s to be expected.” He gestured to his hair, hoisting a large pot from the cupboard to another open burner. He flicked his wand again, water poured from midair into the pot. “I mean, a Gryffindor—and a Weasley for that matter—preferring red and gold? No story there,” he continued, pointing the wand at the pot, which began to boil. He tucked some fettucine into it and turned back to face her. “Purple, now,” he said, grinning at her. “I’ve always liked purple for absolutely no reason at all.”</p><p>George stuck his wand behind his right ear before scooping the garlic from the cutting board and dropping it into the pan. Then, he twisted and snapped his fingers. The fridge door sprang open. A lemon floated out to the cutting board, chopping itself in half. One half toppled onto the cutting board while the other zipped about the room, whirling around Hermione’s head then spinning towards George. He snatched it out of mid-air, squeezing it into the pan with the garlic.</p><p>Finally, he threw a dash of red pepper flake into it.</p><p>It was like watching a grand play put on for her benefit. His magic was airy, light, and exuberant as the dish came together. It was almost intoxicating. With a start, she realized she’d actually begun to smile, despite everything.</p><p>She schooled her expression before asking, “I didn’t know you could cook. When did you learn?”</p><p>“Potions,” he said. Hermione sputtered, imagining Snape bent over a stove. George turned around, flashed her that mischievous grin. “Well, potions and helping Biddy and Mum.” </p><p>He slid a steaming bowl of pasta across the counter towards her, then fixed himself a plate. Hermione took a bite, reveling in the explosion of flavors. How had he done this with so few ingredients?</p><p>“This is good,” she said, and she meant it. “Thank you.”</p><p>George’s face flushed. “Anytime,” he said. “I like cooking for you.” He fidgeted with his fork.</p><p>He snuck glances at her after, while they cleared up the mess, but Hermione pretended not to notice.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione bent over the sturdy, oak table in the Wizarding study room at the British Museum. The secret hall was invisible to muggle eyes, but it resided on the main building’s hidden, top floor. This was one of the closest wizarding libraries to the flat, and thus Hermione had come here first. Wizards and witches could floo in and out through the fireplaces that lined the entrance hall, but the study area was protected by a series of silencing charms cast over the archways that opened the room to the bustle of the arrival stations.</p><p>A page rustled across the room, and the sole, other patron coughed. The place was doubtlessly packed on weekends and evenings, but this was a weekday, and it was early enough in the morning that the study hall was relatively barren. Perfect.</p><p>She peeked over the heavy tome before her. George poured over a leather-bound book, brow creased in concentration. They were here because of her, but that didn’t seem to stop George from trying equally as hard to help her find the information she needed. It’d come over her suddenly this morning—the urge to plunge herself deep into the work life that the other Hermione had tended to.</p><p>She’d walked from her bedroom to the kitchen, announced her intention, and George had seemed quite taken to the idea, eyes alight. After getting Healer Marcus’s approval, she’d proposed taking a trip to the library, and George had insisted on coming along.</p><p>Truth be told, Hermione wasn’t put off by the company. He could more easily reach the top shelves and read the titles of the volumes that she would otherwise have to summon down from their perch. Not to mention he’d snuck in some tea for them both in a large, metallic thermos.</p><p>She peered down at the parchment of notes that she’d been keeping. Three columns greeted her. One read “Magical Memory Loss.” Here were listed the materials suggested by Healer Marcus on their visit. The header of the second column read “Work.” This column held some cursory notes she’d scrawled over the files she needed to review first to better understand the active cases that needed her attention. Finally, the third column read “George.” This column was empty.</p><p>As it turned out, studying people was quite difficult.</p><p>She scrawled out “Likes tea. Good in the kitchen. Kind.” The list was meager and ridiculous. She pinched the bridge of her nose and turned back to the file she’d laid next to the tome. There were some details regarding an idea she’d apparently proposed to the Wizengamot last month.</p><p>“It’s honestly a good idea,” Hermione whispered. George paused, placed his book down. She gestured to the file. “Making seats in Wizengamot an elected position, rather than an appointed or inherited one,” she said. George nodded.</p><p>“Definitely,” he whispered back. “It’s also probably why there’s a massive target on your back.” He quirked his lips wryly, but then his mouth formed a thin line, and his gaze dropped from hers.</p><p>Hermione sighed. The further she dug into her notes, the more she realized that any legislation surrounding magical creatures’ rights, muggleborne protections, and wizarding education were held up by miles of politically entrenched red tape. She’d hoped that after the war, people would be more willing to embrace the changes sorely needed to prevent another one. She could see now that she’d been wrong, to some extent. Wizarding London loved its traditions above all else.</p><p>Then, George leaned in. “Chin up, Granger. It probably means you’re doing something right,” he whispered and turned back to his book.</p><p>Warm tingles spread through her chest. Her ears heated. What was wrong with her? She dove back into the file before her, intent on using it as a shield.</p><p>The rapid click of footsteps and hushed whispers echoed through the archways’ wards. Hermione looked up, annoyance flaring at the interruption. But, when she took in the approaching group, the irritation fled her body.</p><p>Angelina Johnson strode at the front, wrapped in an oversized Holyhead Harpies sweater. Ginny walked behind her, carrying a suspicious looking, bulky backpack. To her left was Fleur, whose stilettos were supplying most of the racket. Finally, in the rear was Luna, whose pale blonde hair was swept back into a glittering headband.</p><p>George paused at Hermione’s gaping, then turned to take in the group. “Looks like the gang’s all here,” he whispered. Hermione’s mind whirred.</p><p>“Make room,” Ginny said, staring down at George. George scooted towards the end of the bench on his side of the table, and Ginny slid in beside him.</p><p>“George sent an owl, and I told the others,” Ginny said, as though that would explain the group of witches now clustered around her.</p><p>“We’ve come to help,” Angelina said, plopping down at the table. Luna took the seat on Hermione’s other side.</p><p>“You look tired, Hermione,” Luna whispered, her voice airy and light. “Are there wrackspurts in here?”</p><p>“You forgot to tell her that we work together,” Fleur said, her French accent lilting as she unpacked her handbag. She pulled a gleaming, gold quill out and laid it perpendicular to the tabletop’s edge.</p><p>“Well, Fleur and I do,” Luna said, eyes sparkling. “We joined up with the agency at the same time as you.”</p><p>“Yes, but Ginny and I get grumpy when we’re left out of the fun,” Angelina said, leaning across the table to nick an animal biscuit from a tin that Ginny had just opened.</p><p>Hermione whirled, looking from face to face until she finally landed on George. He gave her an uncertain-looking smile. “Is this okay?” he mouthed. Hermione nodded, feeling her eyes prick with tears.</p><p>“It’s okay to cry if you missed us,” Luna said, and her arm came around Hermione’s shoulders. “We’ve missed you too.” A small laugh bubbled out of Hermione, but it was mixed with a choked sob. She’d been running through the forests with Ron and Harry for so long, that the idea of sitting in a library, surrounded by friends seemed far too good to be true. And yet, here she was. Here they all were—safe. Alive. Survivors.</p><p>“And we spend time together often?” she said, looking around at each of them.</p><p>Angelina’s face softened. “You can’t get rid of us,” she said, handing a lion shaped biscuit to Hermione. Hermione stared at the treat, trying to formulate a response, but no words would come. She wiped her nose on the hem of her sleeve and settled on giving the other girl a watery smile.</p><p>George stared at her reaction, brow furrowed. “I should’ve invited them over ages ago,” he said softly.</p><p>“Stop beating yourself up, George,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not a good look.”</p><p>Angelina elbowed Ginny. “Your friends understand that this is a difficult time for both of you. We just don’t want you to go through it alone,” she said. George nodded, swallowed.</p><p>“If we’re not careful,” Fleur’s refined whisper cut through the moment, “that angry looking woman is going to throw us out.” Behind the reference desk, a witch with half moon spectacles was glaring pointedly at the group. Fleur lifted her chin and gazed back with a formidable intensity until the other witch busied herself with a stack of parchment.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip and ducked her head back into the volume she had been reading, heartened by the presence of the old friends around her. As the afternoon sped by, more patrons collected at the other tables, and the square patches of sun on the floor grew longer and longer until they started to disappear, one by one. Hermione glanced up to the window and found that dusk had fallen over London.</p><p>Hermione stood and stretched, then gathered as many volumes as she could carry into her arms. “I’ll check these out, then,” she said, then crossed to the help desk. She plunked the stack in front of the elderly wizard waiting there. “Just these, please,” she said. His gleaming, silver name tag read “Styles.” The old man nodded and began to take itinerary of stack in a thick, dusty book.</p><p>Hermione glanced around her to take in the desk. A table of periodicals stood just beside it, and her eyes roamed over the titles. Along with copies of <em>The Daily Prophet</em>, offerings from <em>The Quibbler</em>,<em> The Resonant</em>, and several other papers could be found. Bored, she pulled a copy of <em>The Resonant</em> from the table and unfolded it. It was dated several weeks past, and her brain stuttered as she recognized her name in the subheading below the fold.</p><p>“Obstinate Dissidents Continue to Dismantle Wizarding Culture,” read the title of the article. Hermione scoffed and dropped the paper back in its spot. She was just about to return to the desk when a moving photo on a nearby copy of <em>The Prophet</em> caught her attention. She snatched it up.</p><p>The graphic flashed with the telltale strobe of spellfire, lighting the chambers of the Wizengamot in an eery flicker. Along the sides of the image, witches and wizards of the court clamored over and around each other, rushing to leave the hall. In the center of the photo, a small form lay crumpled on the ground, curls strewn every which way.</p><p>It was her. She was the fallen witch. Her arm was bent awkwardly beneath her, and her wand lay on the ground, yards away. She completely and totally exposed. She gripped the paper, willing herself to rise. To get up. But she remained still.</p><p>Suddenly, a dark, lanky shape vaulted over the partition and crouched in front of her. The man turned to face invisible assailants, stretching out his arms as though to shield her. He raised his wand towards the ceiling, and the bright glow of a protective charm encompassed the pair, illuminating his face.</p><p>It was George. His expression contorted in a shout of distress, his eyes searching the chamber.</p><p>Before she could see what happened next, the image looped. She watched it over and over, but she couldn’t see the attackers. There was no hint at who’d done this. Who’d left her in this state.</p><p>“Can’t check the papers out, I’m ‘fraid,” the old man’s voice interrupted her, and Hermione flushed. She lowered the paper to the table.</p><p>“That’s alright,” she said. “Do you need my library card?” The old man looked at her, his brow furrowed. Then, he threw his head back and laughed.</p><p>“That’s a right good one, Mrs. Weasley-Granger,” he said.</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head in thanks, grabbed the stack, and hurried back to her friends.</p><p>#</p><p>That night, Hermione awoke with her stomach in knots. She grabbed her wand from the bedside table and crept from her room towards the kitchen. A mug of something warm and calming was in order. The flat was dark, and she fumbled around the corner to the living area. She still hadn’t gotten used to the layout of the space.</p><p>“Lumos,” she whispered, and her wand emitted a soft glow. In its light, she could see George’s dark shape, sitting on the floor, bent over the coffee table. She padded forward, taking care to avoid the potions kit that laid open on the ground. A stack of Skiving Snackboxes was heaped on the other side of the table, wrapped in bright, purple twine. She rounded on him. His arms and face rested on the wooden surface, pressed against a wad of bulky, blue fabric.</p><p>Her heart stuttered, picking up pace inside her chest. She gripped her wand tighter. Outside, a wind railed against the side of the flat, and a small gust escaped in through a crack in the window. George’s brow furrowed, and he shuddered, dragging the fabric closer to his chest. Why ever had he left the window open in the dead of winter? Hermione stepped lightly over the accoutrements on the floor, whispered “Muffliato,” and pulled the thick frame until the gap closed.</p><p>Then she turned, ended the silencing charm, and allowed herself to simply look at him. She was always guarding her expression around George these days—something she’d never had to do before.</p><p>But that was back when he’d been Ron’s older brother. A good, true friend, but not…whatever it is they were now. To go unshielded with him was to risk hurting him and causing him even more pain in an already impossible situation. Hermione crossed her arms.</p><p>She wasn’t a fool. She knew he didn’t deserve this. Being with her—he’d said it himself. There was a target on her back, and by extension, his. When the attacker had struck her, George had been thrown into the line of fire as well.</p><p>She’d assumed (perhaps unrightfully) that he’d taken time off work. After all, he’d been constantly available to help her over the last week. Her eyes traveled over the stack of freshly packaged merchandise, the construction materials still cluttering the floor.</p><p>She could see now that perhaps she’d been wrong. Had he been waiting to work until she went to sleep? She wasn’t sure what she had to give to this man who constantly gave so much of himself. Hermione rubbed at her temples.</p><p>George mumbled in his sleep, drawing her from her thoughts. His shoulders tensed, and he hunched over the fabric more tightly. She uncrossed her arms.</p><p>Something about the thought of him, exhausted and sleeping alone in the living room made her chest tighten.</p><p>Despite the closed window, a chill hung in the air. She gazed around the room, searching. There it was. The throw blanket. She summoned it from its place on the corner of the armchair, lifted it, and stepped closer.</p><p>She hesitated, holding her breath, then gently draped it over his shoulders. The lines between his brows eased, and the tense ridge of his shoulders relaxed. She bit her lip. What now? Outside, an owl hooted, as though beckoning her to stay. Hermione flicked her wand, and a fire crackled to life in the hearth. George stirred, but his eyes remained closed, and his breath came deep and slow.</p><p>An unfamiliar calm settled over her, seeping into her bones. She didn’t know what tomorrow might bring. For now, it was time to make peace and simply be. She crept around George and found a comfortable spot across from him, resting her chin on the table. She knew all about waiting for the night to pass.  </p><p>She would keep watch until morning.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Splinched</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Every day, George feels more and more torn in two.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! I hope your Augusts have been warm and lovely. </p><p>Firstly, I just want to say that I ugly cried over the comments last week. THANK YOU. Thank you for taking the time to read, kudos, and/or comment on this silly little fic. I can't believe this started all the way back in May, and now we're here, at 40 thousand words. A very short novel, but novel-length. (That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.) This is my first time writing a fic this long, and I'm so incredibly excited for what's to come, because we're not nearly done with this story yet! Thank you so, so much for going on this journey with me.</p><p>Next: if you like to listen to music with your fic, you might consider "Before You Go," by Lewis Capaldi for this chapter. </p><p>Additionally: As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>Finally: Grab your tea (I'm drinking chai today)/coffee, a thick blanket (fall's right around the corner!), and a warm pair of socks. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter 10: Splinched</strong>
</p><p>George</p><p>December 24, 1996</p><p>The fire rushed at them, roaring, thundering. George couldn’t hear the words Fred was shouting. He could barely make out his mum and Ron in the smoke. Through the haze, Ron stared at them, his eyes working from George to Hermione. His younger brother’s mouth opened, but the house groaned, splintering, threatening to collapse.</p><p>“C’mon, Mate!” Fred yelled in his ear, directing a stream of water from his wand to the blaze. George shook himself free of the shock and joined in, taking a place next to Angelina. It was as though the fire was enchanted to resist them, pulling away from the water and continuing to feed on the house.</p><p>Hermione pulled on his shoulder.</p><p>“Harry’s gone to kill Bellatrix! And—” she coughed, overwhelmed by the ash. “Ginny ran after them.” George froze. The sound around him muted as he comprehended her words. Then he was whirling, rushing into the cornfields. The stalks whipped at his face and arms, but he couldn’t stop to breathe. Every second counted.</p><p>“Ginny! Ginny!” he shouted, whirling around.</p><p>“Harry!” a higher-pitched shout echoed behind him. It was Hermione. She’d come with.</p><p>A dark shape collided with him, knocking him off balance.</p><p>“Expelliarmus!” they roared in unison, but George’s wand flew from his hand.</p><p>“Stupefy!” came another scream, and George was flipped back into the muddy field water.</p><p>His head spun.</p><p>“It’s us, Harry! It’s us!” Hermione’s voice reverberated above his head. He peered through the darkness seeping into his frame of vision. There she stood over him, wand aloft and aglow.</p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>December 25, 1996</p><p>The family ate Christmas dinner in the garden, under the heat of an extended warming charm. The frame of the Burrow had survived the blaze, but rebuilding would be a monumental effort. George and Fred had ducked into Ottery St. Catchpole to grab more food.</p><p>George passed the parsnips, but Ron turned his nose up at the plate as it went by. Ron wouldn’t look at him. Hadn’t made eye contact since the fire. George wasn’t sure which offense he was paying the price for—accidentally nicking Ron’s finger or showing up with Hermione yesterday. Ron had the wrong idea and was acting as though he the right to claim Hermione—as a friend or otherwise. Hermione was her own person, and besides, Ron was seeing Lavender. Nevertheless, George had clearly set him off, and while he’d been plenty rattled with Ron yesterday, now it felt unsettling. The fire had shaken him, and Ron’s frosty demeanor seemed far more disheartening in its aftermath. They’d already lost Percy.</p><p>“The presents, all gone,” Mrs. Weasley said. A choked sob escaped her.</p><p>“Not all!” George sprang to his feet. The table’s occupants turned to look at him eagerly. Fred rounded the house (or rather, what was left of it), hoisting a large, shimmering bag on his back.</p><p>“We kept them in the flat,” he said, shrugging them down to the ground. They tossed the parcels over the table, announcing as they went.</p><p>“A smart suit jacket for Dad,” Fred called, vaulting the tissue-wrapped heap at Mr. Weasley, who caught it and laughed.</p><p>“Extra stretchy in the elbows and shoulders, should you need to make a quick getaway,” George added, winking. He didn’t bother to mention that they’d laced all the products with shield charms.</p><p>“For Mum, we had to go a bit extra,” Fred said, crossing to Mrs. Weasley. He knelt and presented her with a shimmering necklace. Mrs. Weasley’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Oh, boys, that’s too much,” she said, her hands flying up to her mouth. Fred shook his head.</p><p>“Nonsense, woman,” he murmured, helping her secure it behind her neck. George grinned.</p><p>“We find that we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now that we’re washing our own socks,” George said. He pulled a midnight-blue hat from the gift bag and plunked it onto her head.</p><p>“For Bill,” George shouted and chucked a small box containing a new, silver fang earring. Bill fumbled the package, but managed to catch it.</p><p>“And Fleur,” Fred added, tossing another present with a matching, silver pendant inside. Fleur caught the velvet box, and a small smile graced her lips.</p><p>“Help me, Bill?” she said, turning to her fiancé, who eagerly complied. Mrs. Weasley’s mouth became a thin line, but George pushed through the awkward moment.</p><p>“For Ron, we have a deluxe package from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” Fred called, levitating the large parcel from the bag and dropping it into Ron’s lap. “I think you’ll find that it’s got a few things you had your eye on last fall.”</p><p>Ron’s face flushed.</p><p>“You are our brother, after all,” George said, referencing Ron’s plea from August. He let a lopsided grin slip over his features. Ron didn’t look up to acknowledge him, but his younger brother’s fingers traced over the seam of the box. George’s step faltered. Perhaps patching things over would be more complicated.</p><p>Fred’s booming voice pulled his attention back to the others.</p><p>“We’ve got more of the same for Harry,” Fred said, and another crate zipped towards Harry.</p><p>“Hope you don’t mind,” George said, grinning at Harry’s happy expression.</p><p>“And Ginny!” Fred shouted, and the third box drifted towards Ginny.</p><p>“Along with some extra treats for your Pygmy Puff,” George added, placing a satin bag on the crown of her head.</p><p>“Finally, we’ve got some special jumpers for the lot of you,” Fred called. The bag floated over the table and shook itself out. Mrs. Weasley jumped up, crying aloud in surprise. Knitwear drifted from the sack towards each family member. Ginny, Ron, and Harry’s were all colored in the same manner as the Quidditch jumpers, save for the letters emblazoned across the chest.</p><p> </p><p>In the midst of the noise, George dropped to a kneel beside Ginny. “We packed some things for Hermione in there as well,” he murmured, voice low. “You’ll get them to her?” Ginny nodded, eyes bright as she clutched her box. “Her jumper, too,” George said, thrusting a final, tissue-wrapped lump into Ginny’s arms.</p><p>Ginny nodded slowly. Her mouth opened and closed, as though she was going to reply, when a new voice boomed over the garden.</p><p>“You must forgive this intrusion. Percy and I were in the vicinity—working, you know—and he couldn’t resist dropping in and seeing you all,” Scrimgeour said, swinging open the garden’s gate. George whipped his head up. Surely not. Everything seemed to still, and a chill settled over the group.</p><p>The story was as likely as a Snorkack taking up residence in their flat. The nerve of that git to show his face, after everything.</p><p>Percy, who clearly hadn’t wanted to come along, fiddled with his briefcase and avoided making eye contact.</p><p>Scrimgeour turned to Harry. “I see this young man’s finished. Why don’t you walk with me while we give Percy a moment with his family?” The lie was so obvious, George snorted aloud.</p><p>Percy shot him a furious look. George looked to his father, but Mr. Weasley’s face was set into rigid lines. Nevertheless, Harry stood, his shoulders straight. He strode off with the minister, an air of maturity and confidence about him that struck George by surprise. Harry was growing up too fast. They all were. He turned to take in the rest of his family’s reaction—to see if they were truly going to allow Scrimgeour to waltz in to the gathering with such a lousy pretense.</p><p>“Oh Percy!” Mrs. Weasley bawled, taking his brother into her arms. Percy didn’t return the embrace. They were standing in the ashes of their childhood home, and Percy couldn’t even hug his Mum back.</p><p>George vaulted over the table.</p><p>“Sorry, Perce. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. See, this is a family gathering,” he said,  standing ramrod straight, fire crawling over his shoulders. He felt Fred at his side.</p><p>“Unless you have something to say?” Fred added, crossing his arms.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley turned and snapped at them. “Quiet, both of you. That’s all in the past. Percy’s come to celebrate Christmas with us,” she said. “Haven’t you, Percy?” The latter part was added hesitantly. Percy mumbled something inaudible, shaking his head. Mrs. Weasley’s face fell.</p><p>“Terribly sorry to impose on you,” Percy finally said.</p><p>An extended silence followed. A sharp gust of wind howled around the edge of the clearing, lifting ash and snow from beyond the warming charm’s boundaries, twisting the darkened particles through the air.</p><p>“You’re just here to get to Harry,” Ron said, his voice low and dangerous. Percy refused to acknowledge the comment.</p><p>“Tell the truth Perce. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your boss, making you play nice,” George said coldly.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley had busied herself with attempting to fix Percy a plate, but her hands were shaking. George hated it. The prat had no right to turn up and upset her.</p><p>“Or have you come to have another go?” he said. He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ve got it.” He pulled the dish from Mrs. Weasley and took three steps, standing before Percy.</p><p>Percy didn’t move to reach for the plate, only lifted his chin and looked out over the cornfields that they’d run through the night before, without him. Enough. George put his fist into the mashed parsnips, scooping them out, and plastered them across Percy’s face in a slow, defiant swipe. The other boy struggled, ducking, but didn’t manage to avoid it.</p><p>“Oh, wouldn’t you grow up already?” Percy shouted, taking his glasses off and flinging food from them. “This is unbecoming.”</p><p>“Write me up, why don’t you?” George said. He drew in a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to fill his lungs. “Or rather do the work yourself?” His voice broke into a shout. “C’mon, Perce, I’m right here. Have at it! Hit me!”</p><p>A strained silence fell, punctuated only by the sound of Ron’s fork hitting his plate.</p><p>Percy’s face was white, and he stammered.</p><p>George’s chest was tight, heavy, pulling on him. Nothing would ever be the same again. Not really. Not with the war, and Ron’s angry glares, and Percy abandoning the family in favor of ministry gits.</p><p>George stormed from the table, turned on his heel, and welcomed the smothering dark. He apparated back to the flat, alone.</p><p>#</p><p>January 26, 1997</p><p>
  <em>Dear George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope you’re well. This term is proving more difficult. Ginny’s doing excellent on the Quidditch pitch, which I’m sure you’ll be happy to know. Harry’s…under a lot of stress. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wish Hogwarts was closer to London, because we all miss you terribly (and Fred!). How’s Angelina doing? Lee? Harry says to tell Lee that Luna’s taken over for him as commentator. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I meant to write before—thank you for coming to visit me on Christmas. It lifted my spirits a great deal, and it was kind of you to think of me. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly after everything happened. Let me know if you all need a hand with any of the renovations.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We’ve all been in apparition lessons. It’s trickier than I expected! You two always seemed to do it so effortlessly. Meanwhile, I’m always repeating the three D’s—Destination, Determination, and Deliberation, and I still can’t make it into my hoop. Harry figures it’s something you pick up an instinct for. I’m not certain of that. Worse yet, our instructor doesn’t seem terribly worried that no one’s managed to do anything but splinch a few, unfortunate times. (Really, it was ghastly. We’re lucky Susan is alright.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It hardly seems worth the trouble, but I can’t help but fear that someday, I’ll need to do it. If that happens, I want to be able to turn and go without a second worry as to whether I’ll leave a piece of myself behind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What do you think? Is there some kind of secret to this that they aren’t telling us? I’ve checked the books, but the theory seems rather detached from its practical application…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anyway, please do stay safe out there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We all send our love.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your friend,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione Granger</em>
</p><p>January 27, 1997</p><p>“Blood Traitor!” The man swung, and George ducked. The smell of firewhiskey wafted over him. By the looks of it, Delvin Rosier was pissed off his mind and looking for a fight. George hadn’t meant to walk into him on his way out of the shop, but that hardly mattered.</p><p>Rosier wasn’t alone, either. The three blokes beside him looked equally affronted. George whirled, looking for Fred, but his brother hadn’t followed him out of the shop to take in the pavement display. His stomach sank. Whyever had he left his wand inside? This wouldn’t be pretty.</p><p>Rosier yelled, spit flying. A set of arms caught George from behind, holding him. The next blow didn’t miss, hitting him squarely across the jaw. A metallic ringing filled his ears. The follow up came to the ribs, and his breath left his body. He doubled over, gasping. It was like he was someone else, watching this happen to him, only he could also feel it—which was rubbish.</p><p>“Wait—” he choked on the word, but another blow hit him over the back, and the pavement rushed to meet him.</p><p> </p><p>#</p><p>February 2, 1997</p><p>
  <em>To the Highly Esteemed Brightest Witch of Her Age: Hermione Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We’re managing out here, as always. Got into a bit of a scrape last week, but Fred helped me out of it. Blimey—Diagon Alley isn’t what it used to be. Angelina and Fred are brilliant, as always. Lee says that Luna’ll do a better job than “that bloody Hufflepuff,” but I think he’s secretly pleased that you all thought of him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We loved the visit on Christmas. Sorry that our house burning down sort of interrupted it. Any time you need some company, Hermione, send an owl. We’ll come. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mum and Dad are doing just fine, and the renovation project is as well. The family’s all pitched in, and we’ll make it through. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Delighted to hear that our ickle sixth years are finally learning the venerated art of apparition. Truly, Hermione, it’s a matter of finding your center and letting it take you away. When you first start trying, it’s like you don’t know how to tap into that part of your magic. It’ll take time. Don’t tell the others, but Fred and I couldn’t move an inch for ages, and then we splinched loads of times learning. It’s part of how we perfected our Dittany paste.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But, once you get used to the feeling—the spot you’re looking for inside of yourself—it gets much, much easier. Trust me. This is one of those bits of magic that everyone struggles with until they get it right. I know you’ll be brilliant. Keep at it!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We believe in all of you, and miss you all quite fiercely.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your friend,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p> </p><p>March 1, 1997</p><p>Ron laid in the hospital bed, looking pale. George swallowed. He knew that it had been the poison in the wine that had left him in this state, but if it hadn’t been for the product sold on their shelves… The love potion line had been a poor decision. He and Fred had figured it’d be used for a bit of fun, a good prank that would be laughed about by all parties after the fact.</p><p>They hadn’t anticipated the mild formula becoming far more potent after the expiration date, or the way that some wizards and witches may choose to utilize the product. And now Ron was laying in bed, looking a wreck, and it was completely and totally their fault. Their lack of foresight seemed painfully foolish.</p><p>George left Ron’s wrapped gift at the foot of the bed and tucked his and Fred’s newly inked apology card along with it. He’d disengaged the confetti jinx on the present as an additional olive branch.</p><p>They’d already owled a note to Verity, asking her to pull all the love potion products from the shelves. This evening, they’d send out a recall notice and an apology to their mailing list. The mailing list had been Hermione’s idea, and he was grateful for the suggestion, if a little ashamed that they’d need of a way to retrieve a large number of products.</p><p>Hermione sat in a wooden chair at Ron’s bedside, looking over him attentively. George kept waiting for her to say that she’d warned them—that their means of testing products wasn’t foolproof. That they’d acting dangerously, but the reprove never came. Why was he eager for Hermione to scold him? She was a bit preoccupied, it seemed. The tender look on her face sent a sharp pang through him. A rushing filled his ears.</p><p>Ron stirred, mumbling, and his eyes cracked open. George leaned in. “Hermione—” his brother murmured. Hermione’s face turned pink, and a small smile slipped over her lips.</p><p>Guilt slammed through him. He hadn’t spoken with his brother since Ron saw him with Hermione on Christmas Eve. George going behind his brother’s back and reaching out to her seemed to be a betrayal that Ron couldn’t move past. Never mind that it had been in a strictly friendly manner, and that Hermione was his friend too.  </p><p>Despite Ron’s idiocy with women, he clearly had deep feelings for her. Feelings that Ron thought George hadn’t respected. And, judging from Hermione’s gaze, those feelings weren’t one-sided.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>He was clearly panicked about his brother’s close brush with death. These other emotions were simply stirred up by that. He pictured shoving the mess of his panic into a box, thrusting it into a back room.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley re-entered the grouping around Ron, and Hermione rose to give her room at the beside. Ginny and Fred were speaking with Harry, and somehow, Hermione and George ended up together at the pitcher of water on the other side of the room.</p><p>He waited, feeling his heart racket about in his ribcage. She had to know that he hadn’t intended for something like this to happen. A fat wad of difference it’d make, but, still. It was important to him that she know.</p><p>“I really am sorry. All of it—the shop, the jokes—it was supposed to make people happy. Not—” his voice faltered. “This.” He poured her some water, waiting for her response. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.</p><p>Despite that, Hermione still studied him. “Listen, George. The nonsense from that shop has brought smiles to more faces this year than I can count. Were the love potions a terrible call? Yes. But, you know that now, and you’re doing what you can to fix it.” George didn’t respond, just looked down into his water. A frown played at the corners of his mouth. Hermione leaned back against the pitcher’s table. “It’s like my Mum says. You can wallow in your mistakes, or you can learn from them, correct course, and move on. Try to do some good. Which are you going to choose?” Her voice was steady, and she took time over each word, as though choosing them thoughtfully. He raised his head and met her gaze. Her look issued an open, frank challenge.</p><p>“Guess I’ll learn then. Never was much of a wallower,” George said, shrugging. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Brilliant,” she said, pushing back off the table.</p><p>She started back towards the group, but then she paused. Hermione turned back to him, rubbing at her shoulder.</p><p>“I’ve seen the papers. Diagon Alley looks…” She trailed off, looking past the windows, out beyond the walls of Hogwarts. “Please be careful, George. Both of you.”</p><p>At her request, the words slipped out of him. “We will.” He smiled, attempting to lighten the gloom in the air.</p><p>Hermione bit at her lip, crossing her arms and uncrossing them. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve been a bit worried.” George tilted his head, raising his brows. Hermione took a deep breath and stepped towards him before continuing. “Harry told me. What happened between you and Percy at Christmas, that is.”</p><p>He stilled. Harry had told her? Hermione knew what he’d said—how he’d shouted. What must she think of him now? He felt exposed—raw and ugly.</p><p>“Right,” he said, voice faint.</p><p>She looked at him, the light streamed through the glass, pouring over her. “Are you alright, George?” she asked. She stepped forward once more, her brows drawing together. George scratched at the back of his neck. Why was she looking at him like that?</p><p>“I’ll manage,” he said, mustering a wry grin. She saw straight through him, though, and her expression remained unchanged.</p><p>“We have to hold on. For Harry. For Ron. For everyone,” she said. “Don’t lose your hope, George. It’s the most beautiful part of you.” She gave him a small, lopsided smile and tucked her hands into her back pockets. George’s chest constricted, but he smiled.</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it, Granger,” he said.</p><p>#</p><p>March 3, 1997</p><p>George knocked back the rest of his butterbeer. Fred was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong—again. A copy of <em>Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches: Tips for Healthy Communication and a Better Love Life </em>rested on the table.</p><p>“And you want to give this,” Fred said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “to Ron.” He gestured down at the volume in exasperation.</p><p>George shrugged and poured himself another drink.</p><p>“Hermione likes him. He likes her. He’s always mucking things up. Maybe it’ll help,” he said, staring past Fred at the pub wall. The Leaky wasn’t necessarily safe these days, but so long so they left before dark, they’d manage alright.</p><p>“But, we already got him a birthday present, Mate,” Fred said, pulling the glass away from George. George shot him a grumpy look and reached to drag it back.</p><p>“Yeah, and?” George said, taking a long draught.</p><p>“It doesn’t make any sense,” Fred said, tapping a finger against the book’s cover.</p><p>“It makes perfect sense,” George said, staring up at the ceiling, annoyance flaring in him. It wasn’t like Fred to be this thick. “Hermione likes Ron. Ron likes Hermione. I want Hermione to be happy. I want Ron to be happy. That’s not going to happen unless Ron learns how to treat her better.”</p><p>“Oh, shut it, George, we both know there’s more to it,” Fred said, his voice taking on an edge.</p><p>“No, there’s really, truly not,” George said. His voice was even and smooth. Fred pushed back from the table.</p><p>“I’m done talking with you about this. If you want to send Ron that book, do it. But don’t sign my name,” he said, tossing a handful of sickles onto the wooden surface.</p><p>“Aw, come on, Fred,” George protested, setting his drink down.</p><p>“No. Enough. You think you’ve got this whole thing sorted, but you may actually be making things worse. Did you ever think about that?” Fred was giving him the same sort of look that they gave shoplifters. George ears warmed.</p><p>“I-I’ve thought it through, Fred. This is important to me.” He struggled to find the words to express how he felt, but it was hard to do that when he didn’t quite know. And every time he tried to unpack it all, he got horribly anxious—like he couldn’t breathe.</p><p>So, he’d let those boxes lie, undisturbed, separate from the rest of him.</p><p>All he knew was that this would help restore peace. With luck, it would bring his brother and his friend some happiness. That was all he wanted.</p><p>He gulped down the rest of his butterbeer and followed Fred through the door.</p><p>#</p><p>June 15, 1997</p><p>George bent over the caldron. The tile floor was worn beneath his shoes due to the foot traffic between the caldron stand and the charms station. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. They were close. So close.</p><p>The daydream charm swirled, taking to the shield charm. No explosions—yet.</p><p>“Merlin’s pants,” George whispered. His heart thundered in his chest. It’d have to pass rigorous testing before being tried on a human, let alone in the field, but if it worked… He allowed himself a quiet whoop, leaping around the room.</p><p>Binding defensive magic to the legilimency product has always been the goal, but come to find out, doing so was incredibly complicated for a human to carry out—let alone a pre-magicked product.</p><p>But he and Fred weren’t known for giving up. Anything was possible. Even this.</p><p>They’d have to tell the rest of the Order, but they ought to do it together.</p><p>George placed a stasis charm over the vial and tore from the workshop.</p><p>“Fred!” he shouted through the shop. A small group of early-morning customers lifted their heads, and George waved them off. “Fred!”</p><p>“I think he’s gone upstairs. There was an owl?” Verity said as she rang a new purchase into the register.</p><p>“Thanks, Ver,” George said. He dashed through the hidden door and up the stairway. Fred would be so excited, and for good reason. They’d worked for so hard, for so long, with almost no progress.</p><p>He burst through the door.</p><p>Fred stood, shoulders hunched in the living room. A scrap of parchment was crumpled in his hand.</p><p>“Fred—” George started.</p><p>“Dumbledore’s dead.”</p><p>Fred’s voice was soft, but George still stepped back.</p><p>“What?” There’d been a mistake. It was impossible.</p><p>“There was a battle at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore died,” Fred said. The parchment fluttered to the ground. “Mum and Dad are with Bill.”</p><p>Fear, thick and fast, coursed through George. “Bill?” he asked. He sounded shaky, like a much younger version of himself. Not Bill who’d been head boy. Taught him how to light a firework. Bought him his first caldron. Not Bill, who’d put him on his shoulders so he could see the Hogwarts Express when he was too little to make his way through the crowd.</p><p>“He’s been attacked, by a werewolf—” Fred tried to continue, but he couldn’t. He made a strangled, choking sound.</p><p>It was as though he’d moved without thinking. The next moment, he was across the room, stumbling, gripping his brother tight.</p><p>“Bill is strong. Everything will work out,” George said, but the words didn’t carry the reassurance he’d intended. Their luck was stretched too thin. Was this the day that it finally ran out? They didn’t move from that spot for several minutes, until slowly, their grip loosened, and their hands fell to their sides.</p><p>The early morning light poured in through the windows, but the day’s possibilities felt muted and grey.</p><p>“I figure things will be different now,” George said. He felt every hour of sleep he’d missed the night before, all at once.</p><p>Fred exhaled and clamped a hand on George’s shoulder. “Onward, then?” Fred said. He looked tired.</p><p>“With everything we’ve got,” George said.</p><p>Weasleys didn’t give up. It wasn’t in their nature.</p><p>#</p><p>June 21, 1997</p><p>If there was a bright spot in all of this, it was that Fleur had put her foot down, and suddenly she and Mrs. Weasley were getting along swimmingly. Dumbledore’s death had caste an uncertain light over the Order, and petty arguments faded into the background as the group struggled to find their footing.</p><p>The funeral was horribly depressing, though. Percy didn’t show, despite the minister coming. Harry looked more broken than before, if that was even possible, and Hermione didn’t leave his side for a moment the entire time.</p><p>When they came to pick the lot of them up from the Hogwarts Express the next day, Ginny looked sullen. She hadn’t laughed when he stuck a headless hat on her head, and Mum had scolded him when she ran off, crying.  He’d have to find her and figure out what was truly the matter, because this wasn’t like her.</p><p>He sat astride his Cleansweep, overlooking the cornfields and the scarcely rebuilt Burrow. Outside, Order members filtered in and out, peering into the sky with distrust and fear.</p><p>It was as though they expected the Dark Lord to strike at any moment. George supposed that he might. The world seemed a less kind and friendly place than it had just the week before.</p><p>Tonks and Lupin, however, were snogging in the broom cupboard, so that was something. They didn’t know that he’d noticed. He’d simply walked in to grab his old broom for a ride while they waited for Moody’s next directions, and he’d happened upon the pair, wrapped in a tight embrace that made him wish he’d knocked first.</p><p>The setting sun rested over the hillside, and George felt like he might be twelve again, having just made the Quidditch team, running drills with Charlie.</p><p>“Oy! We’re going for a ride!” Fred’s shout came from the front garden. Ginny was mounting her own broom, a look of steel etched on her features. She rose up and took off, clearly venting some of her emotions based on the speed at which she was moving. Ron zoomed out past the group, evidently showing off his faster broom model. Figures. Fred mounted his own broom, then, turning about, he called, “Who’s going to ride with Granger?”</p><p>Ron was too far out to hear the call. Hermione, who’d come to the Burrow after disembarking the Hogwarts Express, was shaking her head, making to move back into the house. She was wearing his old jean jacket, not that she knew it was his.</p><p>Without thinking, George sped towards them, coming to a gentle stop a few meters out.</p><p>“Come on, then. It’s the best way to watch the sunset,” he said. Hermione backed away, lifting her hands.</p><p>“I-I couldn’t. Heights make me queasy,” she said.</p><p>“Then we’ll stay close to the ground,” George said, shrugging. Hermione raised her brows.</p><p>“You? Stay close to the ground? I’ve seen you on that broom, Weasley,” she said. Fred barked out a laugh and kicked off.</p><p>“Honestly, Granger. You can trust me. Merlin’s honor, I will not go more than a few meters upwards—unless you want to,” he added.</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes, hesitating. “I’ll tell your Mum if you break your word,” she muttered.</p><p>“As you should,” George said, giving her a friendly grin.</p><p>“I must be mad,” she said, mounting the broomstick behind him. Her arms came loosely around his chest. A rogue sparkler lit in his ribcage. He loved flying. “Alright—you can go now,” she said.</p><p>Carefully, George rose off the ground, remaining stationary in midair.</p><p>“This alright?” he asked. Hermione looked down, and her embrace tightened around him. He lowered the broom, and they slowly dropped a foot or so, until her grip relaxed.</p><p>“That’s better, yes,” she said.</p><p>“You can tell me if you’re frightened,” he said. “And we’ll stop, straight away.”</p><p>“Alright,” Hermione said quietly. Was she nervous? It was just him. He supposed they hadn’t gone for a broom ride before, but surely Harry had taken her out, or Ron. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t seen her flying outside of mandated school lessons, and even then, she’d seemed rather eager to stay on the ground.</p><p>Gently, George guided them towards the hillside, where they could get a better view of the sky’s colors. The goldcrests in the thicket were calling out to each other in the setting sun. Once atop the hill, George turned his head to look back at her. The evening summer breeze blew through his hair and into hers, pushing her curls back from her forehead.</p><p>“How are you doing, Granger?” He asked. She hadn’t spoken to him yet about the battle, and he knew it had affected her. A piece, perhaps one of the ones locked away inside of him, shouted that he should’ve been there. That he hadn’t been around when it counted.</p><p>“I’m managing,” she said, quirking her lips at him. Then: “Thanks for taking me up here. It’s different than watching from the garden.”</p><p>“Anytime,” George said. He paused, searching for a way to probe for deeper information. “And how you doing elsewise, though?”</p><p>“I’m okay, I suppose,” she said. “Dumbledore said—” she stopped. Took a breath. “I’m alright.”</p><p>“Truly?” George’s voice was soft. She tilted her head up to face him, and he could see the walls come down. The shattered look in her eyes.</p><p>“I’m frightened, George,” she said.</p><p>“Do you want to land?” he asked quietly. She nodded. George turn the handle, guiding his broom down towards the hilltop. They disembarked and took seats among the grass.</p><p>“I don’t think I’m meant for exciting things,” Hermione said, shakily. “Everyone says that danger seems to find us, and I know they’re joking, but it gets rather scary. One wrong move, and—” Hermione trailed off, pulling a handful of grass from the earth. She let it go, and it fluttered down and out into the air. “I always wonder if each time will be the last,” she finished.</p><p>“I understand,” George said, his throat constricting. Hermione looked at him, and a sad smile made its way over her features.</p><p>“I know,” she said. “That’s why I told you.”</p><p>They sat there, sharing the silence and watching the dusk fall until Ginny joined them. Then Fred. Then Ron.</p><p>Hermione rode back on Ron’s broom, pressed against his chest, shouting, then laughing, then shouting again as he went a bit too fast and a bit too high. When they landed outside the Burrow, Fred hung back.</p><p>“I think she had a nice time,” George said. “This was a good idea—taking a family ride.” He still felt fuzzy and odd, but a little bit lighter and warmer than before. Granger had a way of leaving him like this from time to time.</p><p>“Right,” Fred said. His twin scrubbed a hand through his hair. He waved his wand, and a silencing charm fell over the garden. “You should know—they’re leaving.”</p><p>The world seemed to stop spinning, but Fred kept talking. “Ron told me. Wouldn’t tell me what for, but it’s got something to do with Dumbledore, and it’s a secret. So, they’re going. Soon. Before start of next term.”</p><p>George’s world came crashing around his ears, and the rushing amplified, wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t go back into its box.</p><p>He gulped in a breath. Two.</p><p>He shoved the panic away, back to the space where he kept all of the things he wouldn’t confront. The lid wouldn’t quite fit over it, though, and his voice was strained with tension as he answered, “Not surprising.”</p><p>“He asked for our help. He needs us to help him invent a solid reason as to why he wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts,” Fred said, staring into the dark. There was a pause. “It’s alright if you’re not fine, Georgie.”</p><p>George took the cool, night air into his lungs. “Are any of us?”</p><p>Fred didn’t answer.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Thestral</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The sun rose slowly, turning the sky from black to grey to a kaleidoscope. Sometime before the purple shifted to orange, Hermione fell asleep.</p><p>A clatter startled her, and she raised her head, eyes bleary.</p><p>George, hair rumpled and the weave of a jumper embedded on his cheek, was staring at her, eyes wide with what seemed like confusion.</p><p>The moment stretched between the two of them for a small infinity, eyes locked. George’s mouth opened, and his brows knit together, but he didn’t say anything. She should say something. Anything.</p><p>“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Hermione said. George took in a shaky breath.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone!<br/>I hope this week finds you all safe and well. </p><p>As always, I am so grateful for all of you. Thank you for taking the time to read, kudos, and/or comment. You all are so very kind, and writing this for you is bringing a lot of happiness to my days. THANK YOU. &lt;3 </p><p>ALSO: I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. But we all know that.</p><p>Next: If you like songs to go with your reading, Dodie/Tom Walker's "Human" suits the first couple scenes of this chapter.</p><p>Finally: I recommend a pastry with this chapter. Maybe something sweet and fluffy? To drink, you could always do a latte. I downed so many lattes while writing it that I'm now over eager and posting it a bit early. (If you can count almond milk dumped into whatever coffee's in the fridge as a latte.) However, if you're more of a tea person, matcha would do just as well. :) Anyway, I'll stop rambling now. </p><p>Grab your snack, drink, and your coziest blanket. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Eleven: Thestral</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>January 18, 2003</p><p>The sun rose slowly, turning the sky from black to grey to a kaleidoscope. Sometime before the purple shifted to orange, Hermione fell asleep.</p><p>A clatter startled her, and she raised her head, eyes bleary.</p><p>George, hair rumpled and the weave of a jumper embedded on his cheek, was staring at her, eyes wide with what seemed like confusion.</p><p>The moment stretched between the two of them for a small infinity, eyes locked. George’s mouth opened, and his brows knit together, but he didn’t say anything. She should say something. Anything.</p><p>“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Hermione said. George took in a shaky breath.</p><p>Then: “Pardon?” His voice was ragged in the morning, rough with disuse.</p><p>“I was grabbing a drink, and I saw you here, and it didn’t seem right to leave you,” she said. Perhaps stating it simply was best.</p><p>He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and a mark on his arm caught her attention. She could only see the edge of it, white, jagged lines that reminded her of the marks on her own forearm.</p><p>“What’s that?” she pointed. George’s eyes followed her gaze, and then he flinched, ducking his arm back at his side.</p><p>“War scar,” he said, grimacing. “I usually cover it in the morning, but I missed my alarm today, and I guess yesterday’s charm wore off.”</p><p>“From the Battle at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked. Had she been there when it’d happened, like his other scar?</p><p>George was busy, rolling his oxford sleeve down in haste. “No, it was before then,” he said, a pained expression coming over his face.</p><p>“Oh, sorry,” Hermione said, her ears warming. George paused.</p><p>“It’s alright. I just…don’t think this is the right time to talk about it,” he said.</p><p>“That’s fair,” she whispered, feeling as though she’d overstepped her bounds tremendously. Did the other Hermione know what the scar was from?</p><p>“Hold up, now,” George spoke softly and earnestly, leaning forward. “I want to tell you about it. I-I will tell you about it, eventually. But I don’t want it hanging over your head at this moment, with everything else going on. It’s a bit of a scary story. We will talk about it, eventually. Alright?”</p><p>Hermione propped her chin on the tabletop. It was too early in the morning to be interrogating anyone, and besides. It was his scar. He had the right to bring it up when he felt like it. “I trust you,” she said. “You’ll tell me when the time’s right.”</p><p>George swallowed, looking at her with that same, confused expression from earlier. “Right,” he said faintly. “Right, that’s good.”</p><p>“What’s something you can tell me, then?” Hermione tilted her head, taking him in. Her heart stuttered at her boldness, but something about the early morning light and having slept at a table beside him made her feel more entitled to asking him questions. George went very still. Several moments went by, and he sputtered.</p><p>“Merlin, that’s a thousand galleon question, Granger,” he said, shaking his head. “Narrow it down a bit.”</p><p>Hermione drummed the tabletop, letting her mind work over the possibilities. “Why were you working late at night?”</p><p>George sighed. “Got me there. I had some things to finish.”</p><p>“Things that couldn’t be finished during the day?” she asked, prodding at the table’s edge with her thumb. George shifted back from the table and gave her an appraising look.</p><p>“Why the curiosity? Was I being too loud?” he asked. Hermione shook her head.</p><p>“No, not at all. I didn’t even know you were out here until I happened upon you.” She paused, not entirely sure how to proceed. “It’s only that…well, you’ve spent so much time tending to me. I didn’t realize you still had work yourself.” Her ears warmed.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” his voice was soft and insistent, and he was leaning forward, now, his expression open and earnest and gentle.</p><p>“I will worry about it, George, if you’re not taking care of yourself,” Hermione said, pinning him with the same look she’d given Harry and Ron countless times. At this, George scrubbed his hands down his face. She ventured out on a limb, groping through the unfamiliar territory. “I don’t know much about the woman you married, but I’m willing to bet that she would agree with me.”</p><p>From beneath his hands, George made a muffled, nondistinct groaning noise, as though conceding to her point.</p><p>“I know I’m not the same right now, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t care,” Hermione said, faltering. “And besides, if we’re going to make it through this, you can’t be dead from exhaustion. Did you think about that?” She said it softly, reaching across the table to nudge his elbow. She’d meant it as a joke, but the more significant meaning hung in the air. She’d referred to the future as though it was really there, as though this wasn’t a temporary, cosmic mistake.</p><p>George lowered his hands and ducked his head. “You’re not wrong, Granger, but that doesn’t make it any easier.” He gave her a wry smile. “I’ll do my best.” He reached across the table and nudged her back, brushing the fabric of her sleeve. The spot tingled, singing out to the rest of her.</p><p>She reached to touch where his hand had been, then halted. What was she doing? Perhaps this was some sort of sickness she’d picked up in St. Mungo’s. She’d have to look it up. Perhaps tingling warmth was one of the first signs of Dragon Pox.</p><p>Hermione nodded and rose from the floor. His eyes were on her as she returned to her room. The light, airy feeling in her chest remained even after she closed the door.</p><p>#</p><p>The days began to blur together, Hermione working in the study and George doing paperwork and tinkering in the living room. Each night, she listened for the click of the study room door, and the telltale creak of the sleeper sofa being extended before turning out her light.</p><p>Near the end of the second week since her return from the accident, George knocked gently on her door. “Hermione?” he called through the wood paneling.</p><p>“Come in,” she replied. She was still awake, sprawled on top of the duvet, pouring over a psychiatry book from the muggle shop just outside Diagon Alley. Her hair was swept into a messy knot and her ankles stuck out from her pajama bottoms.</p><p>The door cracked open. George’s eyes warmed as he took her in, and a small hint of a smile lit his mouth. Hermione placed a finger in the book to keep her place, and raised her brows, looking up at him expectantly.</p><p>Their eyes met, and George’s face flushed as though he’d been caught with his hand in the till. There was a brief pause, then: “You’ve had an owl.” He tossed an envelop to her. Hermione lifted her wand, and parchment floated to the bedside table. George took a breath. “Right—um, I should also mention that my mum wants to know if we’re coming for Sunday dinner tomorrow.”</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione swung upright, tucking her feet close to her torso. A large gathering sounded both overwhelming, but perhaps it would be good for her to be around other people.</p><p>“We don’t have to—” George rushed to say.</p><p>“Do we usually go to these dinners?” Hermione asked. George nodded, and his brow furrowed as he studied her reaction. “Then alright,” she said.</p><p>“Excellent. That’s-that’s really excellent,” he said, face brightening. He started to close the door, but she called out.</p><p>“George?”</p><p>“Hm?” he stopped and peered back in.</p><p>“Are they like they used to be, or should I dress more formal?” she asked, considering the large closet across the room. George chuckled.</p><p>“You could wear that,” he said, pointing to her pajamas and giving her that familiar, warm look. “—and they’d be chuffed.” Mischief sparked in his eyes, and Hermione found herself swept up in it.</p><p>“Then maybe I will,” she said nonchalantly, pretending to return to her book. Rather than reacting in surprise, George threw his head back and laughed. The rich sound bounced off the walls, setting the room aglow. Hermione peeked up from her book. It was like strange, enchanted music.</p><p>“I’d like to see that, Granger,” he managed. Then, he gave her a final smile and gently closed the door.</p><p>A foreign urge to follow him through it, to make him laugh again, flared inside of her. She flattened her palms against the duvet, debating. If she went after him, what would she say? Nothing came to mind.</p><p>Best not.</p><p>#</p><p>The next day, George whistled through the flat, a loud, cheery tune that struck Hermione as familiar. She stepped from the shower and toweled off, pausing as a particular note rang through the room, echoing all the way from the study. It was that ridiculous war song she’d heard on Potterwatch—the one about her. Figures he knew it.</p><p>Shaking her head, she wrapped her robe around her and opened the cabinet to retrieve her Sleekeazy’s. She’d been living with her hair tied back for weeks, and perhaps today she could wear it down. A change of pace would be nice.</p><p>After ten minutes of fussing, she gave up in a huff.</p><p>“George!” she called, wincing. The whistling stopped, and footsteps echoed down the hall to the bathroom.</p><p>“Alright, Hermione?” his voice came through the door. Hermione swung it open and stared at him flatly.</p><p>“I look like a Grindylow,” she said. George raised his brows and bit down on his lips.</p><p>“No, not at all,” he said lightly. “But that does look a bit different than you usually like it.”</p><p>Hermione glanced at her goopy curls in the mirror. “Well, I should hope so,” she said, incredulous. George breathed out a laugh.</p><p>“I’ve seen you apply that with a warming charm?” he offered. “It’s got something to do with the formula, probably.” He took the package from the counter and examined the ingredients. “Yeah, this will do better with heat; this mixture of tuber essences usually does.”</p><p>Hermione appraised him frankly. “I thought you didn’t have an OWL in Potions?” she asked.</p><p>“No,” George said cheerily, plunking the product back on the sink ledge. “But that’s alright. You’ve got enough OWLS for the both of us.” He shot her a wink and ducked back out through the doorframe.</p><p>Hermione watched after him, and most peculiarly, a quiet, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of her. George was—he was ridiculous. But, she didn’t dislike it. She turned back to the mirror, cast the warming charm, and tried again. This time, the results looked more human.</p><p>As it turned out, finding an outfit was harder than expected. Staring into her wardrobe was overwhelming. She’d mostly been living in the same three jumpers and jeans since arriving from St. Mungos.</p><p>Wearing clothing she didn’t remember buying made her feel uncomfortable—nervous. She flipped through her closet, finally settling on a mixture of old and new that felt right: some faded, high-waisted jeans, a dark purple jumper she’d never worn before, and her oldest jean jacket. The familiar piece settled her. It was only the Weasleys. She’d been there plenty of times.</p><p>But, never as George’s wife.</p><p>She balked at the thought and then hushed it down. This was just dinner. She was strong. She’d defeated a horcrux, and what was dinner compared to that?</p><p>Hermione strode into the living room. At the sound of her entrance on the hardwood floors, George turned. His eyes lit up as they rested on her.</p><p>“Is this alright?” Hermione asked, fidgeting with her sleeve.</p><p>George ducked his head, grinning, and crossed to her. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her collar. Hermione nodded. He straightened it, his hands resting no longer than necessary on her shoulder.</p><p>“There,” he whispered. He smelled like cinnamon, parchment, and something that Hermione could only describe as home.</p><p>Her heart stuttered and lurched. What had that thought been? What was wrong with her?</p><p>“Ready?” George asked, offering his hand. Hermione blinked at it. It was just for the floo, so why did it feel like such a big step? She swallowed and took it. His was the larger of the two, and his palm was a bit rougher than her own, but then his fingers curled softly around hers, and her mind blanked. The feel of his touch sent rogue sparks up her wrist and into her chest, but she didn’t pull away.</p><p>They stepped into the floo, and when George shouted, “The Burrow,” the green flash didn’t off balance her as it often did. They landed on the hearth and were instantly greeted by outcries.</p><p>“Look what the nargles dragged in!” Harry roared, launching over the couch with laughter. He collided with George and Hermione, wrapping his arms around them both. Hermione blinked. She hadn’t seen Harry like this in years.</p><p>The war was over, she reminded herself. The war was over. The sound seemed to return to the room as she pulled back, studying him with wonder.</p><p>“Stop analyzing me, Mione,” he said, taking her face in his hands. “No overthinking tonight, as much as you can help it.” Then he popped a quick kiss on her forehead and stepped away.</p><p>“Merlin’s pants, George, you look horrible,” another voice called. George’s head lifted from watching Harry, and his eyes widened.</p><p>“Charlie?” he cried, leaping towards the shorter, bulkier man. Charlie’s laugh seemed to fill the entire room, drawing in other redheads. Bill and Ron emerged from the kitchen, deep in conversation. Then there was Mr. Weasley, fiddling with what looked like a walkie talkie, and Mrs. Weasley, who had a large bowl propped on her hip. At the same time, Fred was springing up from his spot on the couch, hair rumpled and singed.</p><p>“Nice timing. I was just about to win,” Fred said, crossing his arms.</p><p>Angelina appeared from around the staircase.</p><p>“Alright, Hermione?” she asked, crossing to stand at her side. At Angelina’s greeting, the noise faded, and the Weasleys turned Hermione. She thrust her hands into her jacket pockets and summoned her inner lion.</p><p>“Hello,” Hermione said.</p><p>Charlie let out a low whistle. “The girl who lived,” he said, crossing the now-cramped floor to shake her hand. Hermione tilted her head at his words. “It was a rather close call, there, wasn’t it?” he said, smiling, but he squeezed her hand just a bit before releasing it.</p><p>“No swarming Hermione, you lot!” Ginny’s voice boomed over the room, and the boys stepped back. The woman emerged through the crowd, carrying a small, blue-haired boy who stirred grumpily in her arms. “Teddy’s been missing his Aunt Mione very much,” she said, nodding at the boy. Hermione’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Teddy? Oh, Merlin. It’s Teddy,” she whirled, catching George’s gaze. “George, it’s Teddy.”</p><p>Teddy opened his eyes and pushed his bangs away from his pink, sweaty forehead with a clumsy hand. “Auntie Mione?” he asked, reaching for her. Without a second thought, Hermione took him from Ginny, settling him on her hip.</p><p>“You are getting so, so very big, Teddy,” she said, voice cracking.</p><p>It was like she knew what to do, how to hold him. Like the other Hermione was guiding her, somehow. She reached for the memories behind the instinct, but the steel wall was still there, same as always. So, instead, she simply held him. He was small for his age—if it had really been almost five years since the war, and he tangled his chubby hands in her jumper’s collar, clinging tightly. The room was still.</p><p>“You reckon we should get the others?” Bill asked.</p><p>Hermione’s head lifted. “Others?”</p><p>“Victoire is sleeping in the guest room, but I can get her up for dinner,” Bill said, looking eager. Fred had already bolted from the room.</p><p>George stepped around Charlie, and leaned in towards Hermione, saying, “Victoire is Bill and Fleur’s, and Angelo—”</p><p>“No, no, let her guess!” Fred cried, thundering in from the kitchen, holding a toddler who could be none other than his own aloft. He tucked the child against his hip and crossed to Hermione, breathed heavily and grinning.</p><p>“Is he yours, Fred?” Hermione asked, voice teasing. Fred lit up like a firecracker.</p><p>The toddler’s tight, dusky reddish curls fell around his beige skin as he blinked at Hermione, then reached for his mother beside her. A smile lit his face, illuminating a pair of sweet dimples. She turned to Angelina.</p><p>“Angelo—after you?” she asked.</p><p>Angelina smiled, rolling her eyes at Fred’s eager expression. “It was his idea.” She took Angelo from Fred, hoisting him up against her shoulder. “But, I rather like it now.”</p><p>“And this is my Victoire,” Fleur’s refined voice came from the staircase. Hermione turned. Victoire looked a bit older than Angelo, but not by much, and was taking the steps one at a time, gripping Fleur’s hand tightly. She shared her mother’s pale complexion and white-blonde hair, but rather than her mother’s refined style, Victoire was dressed like a miniature Bill, with a leather vest and arm pads (one of which was missing) to match.</p><p>“Refuses to take it off,” Fleur said sighed as she noticed Hermione’s gaze. “It is his doing.” She looked pointedly at Bill across the room.</p><p>“Kids—wow,” Hermione said feebly, feeling all of the lost time at once. How was it that her friends had children? As though reading Hermione’s overwhelmed tone, Ginny stole Teddy back and called for everyone to follow her to the kitchen to help set the table.</p><p>“Alright?” George murmured from her side. Hermione nodded, watching the group retreat back to the dining area—which appeared to have been magically expanded to fit the family’s larger size.</p><p>“You’re doing great,” George whispered.</p><p>Hermione took a deep breathe. A chime from the wall caught her attention. There, hanging above the table was the Weasley family clock.</p><p>And she was on it.</p><p>The needle of her hand trembled back and forth between “Home” and “Lost.” She looked from the clock to George. He had been watching it too, his mouth a thin line of worry.</p><p>#</p><p>She was quiet through dinner. While the whole experience had been more happy than not, she couldn’t help but be overcome by the changes around her that she hadn’t been around to witness. Big changes. Life changing changes. Harry had taken in Teddy as his own son, and she remembered none of it. And it wasn’t just Harry. Fred, Angelina, and to an extent, Bill and Fleur’s news rattled her. They’d all moved on to this grand, new stage of life, and here she was was—having missed her nineteenth birthday and the last moments of a war that she’d fought in for half of her life.</p><p>Her chest tightened.</p><p>At that exact moment, George reached over her to pass a dish, and his arm brushed hers. It was like a small jolt, bringing her back to herself from the unquiet dark she’d wandered into in her mind.</p><p>Ron’s loud laugh boomed from across the table, and like a flash, the memory filled her. Ron, laughing loudly amidst music and twinkling lights, a sea of people, and George sitting across the way, alone at a table meant for a much larger group, shaking his head as she called out for him to join them.</p><p>“Come dance again, Mione,” Ron’s voice said, then it faded into a rush.</p><p>She gasped. The image fizzled and vanished. The steel doors returned, and she—she couldn’t remember what it had been. Something was wrong. The table quieted, curious stares landing on her. How long had she been staring off into space?</p><p>“Sorry—” she said, sputtering. “I thought I—nevermind.”</p><p>“Did you remember something?” Ron asked. Hermione gaped at him from across the table. How had she forgotten Ron was here? She opened and closed her mouth, struggling for a way to make sense of what she’d just experienced.</p><p>“Hermione will share if and when she feels like it,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice was firm and resolute. “Ron, any word from the ministry?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Ron said, looking at Harry, who shook his head. “But it doesn’t look good. They suspect that my cover’s compromised.” His voice had dropped to a low, frustrated pitch.</p><p>A strained silence fell over the table.</p><p>“Does that mean you’ll be living closer again?” Mrs. Weasley asked, fiddling with her cutlery.</p><p>Ron took a deep breath. “Not sure.” Then he raised his eyes to Mrs. Weasley. “But, that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”</p><p>“We could use him,” Harry said, mouth full of mashed potatoes. “What with the hike in blood supremacy crimes.”</p><p>Hermione’s heart hammered. So, her incident hadn’t been isolated?</p><p>“I heard they had another cursed object at Leaky, and Blevins was found unresponsive?” Mr. Weasley said, looking at Harry. Harry coughed, lifted his tumbler to his mouth, and took a long drink.</p><p>“Sorry, Arthur—can’t really talk about the details yet,” he mumbled. “I’ll let you know when we have public facing information, though.”                                    </p><p>“I reckon you lot could use a hand, yeah,” Ron said, suddenly good natured. He leaned over and elbowed Harry. “It’ll be just like old times—you getting into trouble, me saving you.”</p><p>Hermione choked in surprise on her green beans, coughing.</p><p>Ron stilled.</p><p>“I’m-I’m so sorry,” Hermione said.</p><p>“I’m not saying it wasn’t a team effort!” Ron proclaimed, face reddening. “But, seeing as you’re not an auror, and we are—”</p><p>“No, you’re right, you’re right,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Oy, we can’t all be the Golden Girl,” Ron muttered, shoving another bite of potatoes into his mouth.</p><p>Hermione rested her fork on her plate. “That’s not what I meant, Ron.”</p><p>Ron didn’t answer her.</p><p>“Ron,” she tried again.</p><p>“Ronald, Hermione is speaking to you,” Mrs. Weasley said.</p><p>“What?” Ron turned to Hermione, clearly put out.</p><p>“Watch it, Mate.” George’s warning was low and quiet.</p><p>Hermione pushed through the awkwardness. “I was only surprised, because, well, to me…it was the three of us rather recently. It doesn’t quite feel like old times to me,” she said.</p><p>Ron stared at her for a moment, then jerked his head in a nod.</p><p>The table’s conversation resumed, albeit a bit more solemnly than before. A wave of tiredness hit her, and she found herself struggling to keep up with the conversation. The dull timbre of voices carried in and out, and she leaned forward, propping her head on her arm, blinking heavily.</p><p>“I think Hermione’s getting tired—we should go,” George said, his chair scraping as he rose from the table.</p><p>“I’ve packed you some leftovers,” Mrs. Weasley said, hurrying from the table to the kitchen.</p><p>George started after her to help, and as though drawn to his side, Hermione stood to follow. As she reached the swinging door, she heard Mrs. Weasley’s voice, low and urgent.</p><p>“Any improvement?”</p><p>“It’s been two weeks, Mum,” George answered. He didn’t sound the same as when he’d talked during dinner, or any of the other times when it had been just the two of them. He sounded…tired.</p><p>She pushed through the swinging door and found Mrs. Weasley loading George’s arms with glass containers.</p><p>“You can send these back whenever you’re finished with them,” Mrs. Weasley was saying. She stacked one final dish onto the top of the pile and turned to Hermione. The two witches regarded each other in silence, and then Mrs. Weasley said, “I’m sure Arthur has a bag you can borrow. Why don’t you go ask him, Georgie?”</p><p>George turned to leave the room, and paused, as though waiting for Hermione, but something about the way in which Mrs. Weasley was furiously scrubbing the sink basin made Hermione wave him on.</p><p>“Mrs. Weasley?” she asked. The other woman started, dropping the rag. To Hermione’s surprise, the other woman had tears in her eyes.</p><p>“I’m-I’m sorry, dear. I’m just being silly,” she said, hurrying to pick it back up. “Scourgify just doesn’t get all of it up.” She added, tone light.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Is there something I can do?”</p><p>“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Besides, it’s better for you to rest now, with everything.” It was well-meant, but Hermione was tired of resting. Tired of waiting. Tired of feeling like she was living someone else’s life.</p><p>“Mrs. Weasley, can I ask you something?”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley nodded, leaning back against the sink.</p><p>“Do you think I’m quite different like this?”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley blinked. Then, she rose her arms and wrapped Hermione in a hug, as though that were an answer. And perhaps it was.</p><p>#</p><p>As they trudged to the garden to apparate, the stars twinkled overhead.</p><p>“Hermione!” Fleur sprinted from the Burrow’s door, breathless. “I forgot to ask—would you like for me to take your place on the research trip?”</p><p>The slender woman was silhouetted in the glow from the Burrow’s threshold, which spilled out over the grey landscape. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, awaiting Hermione’s reply.</p><p>“Research trip?” Hermione asked. George had paused beside her, staring up at the sky. His brows were drawn together, as though expecting a storm.</p><p>“For the Magical Beings’ rights to wandlore case?” Fleur asked, advancing towards them. “I owled you about it yesterday.”</p><p>“I must have missed it,” Hermione said, thinking of the forgotten envelop on her bedside table. A pang of guilt shot through her.</p><p>“You are, of course, handling quite a lot,” Fleur said. “I can go to the summit with Ollivander and Luna.”</p><p>“Luna had said that Garrick and her were thinking of delaying it,” George said, finally looking down to Fleur. Fleur crossed her arms.</p><p>“We were going to, yes. But yesterday, Ollivander received word that there’s been activity at the site,” Fleur said. “We don’t know how long the runes will remain undisturbed.”</p><p>George rested his canvas bag on the ground and scrubbed his hands over his face. “What, and he wants the lot of you to rush up the face of Liathach in the dead of winter? Without preparation? Hermione’s barely—”</p><p>“Yes, George, that is why I am volunteering to go in her place,” Fleur said, tone firm.</p><p>“No one’s going in my place,” Hermione said. Her voice sounded lower and more sturdy. Like she was a grown woman and not a child. The thought bolstered her, propelling her forward. George turned, his mouth a thin line.</p><p>“Hermione, please—” he said.</p><p>“No. Unless I’m mistaken, I’ve got the most ancient runes expertise, haven’t I?” Fleur didn’t respond to this. “I’m needed, and this case isn’t going to be held up on my behalf,” she said. “Tell Luna to owl me the details.”</p><p>A loud pop sounded beside her. George vanished. Hermione nodded grimly at Fleur and apparated after him.</p><p>When she emerged from the whirl of darkness onto the floor of the flat’s living room, George was there, pacing, rubbing the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“Right then. I’ve just told Fred that we’ll be skydiving without our wands or a parachute tomorrow, since we’re all jumping into danger for the fun of it,” he said, the words tumbling out of him in rapid succession. Hermione blinked. This was new.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not for fun.” George turned, pressing on his temples, continuing on in his lecture.</p><p>“Nevermind that there’s a hike in crime against mugglebornes, that you were clearly targeted just a few weeks ago, and that they’re likely waiting for their next shot at you—” his voice was laced with tension, and his shoulders were tight. “You’ve decided to scale a dangerous mountain. In a remote area. In the dead of winter. What could possibly go wrong?”</p><p>“George,” she said.</p><p>“I can’t—I can’t—you don’t understand—” he said, burrowing his face into his hands.</p><p>“George Weasley,” Hermione said, a bit more loudly than she needed to.</p><p>George stopped, breathing hard. Something like an accusation hung in his eyes. “It’s Weasley-Granger, Hermione. George—” his voice dropped low and quiet. “Weasley-Granger.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Oh.”</p><p>George dropped onto the sofa, propping his brow in his hands. “Look, obviously, it’s your choice, Hermione.” He looked up at her with bleary eyes. “You decide where you go and why. But, this is a big risk, rather soon after the attack.”</p><p>What was she to say to that? Uncertain, she sat on the chair across from him, waiting. “It has to be me,” she said. George dropped his hands and stared at the London skyline outside of their windows.</p><p>“I know,” he said, voice hoarse. “I trust you.” He paused and bit his lips together. “I suppose I’m used to talking things through together, before we make big decisions.”</p><p>“Honestly, I didn’t think to,” Hermione said. “I-I’m not accustomed to that sort of relationship.”</p><p>George nodded. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s not fair of me to expect that from you right now.”</p><p>The night pressed in around them. “You know what it’s like, watching people go. Feeling powerless. When Fred—” George started, then stopped. “How much of the final battle do you recall?”</p><p>Hermione looked at him through the light of the flickering streetlamps outside. “Not much, but I do remember that,” she said. “We thought he was gone, but then… he wasn’t.”</p><p>George met her eyes, and there was something deep shattered there. Something that maybe hadn’t ever been pieced completely back together after it had broken.</p><p>“I never understood how it happened,” he whispered. “But I know that it’s not likely to happen again.”</p><p>“I know,” Hermione said. “The fragility of it all—” She swallowed. “Sometimes, in the forests with Harry, I thought the fear would rise up and consume me.”</p><p>She took a deep breath and looked fiercely at George. “But, we mustn’t let it.”</p><p>The silence stretched between them as George regarded her.</p><p>“Merlin, you’re more Gryffindor than Godric sometimes,” he whispered. Then he rose, heading to the kitchen. “You’ll need food for the trip. I can handle that. You focus on planning the route and gathering your materials.”</p><p>Hermione scrambled to her feet. “You’re helping?” she asked. She couldn’t quite filter the confusion from her tone.</p><p>George didn’t pause in pulling preserves from the shelves. “I’m here for it all, Hermione. That’s how this works.” He caught her watching and gave her a small smile.</p><p>#</p><p>That night, Hermione opened her journal and stared at the column labelled “George.” She paused, pressing her quill to her lips. Then, she wrote, “Brave.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Sectumsempra</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“We’ve got to go!” Lupin roared, pointing towards a clear path out of the conflict. Something grey and glistening swooped through the corner of George’s vision. It was Kingsley and Hermione’s thestral, swarmed by a group of four black robes riding brooms.<br/>Time slowed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! </p><p>First, as always, thank you for reading and leaving kudos/comments. You all are so motivating and encouraging, and I wish I could reach through the screen and give you a hug. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 Please stay safe and well as we move into September. </p><p>Next: I'm so sorry. This chapter is quite long, and that's primarily because there was quite a lot to fit in. I know that it may be too much for some people to feel comfortable reading in one sitting, and for that I apologize. I tried to leave some good stopping/pausing points in the middle, if you have need of them. &lt;3 (I pinky swear, in  the future, I'll really try to keep it within a reasonable word count.)</p><p>Third: This chapter has a few songs that might pair well with it, if you're the music/fic type. "The Oncoming Storm" by Equinoxe goes well with The Battle of Seven Potters part.  And for the last couple of scenes-- "Wait" by M83 and/or "All I Want" by Kodaline.  (This is super optional--I just wrote these scenes to this music, and I like to listen to things while I read sometimes, so that's why I often give silly suggestions.)</p><p>I do not own the rights to these characters or story world.</p><p>Finally: Grab your drink, a snack, and a warm blanket. Maybe also a loved one or a pet. This chapter's a bit of a ride.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twelve: Sectumsempra</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>George Weasley</em>
</p><p>July 10, 1997</p><p>George lifted his wand tip from Hermione’s temple. A series of translucent wisps followed his movement, casting a flickering, blue light over her face before he filtered the replicated memories into small, glass vials.</p><p>Hermione sat on his workbench, her eyes closed, biting her lips together the way she always did when she was concentrating hard on something. George couldn’t help but smile at her expression. She had jumped at the chance to contribute to this product’s development. Honestly, the project was more for Hermione than any of their customers, but she didn’t have to know that.</p><p>“Beautiful,” George said. “Future Hogwarts students will thank you for your help.”</p><p>“I didn’t believe you at first, when you said you were making a study aide,” Hermione said. “It seems a bit off-brand for your shop.”</p><p>George sorted the glassware, thinking over his answer. “Pranks are only small experiments on the human condition, Granger,” he said. “And isn’t that a form of higher learning?” Hermione snorted, swinging her legs and hopping down.</p><p>“It’s only an experiment if you write down the results,” she said, crossing her arms and looking around the room in interest. The shelf of books on the opposite wall caught her attention, and she wandered over to them.</p><p>“Fiddlesticks,” George murmured. “Years of study, down the drain.” He lifted his apron from his shoulders and settled it back on the hook next to his station.</p><p>“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Hermione said softly, fingers trailing over a thicker volume. She turned to him. “You’ve done a fair bit of research for all of this. Do you know anything about the Obliviate spell?”</p><p>George paused, blinking. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>Hermione pulled the volume down and paged through it, in seemingly feigned interest. “My parents,” she said, and George understood.</p><p>“Do they know?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione replaced the book. “No. They don’t understand how much danger they’re in,” she said, and her voice was so quiet that George could hardly catch her words. He rolled his sleeves up and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Hermione turned and watched his movements, waiting.  </p><p>“That’s tricky,” he said. Hermione turned back around quickly, and George saw her shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly.</p><p>“I’d have never guessed that your backroom was so expansive,” Hermione said, circling the workshop. She was changing the subject. Why? George leaned a palm against the worktable. While  a normal wooden frame would show the wear of countless explosions and experiments gone wrong, all that had been swept away through magic. Furthermore, the quartz surfaces on their worktables were resistant to cracking and fairly impossible to burn. Human beings, however, were not so. Human beings scarred far more easily than they should.</p><p>Hermione peered around the workspace to the racks of storage. Some of the heavy shelves used to stand in their bedroom at the Burrow, holding quidditch supplies, stray jumpers, and Zonko’s merchandise, but now they held mail orders, extra inventory, and materials needed for assembling products. It was a familiar touch that made the workshop seem more like home.</p><p>“I suppose you’ve got to have the space, given everything you do,” she said, walking back to the bookshelf. She looked happy, but she had those dark circles under her eyes again. She had hardly stopped reading all summer; she shed books everywhere she went—the dinner table, the Burrow’s living room. Even now, <em>Secrets of Magical Defense</em> lay tucked beneath her arm, as though she were reluctant to let a moment slip by without cramming an extra bit of information into her brain.</p><p>It was because she was afraid she’d need it—all of it. The fear was ever-present: a simple mistake could stand between them and peril. But for Granger, the baggage was doubled. Her involvement in the Order and the existence of her magic itself could very well bring harm to her family. If the Death Eaters came for them, Mr. and Mrs. Granger would be defenseless. It wouldn’t be clean, and it wouldn’t be quick.</p><p>“I may have a book,” George said. He crossed to her side, reaching over her shoulder to access a volume stacked near the edge of the shelf. <em>A Practical Study of Memory Work</em> was old, but it was well respected, and it had helped them form a number of products. The information wasn’t novel, but perhaps it would be enough to help Hermione keep her parents safe. Hermione turned, and George took in a breath. Her eyes were red, and it looked as though she might cry.</p><p>She flushed and rubbed at her eyes with her palm. “Sorry—” she said, huffing out a laugh. “I’m a bit emotional about all of this.”</p><p>“That’s perfectly alright,” George said. “We deal in the messy here.” He nudged her gently with an elbow, and she gave him a watery smile.</p><p>“I can’t stop thinking—what if they don’t remember me at all—what if something goes wrong, and-and it’s permanent?” Her voice wavered, and she rolled her eyes in frustration at the sound. George studied her. He swallowed, squared off before her, and hesitating, placed his hands on her arms, just below her shoulders.</p><p>“When you love someone, it’s like going on a long journey, right? And that journey leaves marks—like little dents or wrinkles that show how you’ve grown together. Like the scar Fred’s got on his eyebrow—it shows the time he took a Bludger for me during our first match at Hogwarts.” He cleared his throat, searching for the words. “Only, sometimes those marks aren’t on the outside. Sometimes it looks like a way that your personality has shifted—or maybe an interest you’ve found. A lesson you’ve learned. A characteristic you’ve come to admire. Obliviate can’t completely vanish those things, Hermione. It’s not possible. When you come back to your parents—” he paused, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “And you will—even if they don’t remember, you’ll find a way to fit together again.”</p><p>Hermione stared up at him, eyes wide. Then, she threw her arms around him and held tight.</p><p>#</p><p>July 20, 1997</p><p>The hot sun beat down against George’s neck, and he shielded his eyes from its glare. Beside him, Fred looked round before twisting on his heel and apparating to the fields outside of the Burrow. George followed him, feeling the jarring tug in the pit of his stomach. He popped into the cornfield. It was nearly sundown. Tonks had stopped by the shop earlier, murmuring that they’d needed to call an emergency meeting. Apparently, Pius Thicknesse had passed a new decree, making it illegal to apparate, floo, or portkey to or from Harry’s muggle residence. In doing so, he’d outlawed their previous plan for moving Harry to safety. Another big government official acting fishy.</p><p>Only a matter of time, now.</p><p>The threat felt inevitable. The ministry would be overrun, and then who knew what would happen to his dad's job—or their shop, for that matter. It seemed strange to be worried about money in a time like this, but that didn't stop the thoughts from finding him at night.</p><p>Fred and George were arriving a bit late, but they couldn’t leave the caldrons burning while they were out. So, they’d waited until the shop was ready to close, locked up, escorted Verity home, then apparated from a side street near her loft.</p><p>Couldn’t be too careful.</p><p>The library version of the daydream charm was almost complete—George had been toiling over it, trying to make the shelves match those of Hogwarts as closely as he could from photos and memory. Unfortunately, Madam Pince hadn’t answered his owls seeking collaboration, so some of the texts would be blank if opened. There were a good number he’d been able to obtain through memory contributions from himself, Fred, Bill (who’d done quite a lot of studying, preparing to be a curse breaker), and Hermione—who still didn’t know what the project was truly about.</p><p>He hadn’t slept more than four consecutive hours in weeks. But with Harry’s 17<sup>th</sup> coming up…the trio wouldn’t be here for long. He was on an accelerated development schedule.</p><p>“What d’you reckon Angelina’s doing?” Fred asked as they trudged.</p><p>“I dunno, Fred. What do you think?” George said. His arms were weary from training and assembling snackboxes, but he did his best to keep his step light.</p><p>“Probably still angry with me,” Fred said, looking straight forward. “She doesn’t see the sense in keeping our distance, but I know they’re watching us. It’s not safe for her.” George’s face twisted. Fred was right, but that didn’t make it easier to see one his oldest friends so upset.</p><p>“I swear it, once this is over mate, I’m getting hitched myself,” Fred muttered. “Half a mind to do it now, anyway, like Tonks and Lupin did. Elope straightaway, no fuss.” Fred braced his hands against the back of his head before continuing in his rambling. “Unless Angelina wants a proper wedding. I reckon we could get the officiant to stay after Bill and Fleur’s to do a quick, extra ceremony. Do you think Bill would mind?”</p><p>George hummed. “He might.” They were just messing around, but too many of their wildest plans had started as a joke. If they crashed Fleur’s wedding with another wedding, Fred wouldn’t live to see his honeymoon.</p><p>“Double wedding might do Mum in,” Fred said, turning to George and widening his eyes. George laughed.</p><p>The sound boomed eerily over the browning cornstalks.</p><p>There was a silencing charm over the whole property, caste to keep prying ears and eyes away, but George still flinched at the noise.</p><p>“As it is, I doubt Angelina would agree anyways,” Fred said, his voice growing softer.</p><p>“She’ll come around,” George said. “Eventually.” He knew it like he knew the grass was green and that he loved Quidditch. It was a fact. Angelina wasn’t the sort to leave when things got hard.</p><p>They emerged from the fields together, stamping the mud from their feet on the porch.</p><p>Loud voices echoed from inside the Burrow’s walls.</p><p>“Right,” George said, nodding towards the door. “You ready?” He turned to Fred.</p><p>Fred took a deep breath and plastered a smile onto his face. “As ever.”</p><p>They entered the order’s headquarters.</p><p>“We’re home,” they said in unison. Lupin looked up from the table where McGonagall was shouting.</p><p>“Good timing,” he said. At the other end of the table stood Moody, whose arms were crossed over the bulk of his torso.</p><p>“Enough Minerva. We need you at Hogwarts, and if you come along, you risk your position,” he said.</p><p>“Let the position rot!” she spat, her eyes afire. George turned to Fred and rose his brows.</p><p>“Never seen her this angry,” Ron whispered, edging his way between them.</p><p>George slung his arm over Ron’s shoulders. “Lucky you,” he whispered.</p><p>“Mr. Potter’s safety has not been prioritized enough,” McGonagall said.</p><p>“That’s what I’ve said for the past six years,” Mrs. Weasley said, thumping her bread dough on the table for emphasis. Moody took a deep breath.</p><p>“We’re doing our best with what we’ve got. Now, if you’re caught, there’ll be one less body at Hogwarts to protect the other students. Potter wouldn’t want to be rescued at the expense of others—”</p><p>“Which is why he’ll never agree to this plan,” Hermione said, cutting through the chaos. She sat on the sofa, books littered around her, not looking up from the page. Moody growled and turned back to McGonagall.</p><p>“I’m running point, and that’s my final say,” he said. McGonagall’s eyes went molten. George whistled lowly.</p><p>“Careful, Moody. She’s about to hit nuclear, and George and I have never pushed her past catatonic,” Fred said. McGonagall rounded on them, her expression softening.</p><p>“That’s enough from the two of you,” she said. “This is between Mr. Moody and myself.”</p><p>“You think they’ll keep you around if you’ve been seen on an Order mission? We all know the ministry’s going to fall. It’s not a matter of if—it’s when. We’ll be lucky if we make it to September,” Moody said, voice gruff and low.</p><p>“Right-O,” George said, and Hermione lifted her head at his voice. “That’s the type of fighting spirit I like to hear.” He dropped onto the chair opposite the sofa and wiggled his eyebrows at Hermione. She snorted.</p><p>“Suppose Harry doesn’t come willingly?” Lupin said.</p><p>“Then we beat him up and throw him in the boot,” Fred said cheerily.</p><p>“Wouldn’t work,” Moody said. “We’re not taking a ministry car.” George lifted his head. What would they be taking, then?</p><p>“If he objects, I can talk to him,” Hermione said, tone somber. She was bent back over the text on her lap. The comment was made as an aside, but the room stilled to listed to it.</p><p>She didn’t seem to realize the amount of respect that she commanded in the Order. George looked from her to the others. Across the room, Mr. Weasley’s eyes were on the both of them, but he didn’t say a word. George’s face warmed. How long had his father been watching? Why did he feel uncomfortable at the prospect?</p><p>“Do we know who will be coming along?” Tonks said from her place on the staircase. Moody looked around the room.</p><p>“I’ll be taking volunteers,” he said. “Except for you, Minerva.” McGonagall frowned.</p><p>“Fred and I are ready,” George said, before anyone could speak up in their stead. Moody nodded.</p><p>“We can use you,” he said gruffly. “You’ll be separated, though. Is that alright?”</p><p>Fred looked and George. George nodded.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley started beating on the bread dough. Whatever came out of the oven later would be very tough.</p><p>“Me too,” Ron said. Then, “Would you like a glass of water, Hermione?” He’d been doing things like that all summer—slowly taking tips out of the book George’d sent him. Hermione seemed surprised each time.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley threw the dough on the table and left the room, Mr. Weasley following after her.</p><p>“And I trust we can count on you, Hermione?” Lupin said quietly. Hermione lifted her head, her curls shifting around her shoulders.</p><p>“Yes, of course,” she said softly, unflinching. Lupin nodded.</p><p>“So, what is it that we’ll be doing, exactly?” George asked, leaning forward. Fred rounded the couch and sat on the arm opposite from Granger.</p><p>“We’re going to Polyjuice a set of Potters, and each will be assigned a more experienced Order member to act as an escort,” Lupin replied.</p><p>“Like decoys,” George said.</p><p>Lupin nodded. “That’s why you and Fred won’t be paired together.”</p><p>“You sure? George and I are pretty tough,” Fred said. Lupin and Moody shared a look.</p><p>Lupin shook his head. “It’d be a dead giveaway. The Dark Lord knows that the order would never have Potter escorted with someone barely out of Hogwarts—no offense.”</p><p>“A little taken, but that’s alright,” Fred said, shrugging.</p><p>“We want to split any pursuers. Any of the pairings should look equally likely to contain the real Harry Potter,” Lupin said.</p><p>“So, you two, Ronald, and Miss Granger will be some of our Potters. I’ll see about scrounging up some more,” Moody said, turning a sneakoscope over in his hands. “I expect Bill may be up for the task.”</p><p>“Bill can escort me,” Fleur’s soft accent came from the threshold to the kitchen. “If we are to die, I want it to be together.”</p><p>“Cheery. I need a drink,” Fred said, leaping to his feet and shouldering past her.</p><p>“Don’t mind him; he’s a bit touchy today,” George said, looking at the wake his twin had left in his path. “That’s very nice about you and Bill.”</p><p>“I suppose as a curse breaker, Bill’s formidable enough to pass,” Moody said. “But not the rest of you,” he pointed at George, Hermione, and Ron. “You’re all to be paired with us.”</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Now, we need to settle something. Kingsley’s coming along, and it’s likely that he’ll attract a bit more attention than the other order members—being the head of the minister’s security will do that. Obviously, we can’t place the real Potter with him. Whoever goes with him will need to be top of their game.”</p><p>A long pause followed.</p><p>“Well?” Moody asked, his enchanted eye roving back and forth amongst the group. “Who’ll it be?”</p><p>“I don’t—” Ron began.</p><p>“Me,” Hermione said, closing her book. She looked up, and her eyes were lit with the same determination that had carried the lot of them thusfar. “I can do it.”</p><p>#</p><p>July 27, 1997</p><p>There would be seven Potters in the sky tonight, and he was to be one of them.</p><p>George straightened the dark, purple tie around his throat.</p><p>The ministry thought Harry was being moved later in the week, but there was no telling whether the Dark Lord would believe the leaked rumor.</p><p>This could be it.</p><p>He combed his hands through his hair, smoothing it down behind his ears. Tonight, the clock would tremble, and with an impossible amount of luck, they would all find their way back home.</p><p>And if they didn’t—well, so long as Harry made it, that would be alright. As Lupin was always saying, Harry was the best hope they had. Without him, all of this was for nothing.</p><p>With a jolt, Hermione’s face came to his mind, framed by the setting sun atop the hill at the Burrow.</p><p>He winced, inhaled, and held it. Opened the box. Crammed the image deep inside of it. He couldn’t be sidetracked right now. It was natural to feel worried about his family, but for now, he needed to focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep going.</p><p>He repeated the mantra to himself as he exited the flat and mounted his broom beside Fred. His brother was unnaturally quiet. Probably worried about the same things he was. They kicked off together and continued to the rendezvous point.</p><p>The other Order members joined them, one by one emerging from the thick cloud cover. Hermione was one of the final participants to appear, gripping Kingsley’s shoulders as their thestral bounded through the air. Thunder cracked around them, and Hermione’s face contorted, eyes narrowing on the horizon. George took a deep breath and spat the rain from his mouth. No one spoke, straining through the downpour to see the nondescript lot on Privet Drive.</p><p>The arrival was a mess of hugs. Harry, as expected, tried to play the hero. Convincing him was unpleasant, but Hermione made quick work of the task as promised. Before long, the hair was fizzing in Moody’s flask, and then the lot of them were tripping around the room, pulling matching trousers and red shirts onto their seven, identical bodies.</p><p>They lined up outside, and George looked from his father, to Fred, to Ron, to Harry, then finally, to Hermione. He fished an edible dark mark out of his pocket and took a dramatic bite, then winked at the lot of them.</p><p>“Ready?” Lupin said. George mounted his broom, nodding.</p><p>The storm crackled over their heads. Moody gave the signal, and they shot off. As Lupin and George entered the cloud cover, chaos erupted.</p><p>A swarm of black smoke. Death Eaters tore through the rain around them. George tightened his hold on his broom, which was quite slippery in the rain. It was like practicing quidditch in a downpour—that was all this was. Lupin and him ducked, weaving through the spellfire.</p><p>“We’ve got to go!” Lupin roared, pointing towards a clear path out of the conflict. Something grey and glistening swooped through the corner of George’s vision. It was Kingsley and Hermione’s thestral, swarmed by a group of four black robes riding brooms.</p><p>Time slowed.</p><p>The form of Potter—Hermione—gripped Kingsley’s torso. The Death Eater beside her screeched, barreling forward. George stopped breathing. His wand rose, almost of its own accord, and he shot off a Protego charm. The shield shimmered between the Death Eater and Hermione, and the cloaked figure reeled about.</p><p>“Come on!” Lupin shouted, and the sound returned to George’s ears. George leaned forward and sped alongside his former professor. But the momentary diversion had cost them.</p><p>Three hoods flanked them on each side. George shouted out shield charm after shield charm, and Lupin fired off disarming spells, but they couldn’t seem to shake them. The spellfire light seemed monochromatic in the gale, grey strobes interrupted by the occasional, sickening green flash. His head ached, but they had to carry on.</p><p>They were nearing the barrier to the safehouse when he slipped up. The hex came out of nowhere—a strange whistling sound, then he was almost knocked from his broom. His head rang, and his vision swam. Warmth cascaded out over his shoulder.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>Then the pain hit, sharp and formidable. He choked at the strength of it, his hands slipping on his broomstick. Lupin was shouting, a hand grabbing his broom, a ringing drone between his temples that wouldn’t stop.</p><p>Maybe this was it.</p><p>“They’ve found him!” a cold voice cried, and the air was filled with the pops of disapparation.</p><p>“No—” George mumbled. His vision was darkening at the edges. He only had moments.</p><p>“Hold on, George!” Lupin shouted.</p><p>Everything went black, but, George did hold on. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think outside the pain, but he held tight to the familiar, wooden handle—as though it were a train he could ride to the very end of this darkness.</p><p>He didn’t register the feel of solid ground, of Lupin slapping his bloody hand against a teacup, of the air whipping around them, nor of the splash of the water in the cornfields around the Burrow.</p><p>He tried to lift his head as they carried him inside, but every drop of strength had been drained out of him. Everything was a blur, glimpses of coppery hair, Ginny’s voice, Lupin shouting. Harry’s voice—but was it the real Harry?</p><p>“M’alright,” he tried, but his voice was slurred. Where were the others? Where was Hermione?</p><p>There was a glass at his lips, and his mother’s voice telling him to drink. He swallowed, and the world’s swimming slowed. The ringing receded a bit, enough that he could follow the conversation in the room.</p><p>A flash illuminated the windows, and Lupin raced outside.</p><p>“Where are the others, Mum?” George said, wincing at the raw feeling on the side of his head.</p><p>“You’ll lose most of the ear,” she whispered, lifting the mug to his lips again. “But at least you made it out.” George took another gulp, then forced his eyes open again.</p><p>“Mum,” he said, prompting again for an answer. Mrs. Weasley busied herself with the tray she’d brought over.</p><p>She wouldn’t answer the bloody question.</p><p>A clatter sounded on the threshold, and George strained to focus his vision. There, curls wild and eyes afire, stood Hermione.</p><p>“Harry’s outside with Ron. They—” she paused, taking in the scene. “George,” she whispered, and her face paled. She took two steps forward, then halted.</p><p>She was upset. He had to reassure her. Someone had to tell her that he wasn’t bloody dying. It was just a scratch, really.</p><p>George tried to lift his head, but it spun, and he had to close his eyes.</p><p>Maybe a bit more than a scratch, then.</p><p>A smattering of rapid footsteps proceeded the rattle of a wand hitting the coffee table.</p><p>“How you feeling, Georgie?”</p><p>It was Fred. George blinked, wincing.</p><p>“Saint-like,” he whispered. Fred face contorted.</p><p>“What’s wrong with him?” his voice was hoarse. “Is his mind affected?” Clearly, Fred was too upset to recognize a good pun.</p><p>“Saint-like,” George said, putting a bit more emphasis on the word. In a monumental effort, he lifted his hand to point at the gash on his head. It trembled, but he kept it aloft. “I’m holey. I’m holey, Fred, geddit?” Fred let out his breath in a whoosh and stared up at the ceiling.</p><p>“Pathetic,” he said. “Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor, and you go for ‘I’m holey.’”</p><p>“Reckon I’m still better looking than you,” George said. A small snort sounded from across the coffee table. George strained his neck, looking past Fred. Hermione stood there, knuckle pressed to her lips, staring at him with watery eyes.</p><p>“Moody’s dead,” Bill said, and it was as though the howling wind outside had crept in and snuffed out the candles. Another one gone.</p><p>George’s head fell back onto the pillow, and he quietly swore. He hadn’t gotten the chance to thank Moody for everything—the training, helping them develop the shield products. There and gone—that was how it went these days.</p><p>#</p><p>The storm rained down on the Burrow for hours. Most of the Order members had left to return to their respective homes, but the Weasleys, Hermione, and Harry were staying under one roof tonight. It had taken some persuading, but Fred and Mrs. Weasley had left George to rest on the couch hours earlier. The general idea was that the sofa was closer to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom, so they could check on him throughout the night if needed.</p><p>He was a grown man, but if it made his mum rest easier, George didn’t mind.</p><p>The clock chimed twice on the wall, and George grimaced at the sound’s unusually tinny quality. Everything was off—fuzzy and spinny.</p><p>He shifted, and a sharp pang radiated from the side of his head. The curse’s aftereffects were leaving his system in waves—each one bringing a frigid cold and a ringing ache in his skull.</p><p>He shivered, dragging the blanket closer over himself. Every part of his head hurt.</p><p>The stairwell creaked.</p><p>George’s eyes fluttered open, and the dimly lit room seemed to sway. Someone stood before his makeshift bed, a tousled head of curls leaning down towards the sofa.</p><p>The smell of chamomile. George dragged a breath in, letting it sweep over him.</p><p>“Granger,” he said, but his voice was slurred from the potions his mother demanded he take. A soft hand descended on his brow, and warmth washed through him, from his crown to his fingertips. He exhaled, the tension leaving his frame.</p><p>“Merlin, George. You’re burning up,” Hermione said. She stooped closer, and George could just make out the wrinkle between her brows.</p><p>“Am I?” he said. “I feel cold.” He ought to feel more concerned that he sounded half-drunk, but all that came to mind was how happy he was to not be alone. He had to stop himself from leaning into her touch, because it seemed to sweep away the cold and hurt and replace it with something far kinder.</p><p>“Yes, George, that’s how a fever works,” Hermione said, but her voice was laced with concern. George swallowed.</p><p>“I’ll make it,” he mumbled, straining to keep his eyes open. He tried to give her a smile, but the corner of his mouth lifted only the smallest bit. Hermione bit her lips together, looking over the sofa towards the other end of the Burrow, where his parents’ room was located.</p><p>She would leave any moment, he was sure of it. First to go back to her room, and he would be solitary in the pain again.</p><p>But, later, she would leave again and go much, much farther, and that was all the more terrifying. If it came down to it, he knew that Hermione would throw herself between danger and the other two. Every time.</p><p>Ron and Harry would try to do the same, but what if they didn’t see it coming?</p><p>And if that should happen, there would be no more shared desserts late at night, no more sunset broomrides, no more evenings in front of the fire, surrounded by their friends’ laughter. His throat constricted.</p><p>“Will you be leaving very soon?” he asked. He couldn’t help it. He had to know.</p><p>She was staring at him, puzzled, and then her expression shifted. She flicked her wand, and a fire sprang to life in the hearth. “Not till after the wedding,” she said, looking away from him. Then she continued as if he hadn’t asked it, saying, “When I got my wisdom teeth out, I was in pain all week. The only thing that helped was my Mum keeping me company and entertaining me.” As she spoke, she casually adjusted the pillow behind his head. George’s gaze followed her movements, but Granger didn’t make eye contact as she dragged up a chair beside the sofa.</p><p>“Maybe something similar would be helpful here,” she said, sitting in the wingback and propping her feet on the table.</p><p>“Reading can’t fix everything, Granger,” George said, but he didn’t mean it. Already, he sinking back into his pillow, feeling loads better.</p><p>Hermione looked over the cover of her volume, a grin forming on her face. “Shush.”</p><p>She opened her book to the very middle, and began to read aloud, her voice softly reverberating through the crackling fire. Granger’s voice was warm and comforting, and despite understanding nothing about the odd couple she was reading about, George found himself listening along.</p><p>At some point, Hermione shifted from the chair to the floor in front of the sofa, and George could feel the warmth radiating from her torso. It was like a balm to his lungs, and he took in great, deep breaths of it, exhaling out the fear, the loneliness, and the hurt.</p><p>It wasn’t a practical book—not like the ones she’d carried around all summer. This was a tale of a woman named Christie and a man named David, told through scenes in a greenhouse among the snowdrops.</p><p>It felt so very far away from the world outside their door.</p><p>The thought stayed with him as he drifted off.</p><p>#</p><p>August 1, 1997</p><p>George thundered down the Burrow’s stairs, necktie loose around his neck. Guests would be arriving soon outside, but it was still chaos within. He turned the corner a bit fast and tumbled into someone.</p><p>It was Granger, wide-eyed and done up, wearing a dark red dress and curls around her shoulders. Hermione blinked at him. She smelled like chamomile, and but it carried a hint of lavender today.</p><p>“Oh!” he said, because his mind seemed to have gone on holiday. Granger laughed a bit under her breath. Just once, he’d like to know what she laughed to herself about. He’d bet his weight in galleons that it was immeasurably witty, and he hated to miss out on a good joke.</p><p>“Pardon me,” he said, grinning and bowing. Granger snorted.</p><p>“It’s my fault—I seem to be getting in everyone’s way this morning,” her gaze wandered over his shoulder, up the stairs behind him.</p><p>“What makes you say that?” George asked, leaning against the door frame on the landing behind him.</p><p>“Your Aunt Muriel, actually.” Granger said, twisting her hands together. She laughed, a bit more uneasily this time. “She said I had skinny ankles, and then asked what I was doing here, since I’m not family.”</p><p>George huffed.</p><p>“Why, helping of course. And what nonsense—you’re as family as it gets. We couldn’t have made it through this week without you, Granger.”</p><p>At this, Hermione seemed to brighten. Good.</p><p>“I did manage to help Ron and Harry with their neckties. Would you like a hand as well?” she asked, gesturing to his.</p><p>He didn’t have the heart to turn her down.</p><p>“Oh, if you’d like,” he said, the picture of calm. He leaned down a bit, and she reached up, deftly taking the tie into her hands. “That’s rubbish about your ankles, by the by. You like nice, Granger,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. She looped the tie, stepping closer to draw it up to his throat.</p><p>Suddenly, George became very aware of how close they were.</p><p>Perhaps this had been a bad idea. Heat spread up his throat to his cheeks.</p><p>“Hermione,” Fred called from the landing below them. “Ginny’s looking for you.” Hermione patted George’s tie, leaving tingles in her wake before stepping back and hurrying down the stairs.</p><p>“Oh, you’ve got yours done already, I see,” she said as she passed Fred.</p><p>A moment passed, and Fred appeared on George’s landing. He said nothing for a moment. Then: “You know how to tie a necktie.” It wasn’t an accusation. Fred sounded more amused than anything else.</p><p>George shrugged. “Aunt Muriel’s being the same as ever, and she took it out on Granger. I figured she needed something to focus on.” He shook the remnants of the strange, floating feeling from his chest. Weddings made everyone act silly. That’s all it was.</p><p>#</p><p>It was strange, watching Bill get married. It seemed that just yesterday, Bill was slamming his bedroom door, ordering George and Fred to go bother someone else. They’d all grown up quite a lot since then. Except Percy, but George didn’t want to think about Percy.</p><p> The ceremony was sparkling and graceful, and Bill and Fleur looked happy. That was what really mattered, he supposed.</p><p>However, as the vows were said and the shimmering bond of magic settled over the couple, George became more and more aware of the somewhat limited sand in the hourglass, so to speak. Every second which passed by was one fewer moment between now and the time that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would leave the Burrow.</p><p>A row in front of them, Ron looped his arm around Hermione’s chair, then feigned a stretch, bringing it up to rest on her shoulders. Hermione didn’t pull away. George blinked, then stared hard at the officiant. This was the way things were supposed to be.</p><p>Ron would be the Weasley on the journey, and the Weasley with Hermione. What mattered is that they all stuck together, especially with everything else going on.</p><p>Hermione turned her head just slightly and looked at Ron. That line of concentration had returned between her brows. Ron shifted closer, and the line vanished.</p><p>George adjusted the gauze wrapped around his head, firming his jaw. He was only upset because he would miss his friends—and his brother. That’s all it was.</p><p>#</p><p>Music boomed under the tent, and George clapped along as Fleur and Bill circled each other. The song drew to a close, and the dancefloor cleared. Suddenly, a familiar drumbeat thumped over the floor. George turned to Fred, grinning. All of the Weasley children knew this song—it was tradition.</p><p>Without another word, George took Ginny’s elbow and drew her onto the floor. Ginny, who’d been quite sullen all day, rolled her eyes, but followed along, brightening. Fred hopped in beside them, escorting Hermione. The guests closest to the clearing began to clap as George and Fred took their partners’ hands and began to spin them merrily around the space.  </p><p>And then Fred shouted “Trade you!” and Hermione landed against his chest, laughing.</p><p>She sparkled in the candlelight. Merlin, she was magic.</p><p>“Ready?” George asked, breathless. Hermione nodded, grinning.</p><p>“Right then,” George said, and he took her hands in his. They bounded, whirling across the floor, laughing more than dancing, stamping in time to the song. He pulled back and spun her, and her curls flared as she turned. She twirled into him, thudding against his torso, collapsing into giggles. Her face was aglow, nose scrunched, and the laughter poured out of her like a warm sunbeam through a windowpane.  She looked lighter than she had in years.</p><p>Something in him lurched.</p><p>All too soon, the music stopped, and Hermione stepped back, putting a more proper distance between them. She pushed her wild curls out of her face.</p><p>“That was—” she paused, breathing hard. “Really fun. Thank you, George.” George grinned.</p><p>“Listen, before we’re through tonight, I wanted to make sure you got a prototype of the product you helped us develop.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the daydream charm. He swallowed. “It’s-it’s a daydream charm of the Hogwarts Library. Fred and I figured you might like one to carry, what with everything.” Hermione took the box from him, eyes wide.</p><p>“You made the library? Merlin!” she whispered, turning it over in her hands. “That’s incredible.”</p><p>George shrugged. “I expect you’ll be quite busy, but we’d love to know what you think of it, if you have the chance to share with us.” Hermione tucked the box into her small handbag, and thunking sound echoed from inside of it. What else did she have in there? She turned back up to face him.</p><p>“Fred and you are so clever,” she said, smiling. “I expect we’ll be quite busy, but if we have an opportunity to write the two of you—I’ll make sure we will.”</p><p>“Right,” George said, hating the pang that shot through him at her words. “Granger?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>A slow song came on. Ron was making his way across the floor towards them. This wasn’t his song to dance with her.</p><p>“Stay safe,” he said. A hand came down on his shoulder. Ron.</p><p>“Mind if I cut in, George?” Ron said, looking meaningfully at Hermione. Hermione’s face flushed, and she seemed to forget that George was standing there. Another pang shot through him.</p><p>“Of course, you great git,” George said merrily, but his heart wasn’t in the jibe. Ron flashed George a grateful smile. George backed away slowly, watching them sway.</p><p>His chest felt tighter and tighter with each turn the couple took on the floor. He must be ill.</p><p>After the song ended, Hermione returned to Harry’s side, likely making sure he didn’t try to slip off into the night without the two of them. George was musing over what Dumbledore’s last instructions to the trio might’ve been when a translucent, blue lynx leapt through the tent wall, landing in the midst of the crowd.</p><p>Shacklebolt’s voice boomed from its mouth.</p><p>“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Then someone screamed, and bedlam erupted. The old woman at the table beside George’s fell back in her chair, then apparated away with a loud pop. Others began to follow, glass shattering as their dinnerware hit the floor.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>If the apparition ward was down—George turned. Black, furious clouds streaked over the cornfields towards the tent.</p><p>“Ron! Ron!” Hermione screamed. Where was his brother? The Death Eaters zipped through the bodies, some landing, others opting to stay incorporeal. One circled Ron, and George shot off a shield charm. Freed from its threat, Ron stumbled over to Harry and Hermione.</p><p>A Death Eater advanced behind the trio, and George shouted, “Expelliarmus,” shooting a blue bolt of light between Harry and Hermione’s heads. The Death Eater fell back.</p><p>And then it happened.</p><p>Hermione took Harry and Ron’s hands, her face set in determination. Then, she turned, and the three of them vanished.</p><p>George didn’t feel it when the Death Eater clubbed him from behind.</p><p>#</p><p>George opened his eyes. He was in the Burrow’s cellar, tied to an old, half-broken dining chair. The rotted wood of the seat back pressed into his spine. He blinked. His wand lay on a table across the room, surrounded by hooded figures.</p><p>“Good, you’re up. I’ve been bored,” Fred’s drawl came from his side. George turned, wincing at the throbbing in the base of his skull. Fred sat beside him, similarly tied.</p><p>“Quiet!” one of the figures snapped, pointing at him, before turning back to return to the conversation with the others.</p><p>“They’ve dragged everyone down here—Dad thinks they’re taking turns interrogating us,” Fred murmured.</p><p>George’s heart pounded.</p><p>“Just don’t say anything. Clearly, we haven’t got the information they’re looking for, and they’ll go away once they realize that.” Fred was lying through his teeth, but what else was there to do in a time like this.</p><p>“My son said these two were friends with him, at Hogwarts—” a deep voice said. George didn’t recognize it, but he preferred it that way. He didn’t want to think about which of his classmates might’ve betrayed them.</p><p>“All I’m saying is—it’s worth dipping into the reserves for this pair,” the man said. George placed all of his concentration into keeping his breath even.</p><p>“Alright Flint, but it’s on your head if we waste supply,” a lighter voice said. This one struck a cold lance through George’s center. It was that git—Draco Malfoy. Doubtless come to flaunt now that the Dark Lord was in power. George gritted his teeth. The first speaker walked up the cellar stairs, and Malfoy, though shrouded in his robes, paced back and forth while the third and fourth figures leaned against the wall.</p><p>The taller man returned after a few moments, holding two corked vials.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>“Him first,” the figure said, pointing at George. “Looks weaker. We might not have to use it all.”</p><p>George couldn’t help but look at Fred. Fred looked back, eyes round.</p><p>“Hold him,” the man said, and the two stockiest figures advanced. Hands emerged from the robes—the first set pinning his head and shoulders back, taking no care to avoid the gauze. Pain flared across the side of his face, and George grimaced, fighting off the urge to cry out. And then the second pair of hands descended, craning his mouth open, holding George’s jaw in a vice grip.</p><p>They unstoppered the vial and poured it down his throat as he choked and sputtered.</p><p>He tried his hardest not to swallow, but he couldn’t help it, and the liquid seared on the way down.</p><p> “Talk to us about Harry Potter,” The tallest figure said, polishing the now empty vial against his cloak.</p><p>“Barely know him,” George said, but as he replied, the searing sensation spread, locking up his throat, his chest, burning its way into his brain. “I know him, I know him.” He gasped.</p><p>It was veritaserum.</p><p>“Where is he?” The man asked.</p><p>“Haven’t the foggiest,” George’s chest heaved. And suddenly, he was immensely grateful that he truly didn’t know.</p><p>“Told you,” Fred’s voice was bored, but it tremored on the very end.</p><p>“Shut it—” the man said, backhanding Fred. The thud of the movement was followed by silence. George tried to look to see if Fred was alright, but the hands wrenched his face forward again.</p><p>“I know you’re hiding something,” the man said. “I’m not here to hurt you. All I want,” he paused, speaking slowly and softly to George as though he were a very small child. “is for you to tell me what you’re hiding.”</p><p>Light blossomed in his mind, and at that moment, George Weasley didn’t think about Harry Potter, or the secret plans, or even the Order.</p><p>Instead, he thought of carrot cake. A gentle voice, reading by the fire. Glow on a set of bushy curls, and goldcrests calling from the thicket. Shoulders stooped over textbooks, manuals, heavy tomes that she had no business caring about, but somehow did anyway. Her laughter. The smell of chamomile.</p><p>And Godric, it hurt.</p><p>It felt like his organs were being ripped from inside of him, the way the words tore from his throat. “I love her.”</p><p>The man stood, swore.</p><p>“I told you this was a waste of time,” Malfoy’s voice echoed through the cellar, but George could barely register it, for he was still reeling from what had just come spilling out of those tightly packed crates in the back of his mind.</p><p>Malfoy raised his wand, and darkness claimed George.</p><p>#</p><p>This time, when he woke, it was to the sight of his father’s silhouette against the moonlight through the window. His heart beat rapidly, and he couldn’t say why. Something was wrong.</p><p>What had happened?</p><p>“He’s coming to—easy now, George,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“Took a couple of nasty hits, but he’s pretty scrappy,” Fred sounded light and airy, but it wasn’t lining up—not with the looming terror, creeping over his shoulders.</p><p>Mr. Weasley stooped closer. “They’ve gone now. It seems we didn’t have what they wanted. I suspect we’ll be watched, though.”</p><p>His dad looked far older than his years, face pale, deep bags under his eyes. George blinked. What were they talking about? He rose up on his elbows, and then it all came rushing back.</p><p>The wedding.</p><p>The Death Eaters.</p><p>The taste of Veritaserum.</p><p>What had happened.</p><p>And then it made sense—why his breath was coming short and fast. “Need-need some air,” he muttered, twisting and disapparating.</p><p>He didn’t have a location firmly in mind, which was foolish, but his magic seemed to guide him, taking him to the small pond near the back of the property, veiled in trees.</p><p>A popping sound echoed behind him.</p><p>“Go away, Fred,” he shouted. He was a fool. A traitor. How could he do this to his own brother? Ron trusted him. And Hermione—Hermione would feel mortified if she knew.</p><p>“No,” Fred said, probably because he knew. He’d known for ages, prodding at George to notice it, and George had gone along ignoring him, pretending.</p><p>But none of that mattered now.</p><p>George’s throat constricted, and his chest tightened, like his insides were being squeezed together until there was none of him left. A rushing filled his ears. He tried to count, tried to clear his mind—fit everything back into the crates—but it wouldn’t-wouldn’t go.</p><p>Panic.</p><p>Wind swirled and then howled around him, kicking up dead, grimy leaves.</p><p>She was gone. They had gone.</p><p>He couldn’t-he couldn’t-he couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Lightning cracked around him, blinding him in its light, and then darkness fell. The winds whipped at him, tearing his hair back from his brow. He bent, suffocating. His scream was silent over the surface of the pond.</p><p>Perhaps he’d never make a noise again.</p><p> His magic had come unbridled, lashing out in a vortex around him, and he didn’t have the focus to bottle it all back up. He hadn’t lost control of it like this since he was a small boy, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was for Hermione—for everyone—to come home. For Hermione to be happy and safe. But that wasn’t possible.</p><p>“Why?” he shouted. “Why is this happening?” The sobs overwhelmed him. He had never felt so lost.</p><p>There was only the war. The pain. The feeling as though his heart would stop beating from the hopelessness of it all.</p><p>“I’m not leaving you, Georgie!” Fred’s roar found its way through the tempest. Inch by inch, Fred crept, his arm in front of his face to shield himself from the gale.</p><p>And then his arms found George’s middle, and he didn't let go.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Dittany</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Liathach is unforgiving, but Hermione isn't alone.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! <br/>This chapter is a bit early--I wanted to post as a little celebration of Hermione's birthday. &lt;3 </p><p>First: You all are so kind. I cannot believe this fic is passing 60,000 words. It would not be what it is today without you. Your comments are so sweet and encouraging, and I'm so thankful for each and every one of you. </p><p>Please do your best to take care of yourself, stay safe, and stay well. &lt;3 </p><p>Second: We have a smattering of songs for this chapter, if you're the sort who enjoys songs with fic. We've got "Does Your Mother Know" by Abba, "Knife in the Dark," from the LOTR soundtrack for the Liathach adventure, "Love Looks Better" by Alicia Keys for the second to last scene, and then James Blake's cover of "Godspeed" for the last bit.</p><p>Third: As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>Finally: Grab your tea, your snack, and your fuzzy socks. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Lumos</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter 13: Dittany</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>January 27, 2003</p><p>Hermione stood, arms folded, staring down at the bed. The backpack she’d found in the depths of the closet was covered in dust, but it took the extension charm easily enough. Her clothing for the trip was already packed away, close to the bottom of the supplies to cushion the more delicate items.</p><p>Next came the rune texts—great, vast codexes that a reader could get lost in. These were layered between towels and her sleeping bag. Then came the materials for transcription—copying what they found into fresh sheathes of parchment.</p><p>Finally, spread across the duvet were the extras. The things she might need, just in case. They’d be gone for up to two weeks, and the likelihood of being caught in the elements unprepared was unnerving.  It didn’t help that after almost a month at the flat, she still didn’t know how many of her former possessions were available, or what resources that she might have but not recall. So, Hermione stuck to searching out the items she remembered—the ones she understood.</p><p> The faded, red clutch rested on her pillow. Clearly, she’d nearly emptied it out ages ago—she recognized artifacts from the journey cluttered around the flat’s bookcases. But still, perhaps what she needed was kept inside. It had to be falling apart at the seams by now—the thick cardboard softened and torn from repeated use.</p><p>She reached in up to the elbow and felt around. Her fingers closed on nothing but the bag’s silky interior. Drat.</p><p>Hermione let out a sigh. Perhaps she’d thrown it away. That didn’t seem right, though. She tried to remember back, before the gaping veil of lost time that felt like yesterday and ages ago, all at once.</p><p>She wouldn’t have tossed it.</p><p>“George,” she said, backpedaling from the mattress and towards the open door.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>He must be in the workshop, as the sky was dark, and the tills would be closed. He’d been working there more frequently this week. She supposed it was good that he was returning to some semblance of normalcy. She had yet to visit his workspace. Perhaps this was as good an excuse as any.</p><p>Not that she needed an excuse to peer in on him. She had a legitimate question, after all.</p><p>The flat’s floors were noiseless under her socked feet.</p><p>She paused at the door to the stairwell that led to the shop’s back hall, waving her wand. “Accio slippers,” she said. A large, fuzzy pair, fashioned from worn, blue terrycloth tumbled from the study, floating into her outstretched hands. Hermione slipped them on, then blinked. These weren’t hers. They were far too big.</p><p>They were George’s. That was strange.</p><p>Hermione shrugged and proceeded to the stairwell. It was no matter. They’d work just as well for now. She started to regret her choice halfway down the spiral, as she nearly lost the left slipper for the third time.</p><p>She wrapped her robe tighter around her middle and stepped onto the first floor. The hall was dark, but she remembered the workshop door from the handful of visits she’d taken years ago.</p><p>The handle was warm to her touch, and she swung it open soundlessly. Music spilled over her. He sat, hunched at his workbench, leg jogging up and down to the beat of the song playing softly on a player across the room.</p><p>It was an Abba song—one of the sillier ones.</p><p>
  <em>“There’s that look, in your eyes. I can read in your face that your feelings are driving you wild.”</em>
</p><p>A flash—and for a moment, Hermione could see a packed Muggle bar, Angelina and Fred dancing beside her, George grinning and stepping closer with a spark of something undeniably mischievous in his eyes.</p><p>The steel wall came down, and the wisp was gone. Hermione blinked, confused, pulse racing. What had just happened? It was as though she’d been thinking of something, and then it had vanished. This wasn’t the first time she’d felt this way. She placed a pin in the thought, to return to later. Perhaps she should discuss it with Healer Marcus.</p><p>
  <em>“Well I can dance with you, Honey, if you think it’s funny.”</em>
</p><p>Before her, George rolled his shoulders back, bouncing his head to the tempo. His hand came up to mark the beat, before descending back down to the tangle of wiring he was poised over.</p><p>A nervous giggle overcame her.</p><p>George whirled about, gripping the desk. At the sight of her, his face flooded with color.</p><p>“Sorry—you were in the middle of something?” she offered, hiding her smile behind her hand. George crossed his arms and leaned against the tabletop. A moment passed, and Hermione worried she might have actually upset him. But then he began to shake his head, looking her over.</p><p>“Nice slippers,” he said. Hermione started.</p><p>“Do you mind terribly?” she asked. George raised his brows, and a slow, playful smile overtook his face.</p><p>“Not at all.” The words were whimsical, but they carried the whisper of a spark—some deeper fire that Hermione had yet to know.</p><p>
  <em>“Take it easy, take it easy, better slow down girl.”</em>
</p><p>George pulled himself away from the desk, arms still crossed.</p><p>“Do you often dance while you work?” Hermione asked. It wasn’t what she’d come down here to learn, but she couldn’t help it. She felt brave in a bubbly sort of way—so very different from the person she’d grown used to being inside of her skin.</p><p>George hummed, appraising her. A sportive gleam danced in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, shrugging and biting his lips together. But the corners of his mouth turned upwards despite it. He was baiting her.</p><p>Two could play that game.</p><p>“That is why I asked, yes,” Hermione said, lifting her chin and putting on her best prefect face.</p><p>George’s brows came together and he stared down at her in mock thoughtfulness. “I could tell you, I suppose,” he said, nodding, but the lilt in his voice betrayed a hint of amusement. “But there’s no fun in that.” He reached up, gently tugging on one of her stray curls. “No, Granger. If you really want to find out, you’ll have to try to catch me at it.” The spark flared into a bonfire of mirth, and then he ducked out of reach.</p><p>Hermione had blanked in those moments, cogs in her mind turning, trying to keep up with the shifting dynamics between them, but then it all came flooding over her, and she found herself laughing, feeling lighter than she had before venturing down to the workshop.</p><p>“You are outlandish sometimes,” she muttered. “It’s only a simple question.”</p><p>“Yes, but you like a good mystery,” he said, grinning. Before Hermione could comprehend his meaning, he was turning, placing the tangle of wires onto a shelf. “Now, did you come down here to have a laugh and play slipper bandit, or did you need something?”</p><p>Right—packing. She needed to pack.</p><p>“I was packing, and I couldn’t find something,” she said, halting, hating the way the trip seemed to flair up into the room and extinguish the fuzzy, sprightly banter.</p><p>The door swung open, and Fred walked in, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Did you sort it yet?” he asked. Then he stopped, noticing Hermione. “Hey you.” He flashed a grin. “Nice shoes.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Hermione said flatly.</p><p>“What did you need help finding, Hermione?” George’s voice was soft, redirecting her attention to what she’d come downstairs for.</p><p>“Right—um, it’s one of the products you two made. You both gave it to me, just before the war? The daydream charm?” Hermione asked, fiddling with her robe sleeve.</p><p>Fred leaned against the workstation at the far end of the room, chewing. “The pirate one? What d’you need that for?” He took another bite. Hermione’s face heated.</p><p>“Ah—no, the other one,” Hermione said. Fred’s brows drew together.</p><p>“<em>We</em> didn’t give you another one—” Fred was interrupted by the sound of George clearing his throat.</p><p>“I think I know where it is,” he said, nodding towards the door. Hermione followed him out, feeling Fred’s amused stare on their backs.</p><p>“Does Fred not like it when you give away products?” Hermione asked as they entered the flat, biting her lip. Did Fred know that George had given it to her, free of charge? Did Fred think she had paid? She passed through the door to the flat and turned to see if George was upset.</p><p>“What?” George lifted his head, startled. “No, heavens no. That’s not it.” He paused, scratched at the scar of his ear. “He was having a bit of a laugh at our expense.”</p><p>Hermione’s ears warmed. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“There’s—” George paused. “More to that story.”</p><p>Her heart sped within her chest.</p><p>“Am I allowed to know this story?”</p><p>“Of course,” George said.</p><p>Hermione peeked up at him. He was searching her face, a pained expression on his own. Was he afraid of what she might think, should she see his insides? The way he walked around the flat, carefully navigating their every conversation—sometimes it felt like he’d erected a barricade around himself. But when he spoke about his willingness to share with her, it felt as though she’d only have to give the word, and he’d help her over the barrier. What would she find if she jumped inside?</p><p>George hadn’t moved, awaiting her reply.</p><p>Something told her that she would find more there than she could possibly imagine. That leaping would be quite a large decision. That it wasn’t something to be done lightly.</p><p>So, instead, she held her breath. Thought about it. Finally, she had the words.</p><p>“I see,” she said softly. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” She expected that disappointment to flood his features, but it didn’t. Instead, he was watching her, reading her expression as though it were a book.</p><p>“I understand,” George said quietly. “I’ll be here when you are.”</p><p>They had stopped at the bedroom door. George nodded at it. “Last I knew, you had some things tucked into a box. Would you like me to help you look for it?”</p><p>“That would be lovely, thanks,” she said.</p><p>In the closet, George pulled a large, antique jewelry chest from a shelf above the summery dresses, near the back. He didn’t seem to notice the weight, resting it gently on her dresser’s surface. The wooden surface had a swirling vine pattern carved into the front, and its brass handles tugged open front panels, revealing multiple shelves that pulled out. The bottom drawer was deepest, and from this one, George unearthed the daydream charm.</p><p>As suspected, its cardboard sides were soft with use.</p><p>“Does it still work?” Hermione whispered. George tilted his head.</p><p>“Of course—Weasley product guarantee,” he said. Hermione toyed with the edge of the flap, and it slipped. The world around them evaporated into swirls.</p><p>She blinked.</p><p>The Hogwarts library stood around them, fire crackling, candles lit. The place was barren—except for her and George.</p><p>George started, turning.</p><p>“Oh,” he said. “You’ve taken me with you.” Hermione’s breath stuttered. She hadn’t meant to trigger the charm; it had just happened.</p><p>A stirring came from across the room, and Hermione realized they weren’t alone. Not really. It was her, but younger, maybe fifth year. Bent over a text on spell work—she knew the one. George’s younger self entered the library, and her younger self noticed him and rushed over.</p><p>Watching from the side, she saw her face alight, George’s warm, easy grin. The students flickered.</p><p>“Why are we seeing this?” Hermione asked. The real George stood at her elbow, face shuttered.</p><p>“We’re both here, so it drew both memories out, I expect.”</p><p>“Is this when I asked you to help us gather students for D.A.?” Hermione asked. George nodded.</p><p>The conversation between the two students ended, and the other Hermione hesitated, then leaned in, brushing a kiss across the younger George’s cheek.</p><p>That had never happened.</p><p>The George beside her stiffened.</p><p>“I’m sorry—” he said.</p><p>“Don’t be,” Hermione said, voice faint. She turned towards the stacks. The shelves of books were always so comforting, especially when she wasn’t sure of everything else.</p><p>“I was thinking about something similar earlier this evening, and it must’ve sensed it—changed the charm around it,” he said, grinding his heels over his eyes. “I’m tired, and it plucked it right out of me. Bloody—”</p><p>Hermione put her hand on his elbow. “It’s alright, George,” she said. “It really is extraordinary magic.”</p><p>The younger Hermione flitted from the room, and George’s shadow rubbed at his cheek, staring after her.</p><p>George stepped away, and her hand fell from his arm.</p><p>“I think the off switch is hidden in the stacks. Looks like a big, red button,” he said, shifting through tomes on the closest shelf with urgency.</p><p>There was a tight line in his shoulders, an anxious look in his eyes, which were steadfastly fixed on the books around him. She crossed to his side, lifted the cover of the second edition of <em>A History of Magic</em> and hit the shutdown button.</p><p>The Hogwarts library melted away like streaks of rainwater on a windowpane.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“George—”</p><p>“You should pack. You’re pushing off rather early tomorrow, right?” he said, and he turned, ducking from the room.</p><p>#</p><p>January 28, 2003</p><p>The air was crisp, and a terrible cold seeped through Hermione’s jacket. She gripped her wand and muttered a warming charm. It buzzed, staving off the worst of the wind’s bite, but did nothing for the deeper ache already settling into her bones.</p><p>“Ready?” Luna said brightly. Beside her, Ollivander was readjusting his own pack. They stood outside the shop, preparing to portkey to the location. Passerbys streamed around them, some of them stopping and staring. A camera flashed, and Hermione ducked her head.</p><p>“Why is the press here?” Hermione asked, grimacing.</p><p>“They have nothing better to do, I expect,” Ollivander said and shot a withering look to the photographer, who didn’t</p><p>“Hermione! How’s married life treating you? Any memories back yet?” the man cried. Hermione huffed. She’d worn sunglasses to avoid this, but it seemed they weren’t working.</p><p>“We can’t leave until George is done at the till. If I left without saying goodbye,” Hermione trailed off, staring blocky, purple letters that read <em>“Shenanigans for all,” </em>over the front entrance.</p><p>Luna nodded. “Why don’t you go in, and I’ll—”</p><p>“Not running away, are we?” the man called. A blazing fire lit within her. Before she could reply, Luna was waving her wand, and the man tumbled backwards.</p><p>“You’re being unpleasant,” she said, voice mild. “I’ll set the wrackspurts on you if you don’t leave.”</p><p>“Loony Lovegood, you don’t scare me!”</p><p>“Don’t call her that,” Hermione said, snapping at the reporter. Luna tugged on her elbow.</p><p>“Don’t talk to him. He’s from <em>The Resonant</em>. Yelling at him will only give their paper more to print.”</p><p>“Oh, right,” Hermione said, feeling considerably worse.</p><p>“I don’t mind being called Loony,” Luna said. “We wouldn’t be friends if I did.” She gave Hermione one of her notoriously unnerving smiles, and Hermione coughed. “Besides, it’s only the most bitter of people who say things like that.” This last part was added in a louder, lilting tone.</p><p>The shop bell dinged.</p><p>“Oy—I thought I told you to stay away from here!” George’s shout echoed across the street. Hermione looked up. His hair was ruffled by the wind, and he still wore the dark purple Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes apron. He didn’t have a coat or gloves on. Clearly, he was only ducking out to say a quick goodbye.</p><p>Her throat tightened. After last night, she hadn’t been able to catch him alone. She’d hoped to talk some things through, but there hadn’t been a good moment. He’d busied himself all morning, packing her food, then he was bustling about the shop, helping customers.</p><p>She’d worried for a moment that he might not have time to see her off, but that wasn’t like George.</p><p>His gaze landed on hers. He gave her a small smile, crooked smile, but his eyes didn’t crinkle. She crossed to him and stuck her hand out.</p><p>“I’ll come back safe,” she said. “I promise.” It was the only thing seemed normal to say. George took a breath, his eyes flickering over her face, then her offered hand. He didn’t exhale; he just stood there, taking her in. Finally, he grasped her hand, and she could feel the warmth through her mitten.</p><p>“I’ll hold you to it, Granger,” he said. Then he released her, his mouth a firm line. George’s eyes were a storm as she backed away, tracing over her features with unsettling intensity, like he was trying to memorize her.</p><p>Luna held out the brass kettle, and Hermione gripped the handle. But she turned back to face him.</p><p>“I promise,” she mouthed. George’s expression softened, and the cracks in the barricade widened just enough for her to see something real, raw, and vulnerable underneath.</p><p>“The snacks are packed at the bottom of the cooler,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. His ear was red in the wind. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Right,” she said.</p><p>George opened his mouth, hesitating. “Granger, I—”</p><p>The portkey swept them away before he could finish.</p><p>#</p><p>The Liathach was formidable. Its long crest stretched a swath of land that made Hermione’s eyes swim—or maybe that was the sheets of sleet, pelting them from the sky.</p><p>“Which way are we taking?” Hermione shouted in Luna’s ear. Luna pointed up.</p><p>“Can’t go the muggle route—in case we’re seen,” she said. “There’s the cave system, hidden from nonmagical eyes near the summit on that end” she pointed towards a snow-capped crest. “We’ll make camp there and begin the search.”</p><p>“Well, come on, then!” Ollivander shouted before crossing to the base of the rock structure.</p><p>“We’re-we’re not taking the muggle route?” Hermione asked. Her notes for the climb were from the muggle route. Her heart hammered. This was dangerous.</p><p>Luna flicked her wand, and the storm’s downpour seemed to soften around them. “Hermione,” she said. “You can do this.” She offered a slight smile. “Besides, Ollivander knows the way.”</p><p>#</p><p>It was as though the sky around them didn’t want them to be there. Whipping and whaling snow, rain, sleet, and wind upon them. The warming charms weren’t working anymore. Hermione gritted her teeth.</p><p>She thought of George, making tea in the kitchen. It would be warm there, and safe.</p><p>“How much farther?” she screamed. Her voice was going out, barely audible after a full fourteen hours of shouting back and forth over the treacherous terrain. Just barely through the gale, she could make out Ollivander’s arm motioning.</p><p>“What?” she cried out, and the sound broke into a wheeze halfway through the word. In the distance, the mountain rumbled. Louder, louder, like thunder raining down on them. Someone grasped Hermione’s forearm, and she felt the familiar tug at the base of her navel.</p><p>When she popped back into existence, the first thing she heard was Luna. “Protego!” the other girl shouted, and a shimmering, blue barrier stood between the group and the rush of rubble and snow, making its way down the mountain face. Hermione whirled.</p><p>They were in a cave—the mouth of one at least.</p><p>“Saw it just in time,” Ollivander gasped, leaning against the wall. “Wasn’t sure if it was still here, or I would’ve apparated us up straight away.”</p><p>“That was a rather close call,” Hermione said, stomach lurching.</p><p>“Not truly,” Ollivander said. “We could’ve caste protection charms, but it would’ve been a great bore to dig us out from under all the rubbish afterwards.”</p><p>Hermione took in a second shaky breath. “Sorry—it’s just that I promised George that I wouldn’t go and get myself killed, and for a moment there—” she paused. “I’m only being silly, I suppose.” She huffed out a laugh, but it sounded forced.</p><p>She’d never felt guilty about how someone else would feel if she should die. During the war, her parents had been blissfully unaware. Everyone else who mattered was usually fighting alongside of her.</p><p>“George always has been quite protective of you,” Luna said, resting her pack on a flat stone deeper in the cave.</p><p>“He’s mad, though,” Ollivander said. “All that ruckus, coming from that blasted shop.” But then the older man smiled, and Hermione knew that it was meant kindly.</p><p>“George is protective of everyone, though,” Hermione said, resting her own bag beside Luna’s and began to unpack the cooler.</p><p>Luna smiled at Hermione. “Not the way he is with you,” she said simply.</p><p>Before Hermione could think of a reply, Ollivander was building a fire while Luna was affixing a large parchment to the cavern wall with a semi-permanent sticking charm. The paper was a sizeable map, with potential rune sites marked in fine, blue X’s.</p><p>The runes circulated through the cave system. It was part of the magic that kept them safe, and it was also part of the reason why they weren’t certain of how long the expedition would take.</p><p>It’d been difficult, relaying that bit to George. She’d realized that she might be gone far into February, and it seemed unjust when they’d had so little time to sort things out, comparatively. Hermione collapsed beside the fire, watching Luna trace over the mess of tunnels, whispering to herself.</p><p>“It’s a bit of a mark of pride in my trade,” Ollivander was saying. “Having mastered the runes. That’s why no one’s come forward with a transcription for the public. They don’t want to have done all this work and lost the prestige.”</p><p>“What do you think of that?” Hermione asked carefully. It wouldn’t do to anger their guide. Ollivander looked at her through the snapping campfire.</p><p>“I’m getting old, I don’t have any children, and I won’t have everyone going to the Gregorovitch family’s shop after I pass. It’s time.” He sighed, poking the fire. “Besides, I never mastered the runes. My father did. I was a simple apprentice the last time I was here.”</p><p>“What was it like?” Hermione asked, picking at her bootlace.</p><p>Ollivander stared out the mouth of cave at the terrible storm. “Different,” he whispered.</p><p>#</p><p>February 2, 2003</p><p>They’d been circling this arm of corridors for days, coming back to the same larger room each time. Hermione wiped her nose on her sleeve. In all the cold, it felt numb, and it wouldn’t stop perpetually dripping.</p><p>“It’s testing us,” Luna said. Her tone was the same light, airy lilt from their youth, but her face was set into deeper, determined lines. “It wants us to give up.” She touched the cavern wall with a fingertip. She looked back at Hermione, at the sweat, the grime, the light-starved eyes. “We won’t.”</p><p>She hadn’t given up with Harry, and she wouldn’t give up here. Hermione nodded.</p><p>#</p><p>February 4, 2003</p><p>Hermione blinked in the gale. In the middle of their dinner, the cavern had suddenly shifted, spitting them onto the rocky face, exposed to the elements. Her wand was gone—still tucked inside her bag. Her bag that was inside the closed, rocky surface.</p><p>“My map!” Luna pounded the side of the mountain, crying out in frustration. Hermione had never seen Luna lose her patience. The whole journey, she’d been quiet, dignified, and a little strange—the Luna that Hermione knew. But this was new. Luna had been studying the map, the copious markings she’d made on it as they ventured through the system of caverns, ducking below low hanging, icy rocks, scraping through small spaces. Finding themselves at dead ends. She’d been studying it against the wall when the shift occurred.</p><p>“I don’t think it wants us to have a map, Luna,” Hermione said, facing the mountain.</p><p>Luna placed her palms on her cheeks and stared hard, unblinking at the rocks. Then, with trembling hands, she peeled off her mittens and pressed her bared fingers to the stone.</p><p>“Let. Me. In.” She said, her voice low and dangerous. The mountain groaned, and that familiar rumbling started in the distance.</p><p>“Something’s not right,” Ollivander said. Luna didn’t flinch. Instead, she sat in the snow, pressing her palms closer to the stone.</p><p>“Luna—We’ve got to move—” Hermione shouted. She pressed her back against the mountain’s face. Any moment now, the rubble would hail down on them, and she’d be swept away.</p><p>Buried and lost to the elements, gone far, far away, and George wouldn’t be able to find her.</p><p>“Not yet,” Luna said. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the rock. Her voice became soft again. “I can play tricks too.”</p><p>The snow hurtled towards them, and the sky flashed. Suddenly, they were back in the cavern, as they’d been before the tunnels shifted.</p><p>“How did you—” Hermione struggled. Luna rose.</p><p>“It was an illusion,” she said. “I realized—I’d never be able to hear you if we were really out in that storm.” Luna looked at Ollivander. Ollivander smiled and tapped the side of his nose.</p><p>“Good thinking,” he said. “Let’s keep our wits about us, now.”</p><p>Hermione’s throat tightened. She should’ve noticed that, but she’d been too frightened to think straight.</p><p>#</p><p>February 8, 2003</p><p>Over the past several days, every time they made camp, an eerie scratching noise echoed up and down the damp cave walls. But now, the scratching sound persisted into the daylight. Hermione didn’t want to stay to find out what it was.</p><p>They’d traversed the craggles deep within the mountain. If Luna’s map was to be believed, soon, they’d be nearing the other side.  </p><p>After finishing with her frigid Augumenti shower, she packed up her sleeping bag and stared into the cooler. It had freezing charms on it to keep everything fresh (not that they’d need that, what with how terribly cold it was). The food would run low soon. So far, bringing provisions was about the only helpful thing she’d managed to do.</p><p>She thought she’d be an asset on this research trip. What a joke she’d turned out to be.</p><p>The longer the journey went on, the more worried she became that Ollivander’s informants had been mistaken—that the runes hadn’t just been disturbed. That they’d been obliterated. There was no way to tell for certain without scaling every inch of the caverns.</p><p>All of this might have been for nothing.</p><p>And she was so cold. So tired. The fires had stopped providing any heat several days back, as though the place’s magic was trying to freeze them out. According to Luna, they’d been in talks with multiple magical being groups about this research trip, and many were eagerly awaiting word of their success.</p><p>It would be brutal, letting them all down.</p><p>The tip of her nose hurt. No, she couldn’t cry. Not here, with them expecting her to be brilliant and witty, full of ideas. She hid her face in her cooler, pretending to search through the items.</p><p>A flutter of parchment drew her eye. It was caught, snagged between some dried jerky packaging near the bottom of the cooler.</p><p>
  <em>Hey Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s me. I’m writing this before I lose my nerve. I’m sorry I didn’t stay and chat last night. I reckon I was a bit shaken up. As for the rest of this note—I just wanted to remind you: I think you’re incredible. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried, but you’re needed on the Wandlore case and where you currently stand, on this trip. You don’t shy away from hard things—it’s not in your nature. Honestly Granger, you are the most tenacious person I know. No matter what happens, I’m proud of you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know you can do this. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>Hermione stared at the “Yours” until the word became blurry. Then, she tucked it deep inside herself, where she could find it again when she was ready.</p><p>#</p><p>The Wyvern’s frigid blast of ice hit Hermione’s shoulder, and she yelped at the impact. It felt like someone had chucked a brick, right into her clavicle. A small dragon the size of a Clydesdale had surprised them when they turned a corner, blocking their path to a larger cavern that lay beyond it.</p><p>“This wasn’t here before!” Ollivander’s frantic cry further infuriated the creature, and it roared out, sweeping its tale along the ground beside Hermione. She stumbled, falling just out of reach.</p><p>“Get the restraints off it!” Hermione screamed. The air spun around her, and the gleam of the magically held, semi-translucent shackle streaked across her vision.</p><p>A sharp clang, then a loud rumble. Luna’s shouted tumbled about, bouncing off the narrow stone walls. The roar repeated, this time further away.</p><p>“I’ve got it,” Luna cried. “It’s running away.”</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she pointed her wand at her shoulder and choked out “Episky” through gritted teeth. Something cracked, and she sobbed as the sting radiated up and down her arm. Why had the mountain decided to punish them so decidedly?</p><p>They couldn’t stop. She took a deep breath and reminded herself of why they were there.</p><p>The centaurs deserved wands. The goblins deserved wands. The house elves deserved wands. They had volunteered to do this. To help.</p><p>She had to carry on. This was only a momentary trial.</p><p>Hermione blinked rapidly, her breaths coming in short gasps. This would be over soon. She would stop crying, any moment now.</p><p>Maybe, over all those kilometers away, George was doing something nice. Maybe he was listening to music, waiting for her to walk through the door.</p><p>The thought took her away from the pain, and she let herself imagine it.</p><p>#</p><p>They decided to rest in the larger cavern mouth after fighting off the Wyvern. Luna had the good sense to take the shackle she’d freed from its hind leg so they could examine it later.</p><p>“I don’t like it,” Ollivander murmured. His eyes were wary, coasting back and forth across the room they’d slept in. “The only tests should be the cavern’s puzzles and Merlin’s phantom. That’s the tradition. Someone’s been meddling—trying to keep intruders out.”</p><p>“What’s our plan for Merlin’s Phantom, again?” Hermione asked, covering her eyes with a weary hand. Time seemed to blur together here. She needed to sleep, but she couldn’t feel safe. Not when the Liathach seemed so intent on breaking them.</p><p>“I’ll fight it,” Luna’s voice was quiet and determined. “I’ve been preparing.” She took a large bite of a wrinkled apple.</p><p>“It’ll be a battle of wills,” Ollivander said. “My father almost didn’t make it out.” He made the remark lightly, chewing on a strip of jerky.</p><p>“Yes, well, I’d like to review what we plan to do if Luna has any trouble with the Phantom,” Hermione said, trying again. Luna and Ollivander stared at her, bemused.</p><p>“I don’t expect I’ll have any trouble. I feel quite strongly about this,” Luna said. “The cavern knows that now.”</p><p>Hermione’s brow creased with worry. “Alright,” she said, voice soft.  </p><p>#</p><p>February 9, 2003</p><p>Hermione woke to a deadly cold. Something was wrong. Shouldn’t the space have gotten warmer, what with the fire and the Wyvern’s absence? She turned in her sleeping bag. Where was Luna? Ollivander? Their bedding was missing, their bags spilled open and possessions strewn about the floor.</p><p><em>“It’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends.” </em>The voice rang through her head.</p><p>Suddenly, she felt very lonely. The lonely she hadn’t felt in ages, not even when Ron left. Even then, she’d had Harry.</p><p>
  <em>“Scarlet woman.”</em>
</p><p>She’d gone after Ron, then abandoned him to play hero with Harry. And where was she now? Married to George, causing yet more pain. It wouldn’t last. Her relationships never did. She was incapable of being that sort of steadfast with someone, too caught up in her own theories and knowledge.</p><p>
  <em>“Do you take pride in being an insufferable little know-it-all?”</em>
</p><p>And what, for all of that effort, had her knowledge gotten her?</p><p>
  <em>“You’ve failed.”</em>
</p><p>A grey battlefield littered with her friends.</p><p>
  <em>“What are you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mudblood.”</em>
</p><p>Trailing, black hoods emerged from the cavern mouth, from the passageways. Boney, scabbed knuckles outstretched. Floating closer. The cold permeated the deepest part of her.</p><p>“Dementors,” she whispered.</p><p>Hermione gripped her wand and dug deep. She thought of running to Harry in the Great Hall second year, after discovering that the boys had understood her clue.</p><p>“Expecto Patronum.” Her voice was shaken, exhausted. Not even a wisp emerged from her wand.</p><p>“You can do it, Hermione!” Luna voice cut through the fog, but it sounded faint and echoey, like it was coming from the other side of a wall.</p><p>She gritted her teeth. “Expecto Patronum!” This scream was louder, and she clung to her wand, thinking fiercely of the day she got her letter. A faint, blue trickle emerged, but it quickly faded. The hoods were close enough to reach out and grab her.</p><p>“I-I can’t!” she cried. The sound seemed to fade away. She was too broken beyond repair. They had pinned her against the wall, close to the mouth of the cave. The face of the closest tipped down, and Hermione saw no eyes inside of its dark hood. A gust of wind tore through the cavern, rippling the robes.</p><p>On the gale floated a scrap of parchment.</p><p>And Hermione thought of dancing.</p><p>“Expecto Patronum!” The blue shot from her wand in a wave, carrying with it a familiar peel of laughter.</p><p>George’s laugh, rich, clear, and pure poured out over the cliffside, singing into the distance.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, but she didn’t lose her grip on her wand. Her Patronus wasn’t corporeal, but it was good enough. The dementors shied back.</p><p>“Hermione!” Luna’s voice echoed, much closer this time. A shimmering, blue hare bound across the floor, driving the dementors out. The other girl dashed over, breathless.</p><p>“It took us—put us behind a wall of ice. We could just barely make out what was happening,” Luna gripped Hermione’s shoulders tightly, her face lined with concern.</p><p>Hermione gasped, leaning back against the stone behind her. “We can’t sleep without someone standing guard,” she said, closing her eyes. Her heart rattled inside of her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t relax, not even for a moment.</p><p>“None of this happened when my father took me,” Ollivander’s tone was a quiet, worried whisper. “Someone’s meddled with it.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, someone should tell the Liathach to sod off,” Hermione mumbled. Her patience was at its end. She was tired, cold, and jittery. It was as though the cavern took special offense at her presence, cutting her off from the others.</p><p>Before the others could respond, the hard rock opened up, and Hermione tumbled backwards.</p><p>The walls crunched around her, and Luna’s shout was cut short. She was alone, surrounded by darkness. Not even faint shadows moved around her in the black.</p><p>“Lumos,” she whispered.</p><p>The tip of her wand lit, illuminating the circular chamber around her.</p><p>A grey specter stood, flickering across the room. Its face had no features. The only sound was Hermione’s breath—fast and short. Like prey.</p><p>Cold terror lanced through her. Then the figure spoke, and its whisper was like rushing wind.</p><p>“Who comes to duel the Phantom?”</p><p>No—this was wrong. It was supposed to be Luna.</p><p>But, it seemed the Liathach had other plans.</p><p>There’d been a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound would come from her lips. Torches on the walls lit, hissing to life with twisting, green flames.</p><p>The specter moved, and its coldness passed through her.</p><p>“I see.” It said, and the words rushed through the space, circling around her, making the fire snap. The Phantom returned to its place across the stone floor, floating. Then, it began to change. Morphing. Elongating. Sprouting red hair. Brown eyes. George.</p><p>Hermione blinked, trying to unsee it, but he was still there. Standing, now. Staring at her with a hard glint in his eyes. The magic had spared no detail—it was dressed exactly as she’d last seen him. The white, button down oxford, black slacks, and purple apron had a pale green cast in the cave’s light.</p><p>George lifted his wand, and bowed, eyes never leaving her. He assumed the dueling stance.</p><p>Hermione scrambled backwards to the wall, feeling behind her for some sort of crack or gap that she might slip back through.</p><p>“Face me,” George said, loud and cold.</p><p>“I don’t want to,” Hermione said, backing against the stone. George’s face twisted, and a jolt of electricity shot through her, from the stone to her fingertips.</p><p>“You left,” George spat, face contorting. “You’re not leaving again.”</p><p>“This isn’t real,” Hermione said.</p><p>“It’s real to me,” George said. His eyes flashed, and he swung his arms wide. “Come on, Hermione. Hurt me. You’re bloody good at it, after all.” He was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him.</p><p>“Stop it,” Hermione said, blinking hard.</p><p>The gravel crunched under George’s feet as he strode across the room. “Or this all a game for you? A joke, maybe?” Hermione clutched her wand tighter.</p><p>“I’m not going to fight you,” she whispered.</p><p>“Why? Wish I was Ron? Is that it?” George stopped. The phantom’s face twisted, and the image of Ron flashed across it before flickering back to George. “We both know that if you’d woken up to him, you’d be cozied up with him, a picture-perfect couple by now. I’m just—” George looked down at his form, and his tone was acid as he finished. “a replacement.”</p><p>“That’s not true,” Hermione said, but her voice was weak. Faltering. Not because she believed it—but because the real George might. “This would be hard, no matter the circumstances—”</p><p>“Stop lying to yourself. If I were Ron, you’d be trying harder to make this work,” he said, not letting her finish.</p><p>“Stop it,” Hermione said, frustration edging into her tone.</p><p>He didn’t acknowledge her reply, instead stepping closer. His breath was ice on her cheek, and she flinched away. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Granger. You weren’t my first pick either.” His wand met her chin, and her reflexes kicked in. She blasted off a shield charm, ducking out of reach.</p><p>His eyes narrowed, and he turned, advancing again. “Stuffy old Hermione, always lecturing like she’s better than everyone else.” He flicked his wand lazily, and Hermione deflected, narrowly missing a jet of purple light. “And now you’re running away. Again.” He rolled his eyes at her retreat. Then he was whirling, his wand slashing, and the spell tumbled from his lips.</p><p>“Crucio!”</p><p>The curse struck, lighting her nerves with agony. Hermione dropped to the floor, a sharp rock grazing her cheek. The scar on her forearm seared, like it had come alive. The back of her head smashed into the ground as she convulsed, and her ears rang.</p><p>She tasted copper in her mouth.</p><p>A second vision of George flickered to life, faint and translucent on the ground beside her. It crouched on its knees, eyes wide in fear, blood dribbling from his mouth. “Don’t—don’t leave me, Granger.” This George’s voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. Through the pain, Hermione stretched out her hand to it. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But if it was—she strained, trying to get just a bit closer. The second her fingers brushed it, the vision warped, blinking and fading from existence.</p><p>It was toying with her. Like a predator, priming a mouse before consuming it.</p><p>“A man only has limited patience, Hermione,” The Phantom said, and George’s voice sounded dark and ugly, morphed beyond recognition. The spell flashed to an end, and Hermione jerked her arm to her chest. “Look inside yourself. You know it’s true.”</p><p>“Protego!” she shouted. A thin, blue shield wavered between her and the Phantom. It flickered. Her eyes swam. She cried out, trying and failing to find a surge of power to fight him off.</p><p>“I’m done talking,” he said, and he stepped right through the blue, his face flashing darkly. “In fact, I’m done with you. You’re weak.” His breath hit her ear. Hermione’s hands shook in the tremors of the Crucio aftershock. He began to swing his foot back, as though to kick her face.</p><p>She was back in the manor with Bellatrix, helpless.</p><p>But then, despite being alone in the room, she remembered a warm hand on her forehead, like the ghost of a touch from the past. A gentle reminder that she wasn’t alone, nudging her. “Get up, Hermione.”</p><p>Hermione gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing. She reached out and grasped the Phantom’s leg, stopping it just shy of her nose. It was solid, but it sent waves of ice through her core, like a jolt of frigid electricity. Still, she clung on.</p><p>This wasn’t real. It was the cavern, messing with her mind. Presenting her with another cruel trick. George wouldn’t say these things. It was an insult to him to suggest it.</p><p>She caste a jellylegs jinx.</p><p>The Phantom stumbled, cursing. Hermione shot to her feet, anger lancing through her as she stared at the imposter.</p><p>“Come to play, have we?” he snarled, lifting his wand.</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin. It felt as though her whole body had been set afire with purpose. Her wand slashed, and the Phantom was encased with a set of binding cords. Hermione stared it down and wiped her nose on her sleeve.</p><p>“You’re not my George,” Hermione said. She advanced, knowing the cords would hold tight.</p><p>“You’re only a passing shadow,” she said, centering the wand on his chest. “Lumos Maxima.” The room flashed with such a brilliance that she couldn’t see anything at all.</p><p>Her vision slowly returned, and she blinked, clearing her eyes of the great, dark spots from the flash. The Phantom had crumbled to dust, taking the crude impersonation of a better man with it. All that was left was a small, ice blue gemstone, resting in the dust of its footprint.</p><p>The stone ground, and the passage opened, revealing the silhouettes of Luna and Ollivander.</p><p>“Are you alright, Hermione?” Luna called.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Hermione rasped, coughing at the dust. The walls in the chamber shifted, and the runes emerged, appearing on great, mossy rocks that rose from the floor. Some of the runes had indeed been destroyed, large burn marks scorching them into unrecognizable shapes. But, enough remained.</p><p>“The runes!” she shouted. “They’re here.” Gravel skittered as the two made their way through the narrow passage. Luna handed Hermione her bag, now repacked, and Hermione dug through it, taking out her quill and parchments. Ollivander stooped on the other side of the chamber, examining the place where the monster last stood.</p><p>“The Phantom’s tear,” Ollivander said, his voice a whisper. “Careful! Whoever touches it first will be its master. If you should choose to return, you can carry the stone and the tunnels will bend to your command. Though—not many return.”</p><p>“You take it,” Hermione said, looking at Luna. “I want nothing to do with it.”</p><p>Luna took out a towel and wrapped the stone inside of it.</p><p>To their side, a passage opened to the dusky sky. The storm still howled, but it didn’t seem quite so fiercesome as Hermione scrawled down the runes. Her head ached, however, and the cold cavern seemed to close around her the longer she remained.</p><p>It was Sunday. Perhaps George would still be at dinner with the other Weasleys. If they made good time, she could make it and surprise him.</p><p>When they’d finished, after triple checking everything, Hermione pulled the kettle from her bag, feeling genuine delight for the first time since they’d landed at the base of the Liathach.</p><p>#</p><p>They popped into existence out front of the shop, and Hermione rushed her goodbyes. The key trembled in her hand, and she fit it into the lock. She was so cold. She was so tired of being cold. Days and days of it.</p><p>She thudded up the stairs. The flat was dark around her. He was still at dinner. Never mind the grime on her clothes, the blood on her face, or the plait in her hair that was coming undone.</p><p>She turned on her heel and felt the world wash away.</p><p>Hermione stumbled onto the front step of the Burrow. A wave of dizziness hit, but she fought through it. Voices carried from inside.</p><p>“And where is she now—” the tinny voice of the Weasleys’ Aunt Muriel leaked through the wood. “First Ronald, now George! That girl has been nothing but trouble for this family, and I’m sad to see the lot of you turning a blind eye to it.”</p><p>“That’s rubbish. My wife is—” George’s voice was clear, ringing and indignant. But Hermione was already pushing the door open.</p><p>The conversation paused.</p><p>George sat, leaning forward on the couch, his forearms braced on his knees and shoulders tense. Time slowed as he half turned, bewildered at the interruption. His eyes met hers, and he shot to his feet as the shock registered. The others in the room seemed to vanish.</p><p>She didn’t feel the ache in her bones as she strode to him. George swallowed, and his gaze traced over her face. He opened his mouth, but paused, confusion flickering in his eyes.</p><p>“George,” she breathed. “I missed you.” Then she slid her arms under his and buried her face against his chest. He froze, and then shaking just slightly, his arms came up, moving around her, holding her head, her shoulders, her whole body close.</p><p>It was bliss. The heat chased away the frigid, deadly fingertips that had been gripping at her insides since the dementors. Warm sparks, rushing through her from head to toe, pulsing, singing.</p><p>“How was Liathach?” he choked, his voice rasping over the words as he clung to her.</p><p>“It was terrible and frightening,” Hermione said. “Not at all like this.”</p><p>Across the room, Fred whooped.</p><p>#</p><p>George wasted no time apparating them home. His embrace didn’t slip as they landed. George snapped his fingers and the lights came on. She was leaning on him quite heavily now, blinking slowly. Then he stepped back, his touch feather-light on her face. Hermione shook her head, her movements sluggish as she tried to press closer.</p><p>“Hold on, Granger. I’ve got to check you for concussion.” His brow was creased with worry. He flicked his wand and a simple diagnostic spell lit up. “That’s what I thought,” he said, reading over the results. His mouth was a thin line.</p><p>“George,” she whispered his name, and he finally met her eyes. “I’m so tired.”</p><p>“I know, Love,” he murmured, working his wand around her head. “Lucky we got into so many scrapes on the quidditch pitch, eh?” Everything was a swimming mess of warmth, and she couldn’t think straight.</p><p>“Am I your love, then?” Hermione whispered. His focus didn’t break as he completed the spell. The room seemed to stabilize a bit, and she realized what she’d just asked. George’s look was kind, if a bit pained.</p><p>He didn’t speak. Instead, he swept her up into his arms, one cradling her shoulders and the other hooked around her knees. Wordlessly, he carried her to her room, nudging the door open with his hip. The bed was soft under her back as he rested her on it.</p><p>“I’m cold,” she whispered. He knelt, and she felt a warm hand on her brow. The blankets shifted over her.</p><p>“Accio Dittany,” he whispered. Hermione closed her eyes.</p><p>When George’s thumb first met the cut on her exposed cheek, it smarted, and she winced. But then he moved it lightly, stroking the paste in, and the sharpness faded to something warm and tingly and pleasant. She hummed, and George’s touch faltered.</p><p>“Hermione?” She opened her eyes at her name. George knelt over her, his head tilted, concern etched into his features. His left hand cradled her forehead, his thumb smoothing back her hair in gentle movements. George’s other arm stretched over her torso, his touch light but steady against her cheek and jaw.</p><p>The dark was rushing up to meet her, but she fought it off. Not yet.</p><p>“Stay,” she murmured. “I missed you.” Her words slurred together. The heat and the exhaustion were overtaking her. Her thoughts were a bramble, but that was alright.</p><p>“Did you, now?” George’s voice was soft and bemused as he studied her.</p><p>“The phantom—” she tried, but it was too hard to explain. “—was you, only bad—” Her tongue was clumsy in her mouth, tangling together her thoughts. “But I knew it wasn’t my George.”</p><p>“Your George?” The words were low, barely audible.</p><p>She closed her eyes, breathing him in.</p><p>The world slipped away before she could answer his question.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Occlumens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dusk Till Dawn.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone. We're only a handful of hours from Monday, so let's pretend that it's truly Monday just post this.</p><p>First: I am more than a little overwhelmed by the response to last chapter. You all are so kind. I am rather shy in real life, despite how I might come across here or on TikTok. I have approximately two braincells that are equipped for social interaction, and this week, they're sort of both out of commission at once. Your patience is appreciated. &lt;3 Thank you for sticking around and reading. Thanks for commenting, if you have. I'm learning a lot about writing on a schedule while I work on this, and all of your encouragement has been a big help.</p><p>Second: This chapter includes some direct lyrics, taken from some Harry and the Potters songs: "On The Importance of Media Literacy Under Authoritarian Rule" and "Hermione's Army." This is probably super cheesy, but I love the thought of Lee and the twins making resistance music, so, I stuck it in here. Basically, within the context of the fic, these lyrics are written by Lee and the twins, produced on Potterwatch. (If you choose to listen to those songs while reading, I want to note that not all of the lyrics in the full song are canon in the fic--ex: they wouldn't sing about Hermione memory charming her parents, as this would put her parents in danger.) </p><p>In addition to these songs, this chapter's theme is "Dusk Till Dawn," by ZAYN (or the cover by Kurt Hugo Schneider &amp; Kirsten Collins--I sort of love both versions.) which pairs best with the last two scenes. Some other songs that might fit throughout the chapter are "Falling" by Harry Styles (especially the chorus) for the first couple of scenes and "Lion" by Saint Mesa for the scene in the Ministry. </p><p>Third: I do not own the rights to these characters or storyworld. </p><p>Fourth: I am so sorry. I know many of you said that you don't mind long chapters, but this one is truly terrible about it. Don't check the word count. </p><p>Fifth: I want to acknowledge here that this fic is HEA (happily ever after). That seems important, given the current struggles of our heroes.</p><p>Finally: Please stay safe and warm. Grab yourself a cuppa, get a fuzzy blanket, and maybe a flannel. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter 14: "Occlumens"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>August 3, 1997</p><p>George walked about the flat in a haze, stepping numbly from one task to the next. Fred wouldn’t stop watching him, but his brother didn’t speak. Somewhere deep inside, George knew that Fred was waiting for him to talk first, but he didn’t have it in him.</p><p>It was easier to shut off, to do his work, and to go to sleep once he was through.</p><p>#</p><p>August 4, 1997</p><p>
  <em>“Muggle-born Register”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called ‘Muggle-borns,’ to better understand how they came to possess magical secrets. Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when wizards reproduce. Where no proven wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When asked about the new legislation, a Wizengamot official who spoke on the condition of anonymity said, “These mudbloods are finally being exposed for what they are—usurpers, thieves, and criminals. I’m glad to see the Ministry doing something about it, especially during such turbulent times.”</em>
</p><p>Four days. Four days was all it took for the ministry to begin rounding up Mugglebornes. George shoved the paper into a drawer and gripped the table. Hard. His stomach lurched, and before he knew what was happening, he was throwing up. As he choked and heaved, Charlie’s voice echoed in his mind:</p><p>
  <em>“That word—it was used by the worst sort. The kinds of people who would hurt mugglebornes and try to take their magic away. A lot of innocent people died.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione.</p><p>Fred found him, kneeling over the bin, resting his forehead against its edge.</p><p>#</p><p>August 7, 1997</p><p>Lupin stood inside their flat, watching the street through the windows.</p><p>“D’you think they’ll stay long?” George asked, trying to keep his voice even.</p><p>“No,” Lupin said quietly.</p><p>“But they were all there—safe?” George asked, just to make sure.</p><p>Lupin braced his hand against the wall, beside the windowpane. “For now. Harry seems intent on setting off on their own.”</p><p>George hated himself for it, but he couldn’t keep the question from his lips. “How did Granger look?”</p><p>Lupin turned, and George saw the surprise register on his face.</p><p>“And Ron?” He’d added it on too late. The gears were already turning in Lupin’s mind. “Mum’ll want to know.” His heart sped in his ribcage, and he tightened his fists.</p><p>“She’s looking after them, as always,” Lupin said. Something in the man’s countenance had shifted. A cold sweat broke over George’s brow. It was pity. He was seeing pity on Lupin’s face.</p><p>“I’ll let her know, then,” George said. “Keep us informed.”</p><p>#</p><p>August 14, 1997</p><p>George sat on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, staring listlessly at the wall. Fred paced in the kitchen behind him. Back and forth. Back and forth. George didn’t flinch.</p><p>“Come on, Mate,” Fred said. George didn’t respond. “You’re scaring me.”</p><p>George looked at Fred. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.</p><p>“I dunno,” Fred said, shoulders slumped. “Maybe shout some more? Rail against the world? Talk about it?”</p><p>George gave Fred a thin-lipped smile. “Reckon that would help?” he asked. Fred sighed and pulled a couple of butterbeers from the pantry. He popped one open and dropped the glass bottle into George’s hand.</p><p>“More than whatever you’ve been doing so far,” Fred said. He sat in the armchair across the table.</p><p>George took a pull of the drink, swallowing and staring into the unlit hearth. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. He finished his bottle, then trudged downstairs to the workroom. They had portkeys to finish.</p><p>#</p><p>August 22, 1997</p><p>Fred had buried the day’s paper under the inventory forms, but George found it. Flipped through, dread filling him. He had to know.</p><p>Then he saw it.</p><p>Hermione’s name in large, blocky letters.</p><p>
  <em>“Wanted for failing to present self for interrogation.”</em>
</p><p>George looked at the stack of flyers. Each one, a portkey that would transport the user over the border. They’d fancied handing them out to mugglebornes—letting folks keep them in their wallets or handbags, until they needed a quick getaway.</p><p>But, it wasn’t so simple. It was hard to find mugglebornes—many of them had already been rounded up. The others were getting smart and going into hiding.</p><p>If Hermione had been found, surely <em>The Prophet</em> would’ve carried the story. But perhaps it wouldn’t. <em>The Prophet</em> was just a mouthpiece for the Ministry now. Perhaps Granger would fall, unannounced, and he would go on, foolishly hoping that she was safe.</p><p>He hadn’t slept in days.</p><p>He looked down at the article. At the bottom, they’d printed Delores Umbridge’s signature. Flame licked at his insides.</p><p>“Fred,” he called. “Let’s pay a visit to Lee.”</p><p>#</p><p>September 2, 1997</p><p>
  <em>“Ministry Break-In</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A small ministry break-in was reported yesterday. Witnesses cite a confrontation near the floos, and a mass breakout of muggle-borns from the courtrooms. Countless likely criminals have escaped. The Ministry urges its citizens to remain calm—these individuals will be brought to justice.”</em>
</p><p>George folded up the paper and stuck it deep in his pocket. It was them. He knew it.</p><p>#</p><p>September 10, 1997</p><p>Fred rested a fresh cup of Pumpkin juice on George’s workstation. “Here,” he said. George grunted, not turning from the exploding quill set he was tinkering with.</p><p>The user could simply pop the nib off, and the mechanism inside lit a sparkler. Brilliant for the end of OWLS, but tricky to keep contained. They kept sparking without being touched. Not ideal for bookbag storage.</p><p>“‘Oi, thanks Fred. That’s kind of you, Fred,’” Fred said, stomping back over. “Where would I be without you, Fred?”</p><p>George paused and looked at his brother, unflinching. “Yes, all of that.”</p><p>“You’ve been ducking out of conversations with me for weeks, Mate, and I get that you feel terrible, but you’re taking it out on the wrong bloke,” Fred said, brow furrowing.</p><p>George huffed. He wasn’t taking it out on anyone. He was letting it rest, away from everything else. Where it couldn’t hurt him or others. He pushed up from his seat and headed to the sales floor, Fred following in his wake.</p><p>“And here you go again, walking away,” Fred said. His voice was loud, but the store was empty this morning. People hadn’t been shopping in person as much since the ministry fell.</p><p>“Like you always do. Would you just stop it? George, we’ve got to talk about it sometime—” The  bell chimed, and the two brothers turned.</p><p>Angelina Johnson stood in the entryway.</p><p>Fred froze, his gaze flickering over her. Angelina’s expression shuttered. George turned and it was like watching Fred’s insides crumpling, playing across his face.</p><p>“I’m only here because my cousin wanted a Pygmy Puff,” she said, staring beyond them at the shelving. “It’s the only bloody place that you can get one.” She stuck her hands in her pockets, her jaw firm.</p><p>“R-Right,” Fred said, looking as though he’d tried to swallow glass. Merlin’s pants, Fred was falling apart.</p><p>“Can you help her, Mate? I’m awfully busy with inventory,” George said. The sooner they had this out, the better. Angelina pinned George with an icy stare.</p><p>“Stop it,” she said, voice cool. “If Fred has something he needs to say to me, he’ll do it on his own time, and not like a coward. I deserve that much, after everything.”</p><p>Fred’s face contorted.</p><p>“I’m not a coward,” he said. Angelina’s eyes flashed.</p><p>“Really? Because of late, fear seems to be guiding your decisions,” she said, fire in her tone. She tossed a few galleons onto the counter. “Send it to my parents’ address. I’m done here, I think.”</p><p>“Angelina, please—” Fred stepped forward, reaching for her, but she was already turning, shoving through the door. Fred buried his face in his hands, grinding his palms against his eyes. He swore.</p><p>George scratched the back of his neck. That could’ve gone better. Silently, he summoned the cups of Pumpkin juice from the back room, setting one in front of Fred.</p><p>Fred took a long drink. They stood in silence for several minutes. Finally, Fred drained his cup and tapped the base against the counter.</p><p>“Anyway, so about Granger,” Fred continued, as though they hadn’t been interrupted. Despite the bravado, he sounded rattled.</p><p>“Granger fancies Ron,” George said softly. “But, Angelina fancies you.” George patted him on the shoulder and left the room.</p><p>#</p><p>September 12, 1997</p><p>“<em>The Prophet</em>‘s now a mouthpiece for the Ministry,” Lee, George, and Fred’s voices blared from the speaker in the flat. They didn’t sound nearly this good in person, when they’d sang the lyrics George had written into Lee’s recording device.</p><p>“Did you smooth out our voices?” George asked, raising his brows. Lee folded his arms, but it was a playful bluff.</p><p>“Yes. You’re welcome,” Lee said, grinning. “It just about killed me. Took loads of magic to make your off-key warbling sound this decent.” They’d written the song together, but Lee had worked as composer and producer on the track—taking all of their words and making them into something catchy, yet biting.</p><p>“I’ll open the first broadcast of Potterwatch with this,” Lee said. “It’ll get them hooked.”</p><p>“Potterwatch?” Fred asked.</p><p>“They’ll know who we stand with,” Lee said, turning to face the controls, the flame of resistance crackling in his eyes.</p><p>#</p><p>October 2, 1997</p><p>Death Eaters lined the shop’s entrance. Inside his shop apron’s pocket, George clenched his wand. Several of them were in hoods, despite the broad daylight outside. A short woman garbed in a bubble-gum pink dress stood in the doorway, holding a Decoy Detonator between her index finger and thumb.</p><p>George squared his shoulders. “We’re closed,” he said. Umbridge didn’t turn to leave. He didn’t expect her to, though. Bloody terrible timing—Fred had just stepped out on an errand, and George was tending the store alone. That had been a mistake.</p><p>He was alone. Exposed. His heart hammered, but he kept his expression a mask of indifference.</p><p>Umbridge lifted the Decoy Detonator, eyeing the display stand with similar devices. George steeled himself and met her gaze, firming his jaw. There was no sound, save for the fake Delores riding the tightrope above them.</p><p>“Order—I will have order,” it screeched. Umbridge’s left eye twitched. It was time to leave. George turned, spinning on his heel, but his body jerked, remaining glued to its place. They’d cast an anti-apparition ward.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>“Take him,” she said. They slammed him into the floor, and the back of his head thudded against the staircase. He clawed at the wooden surface, trying to get a grip, but there were too many of them. He kicked and struggled as they dragged him through the doors. A few wizards stopped, staring at the procession in the street with round eyes. The second they’d manhandled him over the threshold, they apparated suddenly, yanking him along with them. He got a glimpse of the Ministry’s hall, a large fountain, before someone thrust a rough sack over his head, blocking out the light.</p><p>The tight grip on his arms didn’t loosen, and they hauled him through crowds, his feet tripping and stumbling around corners, over uncertain ground that they didn’t bother clearing. He could hear the murmur of voices, drifting through a large room. They were hauling him in by force, his shop apron on full display.</p><p>“That’s my son!” a familiar voice cried.</p><p>“Dad—” George shouted, straining to turn towards the voice. He tripped over a gap in the tile, and his surroundings dinged. It was the lift. He was in the lift. The gate creaked, and the floor rattled under him.</p><p>“Department of Mysteries,” the cheery tone sang. The hands around his arms tightened, hoisting him forward without warning, and his legs caught, dragging behind him on the cold, echoing marble. He ought to call out, protest. But he knew that it wouldn’t do him any good. It would just accelerate the violence. No, he had to keep a clear mind. Look for an opportunity to make a swift exit.</p><p>The air down here was like dead winter, and icy tendrils brushing his fingertips. His heartbeat quickened. Someone yanked at his apron, and George felt the weight of his wand vanish. His stomach twisted.</p><p>A brunt hit collided against his back, and the grip loosened, causing him to tumble. Someone ripped the bag from his head, and he blinked at the Wizengamot chamber—nearly empty, save for Umbridge’s lackeys.</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Travers and Mr. Vane,” Dolores Umbridge said, climbing up the walkway to a seat at the head of the chamber. “Let the record reflect that George Weasley has been brought before the Commission on the charges of aiding and abetting the mass breakout of mudblood criminals on the first of September, 1997.”</p><p>A tightlipped witch with greying hair clacked away on a typewriter, a glowing blue cat pacing between her and Umbridge and the floor where George now stood.</p><p>George looked up. The source of the cold was plain now—a flock of Dementors circled around the ceiling of the room, flitting about like angry wasps.</p><p>The door clanged open. Mr. Weasley, face weary and worn, charged into the room.</p><p>“What is the meaning of this, Dolores? The boy’s done nothing wrong,” Mr. Weasley shouted. Umbridge cleared her throat, blinking rapidly at George’s father.</p><p>“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Arthur,” she said, smiling. “Your family has crossed the Ministry one too many times, and this administration doesn’t take kindly to liars.” She nodded at Travers, who grabbed Mr. Weasley, pulling him into one of the open seats and restraining him. His father was pale. George inhaled and stood steady. Losing it wouldn’t help.</p><p>“Now,” Umbridge said, gazing back at George. Her smile was so tight. She’d been waiting for this moment. He knew it. Ever since that day, when they’d taken their broomsticks and toppled her reign of terror at Hogwarts.</p><p>“I believe the Ministry has been quite gracious with your establishment,” Umbridge said, flipping through a stack of documents. “Despite numerous complaints.” She paused, as though waiting for George to ask what those complaints might be. George said nothing, only crossed his arms to keep his hands from shaking. He wasn’t going to play into whatever this was.</p><p>She hem-hemmed, and continued. “Imagine our surprise, then, when we discovered evidence of your involvement while searching the scene of the recent breakout—” she pointed to the Weasley product, now placed on a high ledge. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”</p><p>“For crying out loud, Dolores, they can’t control what their customers do with their purchases!” Mr. Weasley shouted. George didn’t look at him. To do so now would place his father under even greater threat.</p><p>As for George—they would cart him off to Azkaban. There was no hope of this inquiry going otherwise. The thought sent him for a spiral, his insides churning. Outwards, however, George didn’t flinch, only held a steady eye contact with Umbridge. Let her think he wasn’t shaken.</p><p>“Silencio!” Umbridge pointed her wand at Mr. Weasley, and the man’s voice cut out. The Dementors swooped lower. “You’ll be quiet, unless you want to see more from your family today, Arthur.”</p><p>Umbridge straightened her quill, then continued. “At the Ministry, we are hesitant to spill magical blood. Especially blood so pure.” Nausea rose in him. “But, I’m afraid that as a governing body, we must discipline wayward behavior. Prune what must be pruned, you might say.”</p><p>George swallowed. He was a Gryffindor. He was a Gryffindor.</p><p>He would be brave.</p><p>Umbridge’s jaw was trembling, and her eyes scorched with rage. Evidently, she’d been hoping for a reaction out of him. She wouldn’t get one. He wished he’d had fireworks in his pockets. He always thought he’d go out with a bang.</p><p>“The Dementors are a noble race—one very committed to justice,” she said lightly. “They’ll be able to sort out the extent of your wrongdoing, I expect. A chat with them might prove illuminating to this investigation.”</p><p>George stiffened, but he refused to look upwards. They were getting closer, now. He could feel it, the frost crawling over his shoulders, into the center of his chest.</p><p>“But first, I suspect I’ll have to loosen your tongue.” she rose and pulled her wand from its sheath, and her face morphed into a monstrous grin.</p><p>The non-verbal hit him hard, and his body slammed against the ground. Tight, invisible cords constricted around him, wrapping tighter and tighter. His throat. He couldn’t breathe. George strained, pulling his head back and gasping.</p><p>His vision doubled. He could make out Umbridge’s mouth moving, and the cords seemed to sear his skin, like a cold and terrible fire eating him alive.</p><p>The sound that came out of his mouth was unhuman.</p><p>In the stands, his father was lunging, held back by the Death Eaters behind him.</p><p>It stopped, and George collapsed, gasping on the marble. His skin was clammy, and the fabric of his Oxford stuck to his back. The entire room could hear him gasp, choking, as he put his hands under his torso and pushed himself up from the shined tile. His arms shook, but he was able to kneel, then struggle to a stand. Umbridge’s eyes burned into him all the while, but it felt important—to show her that he would stand. George raised his eyes and stared back at her.</p><p>The door to the chamber swung open. George turned. There stood Percy, his face blank and impassive.</p><p>“You’re interrupting, Mr. Weasley,” Umbridge called to the door. She had a pinched look on her face, and her jaw twitched.</p><p>“The Minister said—” Percy began cordially, but he was interrupted by slash of Umbridge’s wand.</p><p>As quickly as the spell had stopped, it started again. George’s arm cracked as it hit the floor first. The binding, choking, searing feeling ripped through him, twisting him into something unrecognizable as it came in went in rapid strobes.</p><p>Through the haze, he saw his older brother. In that moment, George didn’t care that Percy had mailed their Mum’s jumper back, unopened. He didn’t care that Percy had abandoned them. He didn’t care that Percy had hit him in the face. All he saw was his older brother, standing there with a wand—a light in the darkness. A guardian sent to rescue him. Surely, he would.</p><p>“Help me, Percy—please, please,” he cried out. Anything that would stop the agony. Percy stared at him, eyes wide. Then, he turned and disapparated with a sickening pop.</p><p>George screamed against the cold tile.</p><p>He would die here.</p><p>He gritted his teeth, fighting through the convulsions.</p><p>The torment ended, and he found himself sprawled face-up on the cold marble, unable to move.</p><p>“I believe he’s ready to talk now,” Umbridge’s voice rang through the chamber. George’s breaths were barely filling his lungs—scattered and rapid. The cold crept closer. “Tell us about your involvement.”</p><p>George stared up, into the oblivion of dark robes. “No,” he said, but his voice didn’t make a sound.</p><p>The Dementors circled, their robes brushing his face. This was his end, helpless and forgotten. Betrayed by his brother. His family’s luck had run out.</p><p>There was a ghastly pull, and George watched as a bright, shimmering stream emerged from his chest, flowing upwards to disappear into the black. His vision wavered, and he saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione, grey and frozen in death. All of it would be for nothing. Nothing.</p><p>His chest jerked as they drew the stream from him more rapidly.</p><p>Just then, a glowing, blue fox cut through the Dementors, and they lunged back, away from George’s form.</p><p>It spoke in a distorted, metallic voice: “From the Office of the Minister: The Commission is to cease proceedings for the time being. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has requested this to allow them time to gather more evidence to build a stronger case of the accused’s involvement in September’s events. At this time, Mr. Weasley’s blood status is not in question, and therefore, he is not subject to further inquiries.”</p><p>George was too tired to follow the words. He gulped in air.</p><p>“Fine, then. If that’s how Thicknesse wants to arrange things,” Umbridge said, but it was very clear by her tone that it was not fine at all. Something clattered on the floor beside him. Panting, George craned his neck. It was his wand. He summoned his arms to move, but they didn’t obey. They only tensed, shifting for a moment, then were still. It was as though the signals in his brain were tangled.</p><p>“I think we’ll take lunch, then,” she said, voice lilting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “The accused can see themselves out.” There was a spark of malice in her eyes, and for just a moment, she looked upwards at the Dementors. Then she was springing from her seat, far too cheery, footsteps ringing as they exited the room.</p><p>His father was at his side in a flash, hands coasting over George’s shoulders. “George—George—” Mr. Weasley said. George tipped his head back, grimacing.</p><p>He tried to speak, but his words came out in a garble of sound. Mr. Weasley was pale, slipping his hands under George’s arms, trying to haul him to his feet, but George was a ragdoll. His father muttered, the tip of his wand pressed to George’s neck, and a jolt of electricity shot through him. George gasped, but the feeling had started to return to his hands and feet.</p><p>“Dad,” George said, his voice a rasp. “We need to go.”</p><p>“I can’t apparate here,” Mr. Weasley said, panic in his tone. The cold was descending over them. The other man turned, facing upwards with a grim expression.  </p><p>A dementor rushed toward them, cloak billowing. George blinked. “Expecto Patronum!” Mr. Weasley shouted, and a weasel leapt from his wand. It flitted towards the figures, and some shied back, but a few swooped around it, coming closer.</p><p>“Come on, Georgie—” Mr. Weasley wrapped George’s arm around his shoulders, bracing and pulling him to the side of the chamber. George swung his hand out, catching the half-wall, shaking against it. The Dementors dove to and fro, dodging the weasel, brushing close to George’s face before being chased off again. His father’s Patronus was struggling to hold them off, wheeling about in frantic circles.</p><p>“They’re hungry—” Mr. Weasley’s voice was hoarse. “Hurry.” George groaned, trying and failing to push off the wall. With the repeated pull from the Dementors, and the aftershocks of the curse, he wouldn’t make it to the door at this rate. There was only one option.</p><p>He turned from his father and lifted his wand, arm trembling.</p><p>As he said the words, he thought of her voice, soft and clear as she read by the fire. The bright, curious spark in her eyes. The smell of chamomile. His patronus exploded from his wand.</p><p>But, something was wrong. It wasn’t a magpie.</p><p>It was an otter.</p><p>It leapt, swimming rapidly through the air, illuminating the ragged edges of the Dementor cloaks.</p><p>George and his father limped to the chamber’s door. The last thing George saw before the world spun around him was the small fragment of Granger, fighting back the darkness.</p><p>#</p><p>October 4, 1997</p><p>George limped through the hall, clutching the encoded letter from Bill in his fist.</p><p>“You’re mad if you think you’re going after them!” Fred’s shout boomed through the flat.</p><p>“They’re <em>alone</em>!” George yelled back, his face contorting. He slammed the side of his fist into the wall. “He left them!”</p><p>Ron had taken one job in this war—look after Harry and Hermione. And he’d given up after less than a month. His blood ran cold in his veins.</p><p>“And what—you’re going to trek through the British countryside, hoping to run into them?” Fred countered, crossing his arms. George clenched his jaw so hard, it ached. His whole body was a live wire, crackling with energy.</p><p>“They need me,” he said, turning round and hobbling into his room. His trunk sat open on the bed. George flicked his wand, and his clothing started to shoot into it. Fred stomped over and began yanking the articles out as they landed, whipping them onto the floor.</p><p>“Look at the state you’re in! Even if you could find them—which you wouldn’t—all you would do is slow them down,” Fred said.</p><p>“I’ll get better—I’m already loads better than I was yesterday,” George said, snatching a jumper from Fred and throwing it back into the trunk.</p><p>“Look, Mate,” Fred’s voice dropped, and he ran a hand down his face. “I think you’re being a bit hasty.”</p><p>George ignored him, gathering the clothes on the floor by hand.</p><p>“Dad told me about your Patronus.”</p><p>George paused, rubbing at the back of his neck. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Fred’s eyes. They’d had matching magpies since they first caste the charm in the room of requirement. Fred knew the significance of the change. There was no use denying it.</p><p>But, this wasn’t about how he felt. This was about the hope of winning this war—the responsibility of it, riding so heavily on only two sets of already-overloaded shoulders. George felt sick. Someone had to step in and help.</p><p>“S’got nothing to do with it,” he said, straightening. Where was his coat?</p><p>“Even so,” Fred was speaking softly now—not his usual, confident tenor. “I think you need to consider what’s truly helpful to Harry and Hermione right now. What would she want?”</p><p>George scrubbed his hands through his hair. He had no idea. He didn’t even know if she was alive.</p><p>“If you go looking, there’s a chance you’ll be followed,” Fred said quietly.</p><p>George stared at the wall, the truth seeping in through his skin. Trying to find them would put all of them into even more danger. He fell back onto his mattress and buried his face in his hands.</p><p>“I can’t—can’t do nothing,” he said. “She needs to know that they’re not alone.”</p><p>“So, let’s do something, then. A signal,” Fred said, sitting on the other side of the bed. George could feel the shift in weight as Fred levitated his trunk back to its regular place. The clothing rustled as it floated back into the drawers of his wardrobe. He didn’t look up. It was too sad to watch. He was broken and useless when she needed him most.</p><p>The chair beside his desk scraped on the floor.</p><p>“If you could tell her something, what would you say?” Fred asked. George lifted his head. Fred was poised over a fresh sheet of parchment, quill in hand.</p><p>“We can’t owl,” George said. “The Ministry will trace the bird.”</p><p>“This isn’t for an owl,” Fred said. “Now answer the question.”</p><p>George fell back, watching the ceiling fan turn. Even after Ron’s betrayal, Hermione wouldn’t stop. She would keep fighting. It was embedded within the fabric of her being—Hermione Granger wanted to do some good in this world. But, she’d just been betrayed—by someone she loved and trusted. Abandoned when she needed help most. If he was her, what would he need to hear?</p><p>Percy’s blank expression, vanishing into the dark of the Wizengamot chamber, flashed through his mind.</p><p>“I guess I’d remind her what she’s fighting for,” he said, the words coming easily to him. “And-and I’d say that she’s not alone. She’s got an army behind her.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” Fred murmured, scratching some words down. “Hermione’s Army. I’ll owl Lee. You work on the lyrics, alright?”</p><p>Fred left the room, taking Bill’s letter with him. George rose and limped to the desk. The parchment’s heading was written in large, capital letters. He sat down and began to write.</p><p>#</p><p>October 5, 1997</p><p>Lee sang into one mic, and George and Fred grouped around the second. They were relegated to backup vocals on this track. Lee had been brilliant, taking the project in stride, drawing up a tune and recording the instrumentals overnight.</p><p>A jolt of excitement zipped through him as he listened to the lyrics. With luck, Hermione would hear it on Potterwatch.</p><p>
  <em>“She’s a knowledgeable, magical, powerful girl and she is<br/>Hoping to do some good in this world<br/>With the talent that is growing underneath her curls she is<br/>Hoping to do some good in this world.<br/><br/>Just because it’s that way doesn’t mean it should stay<br/>She’s got the vision and the brains to make a change<br/>The world may not be ready for elvish welfare<br/>But she’s not waiting for the world, she’s gonna push it there<br/>When Umbridge cut Defense from the syllabus<br/>She was the lead organizer of the Resistance<br/>Sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore’s Army<br/>Should have been named after Hermione.”*</em>
</p><p>Lee and Fred bounced up and down on the beat. Lee looked at George from the other side of the room, gesturing for more energy. George took a deep breath and shut his eyes. At the last line, the three of them shouted her name into the mic.</p><p>#</p><p>December 26, 1997</p><p>George laid in his old bedroom at the Burrow. It was safer here than the shop, now. They were mostly running off mail orders at this point anyway. So, when they’d visited for the holidays, they simply…hadn’t returned.</p><p>The night had descended with a thick darkness. Voices echoed from downstairs. They’d talk long into the night—planning, trying to brace for the worst. It was the same conversation every time, and it always ended on the same note of uncertainty. George couldn’t do it tonight. He swallowed, flicking his wand, and the room door swung shut.</p><p>“Expecto Patronum,” he whispered. The otter flipped and twisted above his head. As he watched, it blinked at him, then dove down, nuzzling his cheek. “Do you reckon they had a good Christmas?” George asked to no one in particular. The otter couldn’t answer. It didn’t know. None of them did.</p><p>He extinguished it. The stand holding the metal basin called to him from across the room, tucked against the nook beside the door.</p><p>George got to his feet and shuffled over—his limp was almost gone now, but when he moved too suddenly, the nerves would come alive again, haunting him with the memory of Umbridge’s curse. Bill had said that it would take time to fade.</p><p>He bent over the Pensieve. They’d brought from the flat two weeks before. It was there to help the Order. But because it was from their workshop, it was kept in their old room while housed at the Burrow.</p><p>He gripped the bowl’s edges with both hands, furrowing his brow. A day or so before, Bill had found a note from Ron—their younger brother had scrawled out that he thought he may know where to find Harry and Hermione. He’d gone after them.</p><p>It was good, perhaps, that Ron would be there to help again. But George didn’t trust him to stay this time. Not after leaving them before. Bill seemed to think otherwise—that the experience had taught Ron something important about friendship.</p><p>There was no way to know if Ron had found them. No way to know if they were even still alive.</p><p>Christmas hadn’t felt like Christmas, even with Charlie home on a visit.</p><p>George’s knuckles turned white against the surface of the Pensieve’s bowl. He hadn’t let himself. Not once, since she’d left. It wasn’t smart. People went mad over Pensieves, drowning themselves in their memories, pouring hours and hours into reliving the past rather than inhabiting the present.</p><p>But it had been so long since he’d seen her, and he was so tired. So lonely.</p><p>“Bugger,” he muttered.</p><p>His arms shook. He could feel his willpower crumbling.</p><p>Hastily, he wipped out his wand. “Colloportus,” he murmured, and the door locked. He brought the wand tip to his brow, then guided the strand of blue into the water. The surface rippled, and George fell into it.</p><p>The image sucked the breath out of him. Had it really been so long?</p><p> Her glow, her smile as she fought through the crowd—excitement snapping in her eyes. <em>“They were wonderful fireworks.” </em>He watched himself light when she spoke to him.</p><p>Godric. Had he really been so obvious?</p><p>Another.</p><p>Hermione, opening a purple jumper, laughing in the twinkle of the lights around them. George circled the table, watching her reaction. The apparition of himself reached back, stretching, then leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, eyes tracing over her with a startling eagerness. Fred leaned forward, whispering, and the younger George’s ears flushed.</p><p>Hermione had pulled the jumper on and was looking at Ron with a soft smile. The memory dissolved too soon. George blinked and leapt into another.</p><p>Fire crackled. His younger self laid on the floor beside Granger, talking about nonsense. If only he could trade—jump into the conversation. Just for a turn. His wand felt heavy and useless in his hands. Pensieves were for remembering, not living. But still, he watched the way she looked at him—different than Ron, but not in a bad way. Like she wasn’t sure exactly what to expect of him. His younger self nudged her elbow, whispering. George took in the wider room. Mr. Granger had entered, took in the scene with a thoughtful expression, and quietly receded back to the kitchen. Bloke must’ve forgotten something, then returned to find they all had gone.</p><p>Ron’s Patronus bound through the window, and George yanked himself out. He didn’t need to see the Burrow in flames again.</p><p>But he couldn’t stop his trembling hand from reaching up again—now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not until the cold was gone.</p><p>So, he lost himself in it. In the glow of firesides, the ghostly laughter, the shared glances that had meant more to him than her.</p><p>A rap sounded on the door, shattering the illusion. George fumbled, ripping himself from the Pensieve. Morning’s light poured through the window.</p><p>“Come in?” He said, more loudly this time. He pointed his wand at the door, and it unlatched.</p><p>“Fred said you’ve been up here for hours—” Charlie stepped through the frame. “I come bearing gifts,” he said, grinning and holding up two steaming mugs.</p><p>George took the drink from his older brother. “Thanks,” he said. Charlie watched him, head cocked to the side, waiting for the witty follow-up comment, but George didn’t have one in him. There was a strained pause.</p><p>Charlie nodded at the bed. “Mind if I sit?” George shrugged, and together, they sat down—George at the head, Charlie at the foot. The mattress springs creaked beneath their weight. Charlie took a long drink.</p><p>“I keep trying to find the right words—the right moment to say this,” Charlie said, taking a deep breath. “But I think it’s best I just have out with it, you know?”</p><p>George stared down into his cup. Charlie was disappointed—he could tell George wasn’t acting like himself. But he didn’t have the strength to pretend right now. He was doing his best.</p><p>“I wanted to tell you—” Here, Charlie’s voice caught. “—how bloody proud of you I am.”</p><p>What?</p><p>George stilled, confusion washing over him. Charlie shifted closer, and gentle hands came down on his shoulders.</p><p>“No, listen to me, Mate,” Charlie said. “You’ve been doing so much.”</p><p>“Not enough,” George said, voice hoarse.</p><p>“Stop it.” Charlie’s tone was firm, and he gripped George’s shoulders. “I know it’s your voice on the radio, with Lee and Fred. Just yesterday, you sent out how many packages? You went into battle—lost an ear, for heaven’s sake. They dragged you into the Ministry and bloody tortured you. And you’re still here. Still fighting.” George’s throat tightened, and he bristled at the feeling of tears in his eyes.</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s alright—” Charlie said, crushing him in a hug. “You’re doing so well.” George clung to Charlie and let himself cry.</p><p>“I’m so afraid—all the time,” he said, choking.</p><p>“Me too,” Charlie said. “But it’s okay to ask for help, George.” He gave him a final squeeze. George wiped his nose on his sleeve while Charlie finished his drink. He pointed at it, vanishing it with a look of great concentration. “Pretty wicked, right?” he said, grinning. George snorted. Charlie stood, clapping George on the back. “C’mon. Let’s check the perimeter. We can go for a ride.”</p><p>#</p><p>The two brothers trudged down the stairs, nodding at the group gathered in the living room—everyone looked a mess, having stayed up through the night. Mrs. Weasley was scrubbing halfheartedly at an old pan, and Ginny was curled up on the sofa. As he passed, George brushed her head with his hand. Ginny looked up, surprised, then gave him a faint smile. Fred was asleep, hunched over the dining room table.</p><p>His father didn’t raise his gaze from the edition of <em>The Quibbler</em> he was reading.</p><p>“We’re off to check the perimeter,” Charlie said, grabbing his jacket from its hook. “I suggest the lot of you take some pepper-up.” Mr. Weasley grunted.</p><p>The broom was sturdy under George’s legs, and the wind slashed at his face. It felt good—like coming out of the water and taking a breath. He was alive.</p><p>They ventured around the fields, then up, past the orchard.</p><p>“I’ll check this boundary and meet you back at the house?” George called. Charlie nodded, wheeling around.</p><p>George was just turning to leave when something in him lurched. Like the plop of a small stone, falling into a pond, the ripples spreading out through his body. It was a tiny ping on their farthest-reaching wards.</p><p>He blinked in the sunset, zooming high on his broom.</p><p>There, on a hillside far off and above the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, three figures stood. He took off, leaning forward, racing. It couldn’t be. The figures became clearer—the outline of their joined hands clear against the rising sun. The light gleamed off of a set of bushy curls. His vision blurred. They were turning to leave.</p><p>Not yet. Not yet, please.</p><p>He risked a shout— “Wait!”</p><p>He collided with the hillside, the broom tumbling out from under him as he stumbled, hitting the ground. He blinked into the dirt. They would be gone—already disapparated. He shook, starting to push himself up.</p><p>But then, a set of warm, real hands were helping him to his feet. “George?” Hermione asked, hair falling over her face as she crouched to help him. Something prodded the side of his neck. A wand.</p><p>“He could be an imposter—” Harry sounded worried, and the wandpoint at George’s throat wavered.</p><p>“Your first year, I shouted at Oliver for telling you to risk your life at Quidditch,” George said, breathing hard. The wand lowered.  </p><p>“Oh,” Harry said, taking in this new information. He looked far older than he had six months before. George didn’t have time to contemplate the significance of this before Hermione threw herself into his arms.</p><p>“We don’t have much time,” she breathed against his chest. “But it’s good to know that you’re alright. How are the others?”</p><p>“I could’ve told you that—” Ron’s voice was cold. A shard of anger lanced through him, shrapnel left from October.</p><p>“No matter,” George said, trying to shake it off, pulling back to look at her. “The others are managing. Worried about you lot, of course. But, that’s nothing new.” He tried a grin. Hermione gave him a faint smile. George breathed her in, studying her face. She looked at him, a quizzical line forming between her brows.</p><p>She was wrapped in a thick, black coat, her hair clipped back, away from her face. Not a scratch on her, but she was a bit thinner than she’d been last time they’d met. And just like that, the worry that had extinguished when he saw her flared back to life.</p><p>“We’ve—we’ve got to go,” Harry said, clearly at a loss for how to proceed.</p><p>“I know,” George said hoarsely, looking from one to the other. His gaze landed on Ron. His younger brother stood back, further away from him, making no move to close the distance. George swallowed back the outburst struggling to make its way out of his mouth. Losing his temper at Ron wouldn’t help the trio on their mission. “We’re all rooting for you,” he said. Harry patted him on the shoulder.</p><p>“You can’t tell the others we were here,” Ron said. George nodded, not meeting his eyes.</p><p>“I know,” George said. Even though it’d bring back the spark in the Burrow, the fewer people who knew of Harry’s whereabouts, the better.</p><p>“But if-if something happens, could you—tell Ginny—well, she knows.” Harry’s voice trailed off.</p><p>“Does she?” George asked, pinning Harry with the same look he’d given him the morning of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, when he’d found the two together in the kitchen. He didn’t mind Harry loving his sister, but if he was going to do it, he’d better do it right. Harry gripped his pack’s strap, but returned his gaze with a greater intensity.</p><p>“She’s a smart girl. She knows I love her,” Harry’s shoulders were square, and he didn’t flinch back the words this time. “But for now, tell her that I wouldn’t want her throwing herself in danger’s way. She needs to be careful at Hogwarts.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Ron said, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets.</p><p>George nodded. He’d heard all about Ginny’s exploits at the school. She refused to confirm her involvement, but it was clear by the rumors.</p><p>“She won’t listen,” George said. “But I’ll tell her.”</p><p>“Stay safe,” he said, nodding at Harry, then Hermione. A moment passed, then he finally looked at Ron. The hard edge in his younger brother’s look wasn’t lost on him. He stared back, jaw firm. “All of you,” he said, finally. Ron’s eyes widened the smallest fraction, his hands falling from his pockets.</p><p>“You as well,” Hermione said. She touched his arm, and her look was warm. He couldn’t help it. He wrapped her in one, final hug. He breathed in the smell of chamomile.</p><p>Then they were gone, pulling the cloak over themselves, blinking out of existence.</p><p>But they were alive.</p><p>#</p><p>March 1998</p><p>“George!” someone was shaking him, pulling him out of his sleep. “We’ve got to go.”</p><p>It was Fred, yanking at his arm. “They need us at Shell Cottage—Bill’s patronus didn’t say why, but they said to bring the Cruciatus care kit.” Rushing filled George’s ears.</p><p>Who was it this time?</p><p>He was up from the bed like a shot, throwing on a jumper and a pair of trousers. They apparated with a fast, spinning pop, and the world sucked away at his insides.</p><p>When they blinked into existence outside the small, homey cottage, George saw two things. First, there was Ron, standing with his hands in his coat pockets as though not a day had gone by, staring down at the ground. Second, there was Harry.</p><p>Digging. Digging a hole like a grave.</p><p>“No,” the word erupted from him, and he ran, harder than he’d ever run. Not Hermione. Not Hermione. Please, God, not Hermione.</p><p>The door handle slipped in his fingers as he pulled it back with a rough creak.</p><p>A form lay huddled on the sofa. A tangle of curls, and a pale arm, dripping red. Then, her chest shifted, and she breathed. She was still alive. Barely.</p><p>George’s knees hit the floor with a crack as he scrambled to her. Fleur shifted, making room.</p><p>He was vaguely aware of the sound of Fred’s voice, murmuring with Bill, but he couldn’t make sense of any of it.</p><p>“She’s not responding,” Fleur said, her face pinched as she leaned over her. “They said that Bellatrix used the Crutiatus curse, and—” Fleur’s voice trailed off as she looked at Hermione’s arm. George followed her gaze.</p><p>It wasn’t random, nonsense cuts. The Death Eaters had carved a word into Hermione, into her skin.</p><p>
  <em>Mudblood.</em>
</p><p>“Please,” Hermione’s sob froze his insides. She wasn’t awake, but her face was twisted up, her chest rattling with each breath.</p><p>She looked grey and faded, just like she did in his nightmares. A wave of nausea rose up in his throat.</p><p>“We need you to use the charm, George,” Fleur said, pulling on his arm. He nodded, taking the box from his pocket. They’d never used it on an unconscious subject before, but it had to work. It had to.</p><p>He pressed the cardboard into Hermione’s hands, then flicked his wand, opening it. Gold and purple sparks rushed out, then fizzled as they met Hermione’s skin.</p><p>Nothing happened.</p><p>“It’s not working,” Fred said, coming up behind George and kneeling. “Try again.” George flicked his wand, shutting and reopening the box. This time, the magic sputtered out.</p><p>Fred swore. George opened and shut the box, over and over, but the results didn’t change. He’d failed. All those hours, all that tinkering—for nothing. He sucked in a breath and didn’t release it, fumbling with his wand. The diagnostic spell was shaky in the cottage’s faint light.</p><p>“She’s fading!” Fleur’s voice was frantic.</p><p>“You’ve got to go in manually,” Fred said.</p><p>“Are you mad? That could hurt her worse!” George cried, looking up at him.</p><p>“We don’t have any other options!” Fred shouted. “Just do it!”</p><p>“I didn’t—I didn’t take it—” This time, Hermione’s voice was barely audible. Her skin was covered in a sheen, her breaths getting more shallow by the moment. She was lost in the curse’s grip.</p><p>George exhaled. He’d never worked on another person like this. The odds that something would go wrong—his mind blanked at the thought. But, she needed him. He wouldn’t leave her.</p><p>“I didn’t—” Hermione’s voice cut out, giving way to the fragile rattle of her breathing.</p><p>“I know, Hermione,” George said.</p><p>He swallowed and summoned every last bit of courage he had left. In his right hand, he took hers, wrapping her fingers in his as an anchor. Then using his left, he brushed her hair back from her brow, then pressed his palm to it. Her skin seared him, but he didn’t withdraw.</p><p>He anchored onto the magic, let it roll off his tongue. “Occluprotego.”</p><p>The air lurched, and he was sucked in.</p><p>#</p><p>The human mind was a curious place. George had only spent time in his own, really, and it was quite strange to find himself inside another’s. He stared at the floor, orienting himself. A crash echoed from far off.</p><p>He couldn’t touch anything—couldn’t make any fingerprints. Granger deserved her privacy. So, he moved quickly, like a ghost, eyes glued to the floor, sparing quick glances up into the corridors, searching only for the curse remnants. It was proving difficult—the air was clear, here, and there was no sign of struggle. It wasn’t spread throughout this part the library—that’s how her mind was organized. A great library, not unlike the one at Hogwarts. Towering shelves of books that vanished into the fog that hung high above his head. He must be in the wrong place. As though Granger had subconsciously moved him away from the danger.</p><p>Screaming. George’s feet picked up into a run. The shelves rushed past him, turning to a blur. As he neared the sound, he came upon a heavy, wooden door. It was cracked open, and he pushed through.</p><p>It was the Gryffindor common room, but it had been turned to rubble.</p><p>Bellatrix, made of dark smoke, poised over a form crumpled on the floor.</p><p>George reached for his wand, but his hand only found air. He didn’t have a wand here. Bellatrix rose, arms spread wide.</p><p>“Has the itty, bitty boy come to rescue her?” Her cackle scraped across the chamber, filling George’s chest with a cold fury. “Does he care for the filthy mudblood?”</p><p>It was Hermione on the floor.</p><p>George dashed forward, iron in his blood. The dark magic crackled through the room, bouncing off the walls like shrapnel, tearing at his skin as he moved through the space. It was cold, despite the Christmas jumper he was wearing. As he neared, Bellatrix darted over Hermione, raising her wand.</p><p>Hermione screamed, and her body rose in midair. Bellatrix smiled, and Hermione buckled, slamming into the charred remains of the rug that used to cover the common room floor.</p><p>George vaulted into the smoke. As he passed through Bellatrix, the fog gripped at him, icy fingers reaching through his ribs. He landed in a tumble beside Granger, ducking low to shield her with a protective arm.</p><p>“I didn’t take anything,” she cried, sharp gasps interrupting each word. Up close, he could see the tear tracks on her face, cutting through the grime.</p><p>“I’m right here,” he breathed, bracing her with a hand. She felt solid.</p><p>“Traitor!” Bellatrix screamed. George turned. He didn’t have a wand. He only had the strength for one spell without one.</p><p>“Occlumens,” he said, pushing the magic in his chest up and out through his mouth, focusing hard on the spot to which he needed it to flow. He spread his hands over the air above her, and a pale, shimmering shield erected around Granger. Like a bubble, protecting her from the sickness.</p><p>Bellatrix dove, but she glanced off of its surface. Her screech pierced his eardrum, and his head rang with a sickly pitch. Bellatrix’s figment twisted up into a column of smoke, then pressed down, into the barrier once more.  </p><p>A bolt of pain lanced through his palm, up his shoulder, but George rose from the floor and ground his heel in. He would hold fast.</p><p>“You can’t get through,” he shouted.</p><p>“Blood traitor!” Bellatrix howled, and the rush of terrible wind flattened his hair back. But George didn’t let go.</p><p>The pain intensified, like his skin was being singed, cold and precise up the left forearm.</p><p>“You disgust me,” Bellatrix’s voice sang in his ears. “Your kind will be the first we cull, after the muggles and the mudbloods. The great stain of the Weasley family, purged at last.” She smiled, showing all of her teeth.  </p><p>“No!” George shouted through the gale, but he didn’t lower his arms. She passed back and forth through him, and the burning in his arm grew more and more unbearable, like a cold knife carving him out. The room was a fever of smoke and ash and cold.</p><p>The curse remnants must be getting desperate—expunging more power than was sustainable. Without the caster nearby, it would fail. But, Granger was already so worn. The curse didn’t need more than a moment to finish her off.</p><p>He had to endure.</p><p>“Give up!” Bellatrix’s voice filled the chamber. “She doesn’t care for you. I can see it in her mind!” A furious impatience clipped her tone.</p><p>“That doesn’t matter,” George said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be here anyway.” At this, Bellatrix re-materialized, stepping from the smoke. Her form flickered, but her eyes narrowed. She twisted her wand, and the breath left his lungs. He choked, gagging on the vacuum around him.</p><p>The flashback filled him, crowding out the chaos with an older memory. Percy—vanishing.</p><p>He tried. He really tried, but the world began to darken, and his magic cracked, giving out. He dropped, just out of reach of Granger. Bellatrix’s eyes widened, and she laughed, raising her wand at the both of them.</p><p>The noise sounded distant, full of static. He must be fading.</p><p>George dragged himself, arm over arm, struggling. He reached her, pulling her body under his with the last of his strength. Bellatrix raised her wand.</p><p>“Move,” she said.</p><p>“No,” George gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. Hermione stirred beneath him, and he pressed close, shielding her. “You’ll have to kill me.”</p><p>She wouldn’t die tonight.</p><p>“So be it,” Bellatrix said, her voice falling into the same, horrible sing song that had echoed through the fields last Christmas.</p><p>“Avada Kedavra—” the room filled with green light. But before it reached them, everything went still. George opened his eyes. They were still in the common room, and Granger laid, curled up beneath him.</p><p>Bellatrix, the fog, the aftereffects of the Cruciatus—all had gone. George gasped in relief, collapsing on his back beside Granger. Her eyes opened, pupils blown wide. The room began to spin, fading.</p><p>“Get up, Hermione,” he murmured, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “You’ve got to pull through, now.”</p><p>“You’re here,” her voice was soft and tinged with a note of confusion. She reached towards him, hand shaking, and her fingers brushed over his face.</p><p>George’s grip on the world slipped, and everything vanished.</p><p>#</p><p>The first thing he noticed when he came to was the feel of a hand, bracing his shoulder. He stumbled forward, hitting Granger’s shoulder with his head.</p><p>“Easy—” Fred said, his grip tightening, shifting to steady George. George blinked.</p><p>The cottage was full—Bill, Fleur, Luna, Harry, Ron, and a goblin stared at him with uneasy eyes.</p><p>“She’ll be alright,” he said, feeling the weight of the battle in his bones. Fred helped him up from the floor, bracing George’s arm around his shoulders. As he rose, Harry and Ron ducked close to the sofa, speaking to Hermione in low whispers. Her breath was deep and even now. A proper rest.</p><p>George tipped his head back, swallowing thickly. He hadn’t felt this drained in months. His jumper sleeve was drenched. Grimacing, he pulled it back. A smear of deep red coated his skin.</p><p>“Bloody—” Fred said, jumping and pressing his wandtip to the wound. George stared at the ceiling, breathing in and out through his mouth as his twin cleaned it out. “It’s-it’s not going away.” Fred was murmuring, but his voice shook on the edge of the words.</p><p>George opened his eyes. There on the inside of his left forearm, the curse had left its mark. The carved words were an accusation, meant to punish him for intervening.</p><p>
  <em>Blood Traitor.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Eggshell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eggshell. It's somehow both strong and fragile, all at once.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AAAAAAAAAAAAAA</p><p>Thank you for the support, for commenting, for leaving a kudos, and for taking the time to read. I love you all. &lt;3 </p><p>I've been editing for hours now, and I have a deadly fear that I've left in a terrible mistake, so if that's happened, my humblest apologies. &lt;3 I don't know how much of me is human and how much is coffee at this point.</p><p>This week, the song that sort of fits the chapter is "Are You With Me" by nilu and "Money Money Money" by Abba. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>I hope you're all safe and warm. Grab something pumpkin flavored (it is October, after all), your favorite fuzzy socks, and a comfortable blanket. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>Chapter 15: Eggshell</p><p>Hermione</p><p>February 10, 2003</p><p>When she awoke, George’s head was resting on the edge of the bed. He’d fallen asleep in his chair, slumped over the mattress. Warmth flowed through her fingers, and she looked down. Their hands were pressed together, back to back. Hers on the top, as though it had drifted there in the middle of the night.</p><p>Her ears heated. She really ought to back away, before he came to.</p><p>But this felt different from the sparks she’d come to associate with his touch. This was a steady, comforting pulse, singing to her a soft, grounding melody.</p><p>She bit her lip and shifted, slipping from his touch. When their hands parted, the pulse stuttered and faded.</p><p>In its absence, her collar bone began to ache, and she winced. Where was her wand? She craned her head, attempting to sit up.</p><p>The movement woke George. He groaned into the mattress. “Bugger,” he said, voice muffled in the blankets. There was a sudden intake of breath, and his head shot up. “Hermione,” he said, eyes wide and urgent. The intensity there made her pause, forgetting about the pain creeping up her neck and jaw.</p><p>“Last night, did—did you remember something?” he asked.</p><p>What? Hermione blinked, shaking her head. The motion caused a twinge to run through the side of her face, centering in the spot where the pain was worst—her collarbone.</p><p>“No—” Hermione said without thinking, because it was the truth.</p><p>“Oh,” George said, features dropping. He tried, but he couldn’t quite conceal his disappointment. She could hear it under the cadence of his voice, the way that his sound cut out just a moment too soon. She could see it in the way his eyes darkened, darting to the side for a fraction of a second. He took a rattled, uncertain breath. Just long enough to tell her that he was unfooted by her answer. Whatever happened last night must have given him hope. And she’d just crushed it. “I shouldn’t have—I don’t mean to pressure—I just thought—never mind.” He rubbed at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Why do you ask?” Hermione couldn’t help but dig deeper, not with the way he had looked at her in those first moments after he woke.</p><p>“Something you said,” he murmured. “Reminded me of when we first—” he paused, swallowing back the thought. He ground his palms into his eyes. “Forget about it. I must’ve been tired,” he finished.</p><p>The morning light poured over his red hair and illuminated the freckles on his hands. George’s arms dropped to his sides, and the traces of disappointment were gone. What remained wasn’t far better. Scruff peppered his jaw, and his brown eyes were swamped by the dark circles beneath them.</p><p>“You look terrible,” she said, trying to smile.</p><p>“You’re a sight yourself,” George said, giving her one of his lopsided smiles. She shifted, bracing herself against the pillows, but the movement intensified the sharp cord of electricity coursing through her shoulder. She sucked in a breath.</p><p>At the sound, George was already rising, summoning his coat and keys. “C’mon. We’re going to Mungo’s.” His tone was firm.</p><p>“But—” she balked at his sudden announcement. The ache wasn’t so bad. She could still think. It was rather bothersome, but nothing to worry the healer team about. “I already fixed it, in the caverns,” she said defensively. “They’ll probably take one look and send me home.”</p><p>“Then we’ll stop for some tea on the way back, and it’ll be grand,” George said the barest hint of sarcasm nibbling through his tone. He jerked his head towards the bedroom door. “Let’s go.”</p><p>He was acting as though the decision was made. Hermione huffed.</p><p>“I don’t appreciate being told what to do,” she said.</p><p>“Pardon,” George said, taking a deep breath. “We can go to Mungo’s, or I can nip down there myself, kidnap a healer, and drag them back to you. Which would you prefer?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. His thumb bounced, jittering just a bit—a small explosion of energy amidst the cool front he put up.</p><p>“Don’t worry about me, George,” Hermione said. As she spoke, the radiating pinch intensified further. Perhaps George was right.</p><p>“I’m always worried about you,” he said, growing still. The moment extended, the two of them staring at each other in the frank light of morning.</p><p>“You shouldn’t bother,” she said, grimacing.</p><p>George shook his head, crossing back to her side and looking down at her with what seemed like fond exasperation. “Rubbish. I enjoy worrying about you far too much to give it up.” He held out his hands, waiting on her to take them. Hermione appraised him, then finally, she put her hands in his.</p><p>The sparks returned.</p><p>#</p><p>The rather unpleasant visit to St. Mungo’s had started in Creature-Induced Injuries floor, but one look at Hermione’s collar bone and the attending healer had redirected them to Spell Damage. Apparently, her hasty episky job hadn’t gone quite right.</p><p>She refused to sit on the table this time, opting for one of the two chairs, pushed into the corner of the room.</p><p>“There’s no getting around it, I’m afraid,” the nurse said, shrugging. George’s pacing ceased. “When things aren’t set proper, we’ve got to re-break them.” At these words, George crossed the space, taking the seat beside Hermione.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Hermione grimaced, staring at the ceiling tiles. “Let’s get on with it, then.”</p><p>Breaking it the first time had been horrid. She really didn’t want to experience that pain a second time, but if it would put a stop to the discomfort she was experiencing now, then so be it. Still, as she saw the nurse raise their wand, a jolt of anxiety lanced through her.</p><p>Without thinking, she reached for George’s hand, clamping his fingers tight in her own.</p><p>The connection between the sparked, and Hermione froze, holding her breath. She turned to him slowly. The look of surprise on his face was distracting enough that Hermione barely noticed the nurse’s wandwork. Suddenly, just before the end of the incantation, George leaned in.</p><p>“Look at me,” he murmured, lacing their fingers together. Her magic warmed, swirling in her chest, and Hermione’s breath hitched.</p><p>There was a loud, terrible crack, and Hermione clamped down on George’s hand. But, his eyes were like an anchor, so she held on, not blinking. That warm, comforting pulse from this morning had returned, carrying her through the healer’s work.</p><p>George smiled, leaning in. “You’ve always been a scrappy one, Granger.” The familiar nickname carried a playful zing. He was flirting with her, to distract her from the unpleasantness of the appointment.</p><p>Even more surprising—it was working. The thought startled her, and she swallowed.</p><p>The nurse moved rapidly, and Hermione’s collar bone shifted. The sharp pang vanished as quick as it had come.</p><p>Hermione blinked. A moment passed. The nurse bustled out, already tucking Hermione’s chart behind the next patient’s.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said, staring at the opposite wall. Slowly, she eased her hand back. Their fingers slipped apart, and the soothing thrum faded. She didn’t quite understand the connection that existed between them. It was like an invisible string, tugging at her in the most unexpected ways.</p><p>Did he feel it, too?</p><p>She faced him. He looked the slightest bit concerned, watching her reaction. It was time to put this mystery to rest.</p><p>“When I touch you—why does it do that?” she asked, playing with the hem of her sleeve. A slow, soft grin spread over George’s face. “What?” she asked, before he could reply.</p><p>“No—it’s nothing. Only—” He shrugged, and a wrinkle appeared between his brows. “I didn’t know you could still feel it.”</p><p>“It’s normal, then?” Hermione asked, face heating more by the moment.</p><p>George braced his elbows on his knees, propping his chin in his hand. His expression shifted to something more bemused. “Well, it’s not common, but it is normal for us, if that makes sense.”</p><p>
  <em>For us.</em>
</p><p>Hermione rose, pacing the floor, tallying up what she knew about magic in her head. Her experience with familial magic was woefully short, given that her parents were muggles.</p><p>George’s eyes followed her path as she moved back and forth across the floor.</p><p>“Does it have something to do with getting married?” Hermione asked. George nodded.</p><p>“When—blimey, I sound like Dad,” he said, shaking his head. He took a breath and tried again. “When we got married, our magic sort of—well, fused. It’s not unheard of, but it doesn’t happen often.”</p><p>Hermione stopped pacing. “Why is it uncommon?”</p><p>George lifted his head from his hand. His mouth smiled, but his gaze dropped to the floor. “It requires a powerful bond.”</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said. So this was why her magic sang whenever he was near.</p><p>“I-I’ve tried to be careful with it,” George said, his voice dropping. “I wasn’t sure how it would affect you in this state, or if you would still feel it at all.”</p><p>The door squeaked open.</p><p>“Sorry,” the nurse said, peeking in. “It appears that Healer Marcus is unavailable at the present. Would you prefer to wait or reschedule to have your chat?”</p><p>Hermione shook her head. She needed to get out of this hospital. “I’ll owl,” she said. Her question about the odd, sudden spells of confusion she’d been having would have to wait.</p><p>Later, as they stepped out of the building, flashed erupted around them. Her hand found George’s elbow, and he apparated them home.</p><p>#</p><p>February 11, 2003</p><p>The next morning, Hermione was curled on the sofa with <em>A History of Magic</em> and a hot tea. George kept flitting in to check on her. They hadn’t spoken more on their connection since leaving Mungo’s.</p><p>Part of Hermione was afraid of what she might discover. What if it entailed something ghastly?</p><p>She chewed her bottom lip, watching as he adjusted the burner on the stove. He placed two pieces of French toast inside the copper pan, drawing his hand back as it came too close to the heat.</p><p>She really should have arranged breakfast for herself before sitting down and getting comfortable.</p><p>“Want any, Granger?” he called.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“If you don’t mind,” she said, haltingly.</p><p>He flicked his wand, and two clean plates floated from the cupboard.</p><p>Something warm trickled through her chest, despite the distance between them. It was the kind of happiness that floods you when you realize that you’ve been seen and remembered.</p><p>She burrowed deeper into the knit blanket that was draped over her legs, pulling it to her chin. It still felt a bit strange, she supposed, that it was George who was noticing her. He’d always been so vibrant, and she was rather dull. Even now, doing something so simple as making breakfast, he was spinning about, charming the sponge to scrub at the dirty mixing bowl.</p><p>He hadn’t shaved yet, and the auburn scruff on his jaw was just dark enough to see from across the room. His movements were deft and practiced over the stove, however, and it was almost hard to follow which tasks he was doing by hand and which by magic.</p><p>He looked up, catching her staring. Hermione’s face heated.</p><p>George winked—so quick that she almost didn’t catch it and continued turning the toast in the pan.</p><p>Hermione lifted her book and buried herself back inside of it, hiding behind its pages.</p><p>As she’d feared, there was nothing in the tome about magical relationships like hers. The index was thorough but not so comprehensive as to include everything, so she’d revisited the relevant chapters and read them through, just to be sure.</p><p>She picked up her journal from the basket under the coffee table, slipping it onto the thick book. It opened to the marked page. George’s column was still woefully short—though she’d added “magical connection??” the night before.</p><p>She chewed her lip and summoned a sugar quill from the glass jar on the bookshelf. She snuck a look across the room. George was dishing the food onto the plates. Gently, she scratched “thoughtful” at the bottom of the list.</p><p>She shut it quickly, before he could see on his walk to the sofa.</p><p>“What d’you have there?” George asked, his tone light and friendly as he handed her a plate.</p><p>“Some notes,” Hermione said, taking the fork from him.</p><p>“About the wandlore case?” he asked, pulling up the armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table.</p><p>There was an empty seat on the sofa beside her. Hermione frowned.</p><p>“No,” Hermione answered, tucking into the food. “But now that you mention it, I should send my notes from the trip to Fleur.” She popped the bite into her mouth.</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>“George, this is brilliant,” she said as soon as she swallowed. George’s face lit up, and he smiled at her before ducking his head and digging into his own portion.</p><p>Before she could clear her dish, the fireplace flared to life.</p><p>“Mione?” Harry’s voice boomed from the hearth. She rested the plate on the table and hurried over.</p><p>“Yes?” she asked, crouching to approach his face.</p><p>“I’m sorry to interrupt your morning, but Luna owled us yesterday. She told us about what happened at the Liathach, and I’m afraid it’s become a subject of interest in our investigation. Would you mind coming in today to have a chat?”</p><p>Hermione blinked. What did the Liathach have to do with cursed objects?</p><p>“Alright, if that would be helpful,” she said, measuring out her words, trying to work through the connection in her head. Nothing came to mind.</p><p>“We can tell you more when you get here. Oh,” Harry’s face perked up as George knelt beside her. “You can come as well, George.”</p><p>“If that’s what Hermione wants,” George said, watching her. She nodded.</p><p>“I wouldn’t mind the company,” she said. “The Ministry was a bit of a drag the last time I was there.”</p><p>It took a few moments for the joke to sink in, but when it did, Harry’s laugh boomed through the floo. She could hear him calling for Ron to repeat it, just before the connection died out.</p><p>#</p><p>The waiting room outside of the Auror’s offices was really a grouping of worn chairs, tucked between a water cooler and the loos. A single side table squatted before them, holding the day’s papers. George sprawled in the seat beside her, taking notes in a record book he’d brought from the shop. The hall was quite drafty, but she could feel the warmth singing from his sleeve every time it brushed her arm.</p><p>She shifted, sighing. What was taking Harry so long?</p><p>The Ministry was different, now. But, the quiet rush of distant voices, the persistent dings from the elevator, the cleaning chemical smell—all of those things were the same. Where was Harry? She shifted again, pushing the curls out of her face. She began to pull them into a loose braid, but the strands wouldn’t cooperate, and she gave up with a huff, unravelling it.</p><p>“Alright?” George’s soft murmur almost missed her ears. He hadn’t looked up from his book, but he’d noticed her nerves all the same.</p><p>“Mm,” Hermione answered, biting her lips together and picking at a stray thread on her denims. She looked up and down the hallway. Then did it again.</p><p>George unfurled his arm, draping it along the back of her chair. It was tucked far enough towards the wall behind them that it didn’t touch her. But she could lean back into it, if she wished.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>She ducked forward and swiped through the papers on the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw George’s record book falter the slightest bit. He drew his arm back, making as though to turn a page, but he kept it at his side after.</p><p>Drat. She hadn’t meant to reject him forthright. She turned to the table, scanning the contents for a distraction.</p><p>Instantly, she regretted her decision. There, on the cover of <em>The Resonant</em>, was her face.</p><p>Her eyes widened and she snagged the paper from the table. It was dated for that morning, and beneath the fold, the headlined proclaimed “Trouble at the Weasley-Grangers.”</p><p>“You’ve got to be joking,” she whispered, clenching her teeth. The photo was completely removed from context, but it didn’t make them look good. He stood at her side, face downturned while she blinked in the morning sun from the day before. Their expressions were hurried and stressed, St. Mungo’s standing in the background. The crop cut out the way she’d taken his elbow, and the two of them vanished in the strobe of camera flashes.</p><p>A quick skim of the article revealed speculation over relationship issues that resulted from the attack in Wizengamot and its aftermath.</p><p>They were writing about whether the marriage would last, like it was the weather. The lengthy paragraph under the heading called George into question and asked about Hermione’s long absence. They were claiming she’d gone to stay with her parents for the last couple weeks. The following paragraph explored theories as to why they’d be unable to make it.</p><p>“That’s rubbish,” George’s murmur filtered into her ears. Hermione dropped the paper, face burning.</p><p>“How can they do that? Print about our lives like it’s a soap opera?” she whispered back, horrified.</p><p>George turned another page in the record book. His shoulders were tense, though. “That paper,” he said, and his voice was low. “is filth.” Without looking up, he flicked his wand, and a small flame ate away the parchment, then vanished, leaving nothing but a pile of ashes on the table.</p><p>“George!” Hermione hissed. “You can’t set things on fire in the middle of the Ministry.”</p><p>George looked completely unconcerned. “Can’t I?” he asked, turning another page. He caught her eye over the edge of his book, and something playful danced there.</p><p>Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest. That was. He was.</p><p>Ridiculous.</p><p>“There are restrictions in public buildings for a reason,” she said, leaning towards him. “All it takes is one bad move, and you’ve set the whole room on fire.”</p><p>“I’d best be careful then,” George said, lifting his brows. “Wouldn’t want to besmirch these hallowed halls with a bit of soot.”</p><p>A beat passed. George looked back down at his book.</p><p>“You’re terrible,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. She wasn’t quite able to keep the smile from her face.</p><p>“Yes, but you love me anyway,” he said. Then, as though realizing what he’d said, he paused, and his face colored violently. “Sorry, I only meant—”</p><p>Harry and Ron’s approaching footsteps cut through his words, and Hermione put the awkward moment behind her. She could worry about it later.</p><p>“It’s alright,” she said, smiling at him. George’s face relaxed.</p><p>Harry stared at the ash on the table. “We have a bin,” he said, adjusting the gleaming, gold buttons on his auror uniform’s black front. His hair was as mussed as ever, though, falling every which way and especially into his eyes. Ron crossed his arms, his own grey uniform matched Harry’s—except for the color. Both had the Ministry’s telltale “M” emblazoned on the chest pocket.</p><p>It was strange seeing them so grown up.</p><p>“Why don’t we head to my office?” Harry said, holding out his hand to help Hermione up. Ron’s expression was unreadable, his gaze darting between George and Hermione.</p><p>Harry led them down the hall, past an assortment of plants and paintings that left the space no warmer.</p><p>But, when Harry opened his office door, a broad smile broke over Hermione’s face. It was so—so <em>Harry.</em> His desk was a dark wood, and a Firebolt hung above the doorframe. As they entered, a large photo of Ginny bedecked in her Holyhead Harpies uniform winked at her from the wall beside the coatrack. In the picture, Harry launched across the frame, tackling Ginny and smothering her in kisses while Ginny tipped her head back and laughed.</p><p>On the right side of the room stood a private floo and an armchair, while the large desk and accompanying seats dominated the left side of the space. It was small, but everything had a purpose, and Harry hadn’t been shy about sticking tacks into the ornate paneling to hoist up a Gryffindor banner behind his desk chair.</p><p>Harry eased behind the desk and pulled out a file from the set of drawers beneath it. Ron, meanwhile, flopped back into the armchair beside the floo. Harry scanned the file’s contents, motioning for George to close the door. The faint sounds from the hall faded as it clicked shut.</p><p>Hermione circled around the room, taking in the details again. Was she supposed to sit? Stand? Harry was a bit pre-occupied with the folder, and Ron wasn’t saying anything—only watching her with a small line between his brows.</p><p>“This is very nice, Harry,” Hermione said, gesturing around the room. Harry lifted his head, eyes widening a fraction.</p><p>“I’m a git,” he said, shoulders slumping. “I forgot you hadn’t been here since—”</p><p>Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“And you had to wait as well,” Harry mumbled, dragging his hand down his face. He cleared his throat and gestured at the seats before the desk. “Please.”</p><p>Hermione sank into the chair, holding its armrests in her hands. George crossed to the coatrack and hung his outer robe on it. He raised his brows and pointed at her jacket, but she shook her head. George nodded, then proceeded to roll his sleeves before taking the seat beside hers. As he shifted beside her, the back of his hand brushed hers.</p><p>Sparks.</p><p>Hermione shifted, but didn’t move her hand. She wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t happen again—he’d already adjusted his, drawing it closer to himself.</p><p>“Sorry about the wait,” Harry was saying. “Had to get the proper clearance to brief you of the ongoing investigation we’ve got.”</p><p>“Doesn’t help that Clarke got his hands into it,” Ron said, huffing. Harry rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Anyways, you’re here now.” Harry took a deep breath before resting both hands on the table. “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room.” He paused, looking pointedly at George.</p><p>“When have I ever leaked ministry intel?” George asked, raising his hands.</p><p>Ron sputtered. “I had to switch jobs!”</p><p>“It was an emergency,” George answered, leaning forward, staring hard at Ron.</p><p>“Regardless,” Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is an extremely delicate case, and we cannot have this information leaking to the public. The perpetrators don’t know how much we know yet, and we’d like to keep it that way.”</p><p>Hermione’s chest constricted. “Is everything—is it alright, Harry?”</p><p>Harry took a deep breath. “No, Hermione.” He flipped the folder open, and reams of parchment spilled out. “The cursed artifacts we’ve been tracking—they’re being planted in locations that muggles and mugglebornes are likely to frequent.” He pointed to a couple lines on the record—one in Godric’s Hollow, a muggle pub in London, near the Leaky. “These are the most recent. While crime like this isn’t unheard of—” Ron snorted, but Harry kept talking. “These incidents are tied by the nature of the magic we’ve found within the objects.”</p><p>“What does this have to do with me?” Hermione asked, looking up at Harry. “If you’re worried about me, Harry, don’t be. I’m-I’m alright. I’ll be careful.” Harry blinked, his eyes squeezing shut, and Hermione saw a flash of the boy who struggled through the Wizarding War.</p><p>“That’s good to hear, but unfortunately, we fear there is a connection between what you experienced on your trip and these events,” Harry said.</p><p>George went very still.</p><p>“What d’you mean?” he asked, looking from Harry to Ron.</p><p>“It’s the Dementors,” Ron said, poking at the copper lamp frame beside his armchair.</p><p>“Dementors?” George’s eyes widened.</p><p>Oh no. She hadn’t told him yet. And this was such a terrible way for him to find out—from Ron and Harry, not her.</p><p>“I-I—” Hermione stuttered.</p><p>“Yes, Dementors,” Harry said, smoothly skating over the moment of tension with a practiced grace. “The objects—they’re using a strange fusion of dark magic, but we’ve been able to trace some of it to Dementor origins. We’ve been tracking the known infestations, but, we weren’t aware of any at the Liathach. Given what Luna said about the state of the runes, we think the spike in Dementor presence may be connected.”</p><p>George was looking at her, but she couldn’t raise her face. She was afraid of what she’d find in his eyes. She hadn’t meant to keep it from him.</p><p>“We were hoping you could show us some of the memories from that trip, to see if there’s any evidence of dark intervention that might be useful to our case,” Harry said, leaning across the desk.</p><p>Hermione twisted her sleeve’s hem. “Of course,” she said.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Harry’s face lit with a smile. “You’re a life saver, Hermione.”</p><p>Hermione smiled, but it probably didn’t look very convincing. Not with the way her stomach was turning.</p><p>“The department Pensieve is just down the hall, then,” Harry said, gathering the parchments back together and slotting them into the charmed file. Harry and Ron rose and began to proceed from the room.</p><p>“George,” Hermione ducked her head closer to him, whispering. “I’m so sorry—”</p><p>“Are you alright?” George interrupted her. She raised her eyes, and he was looking at her as though she might fracture into a million, tiny pieces.</p><p>“Yes,” she said. “And really, truly—I meant to tell you.” George’s mouth was a thin line, but his eyes were warm and urgent as they traced her features. Finally, he swallowed and smiled.</p><p>“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “You can tell me things on your own time. That’s alright.”</p><p>Hermione hesitated, then smiled back and leaned in, nudging his arm. “Rubbish. I enjoy worrying about you far too much to give it up,” she said, inclining her head towards him.</p><p>George breathed out a short laugh at her use of his words. Then, his eyes dropped to her mouth. Just for the briefest moment, but she was certain they had.</p><p>Her mind blanked.</p><p>He cleared his throat, standing. “Let’s do this, Granger.” He helped her to her feet, and they followed Ron and Harry down the hallway. Hermione flexed her hand at the warmth his touch left behind.</p><p>#</p><p>The Pensieve chamber was small, but they managed to fit. Hermione pulled the silvery strands from her temple and they floated into the bowl. Together, the group fell into the fog.</p><p>It was strange, revisiting the Liathach without the cold. Harry and Ron paced back and forth through the caverns, taking notes. She’d only pulled memories from the moments of danger—when it felt like the Liathach was trying to spit them out rather than let them through.</p><p>Because they were only reviewing the most relevant memories, it gave the entire trip a much more harrowing caste. The whole thing had been rather unpleasant, but gone were the fireside dinners and Ollivander’s stories. The line between George’s brows got deeper each time their surroundings dissolved and reappeared.</p><p>She showed them the scratching noise that had followed them during the later part of their journey, and George watched as she unfolded his note, his expression unreadable.</p><p>When they got to the bit with the Wyvern, Hermione turned away. She had no desire to watch her shoulder break again.</p><p>She peeked up at George. His jaw was working, flexed, and his lips were bit together as he surveyed the scene. The icy blast rushed through the room, and the sound of her own scream was bone-chilling.</p><p>Then, she could hear herself sobbing, choking—</p><p>
  <em>“Episky,”</em>
</p><p>Hermione winced. She hadn’t realized how loud her crying was. She couldn’t look at George.</p><p>Harry waved his wand, and the scene muted.</p><p>“That shackle—” he called, pointing.</p><p>“We still have it, yes,” Hermione said, eager for something productive to focus on.</p><p>“Could you bring it in?” Harry asked. Hermione nodded. “Brilliant.” Then: “You’re doing really well, Hermione.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Hermione said, taking a deep breath. George was crouched across the room, kneeling in front of the vision of her past self. He rose slowly and crossed to her. He didn’t speak, only took a deep breath.</p><p>“Just there,” Hermione said, pointing at herself and trying hard to keep her voice light. “I was thinking about making tea.”</p><p>George scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m going to need something stronger than that after this,” he said. She couldn’t read the emotion in his eyes; he turned from her too quickly.</p><p>They moved on quickly from that—the next memory was the most pertinent one. When Hermione had woken up, alone. Shock registered on George, Ron, and Harry’s faces as the cloaks fluttered into the cavern.</p><p>They couldn’t hear the thoughts that the Dementors had given her, at least. For that, she was grateful.</p><p>George was rigid as they swarmed her, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. She stepped closer.</p><p><em>“I-I can’t!”</em> her voice cried, echoing. George crossed his arms, his gaze flickering from the dementors to her crouched form.</p><p><em>“Expecto Patronum!” </em>Blue light poured out, and just as before, George’s laugh rang through the chamber. George started, his arms falling to his sides.</p><p>Was that not normal?</p><p>Luna’s voice washed over her, but she didn’t comprehend the words as the memory sped past them. The stone crunched, and then they were in the lair, with Merlin’s Phantom.</p><p><em>“I see.”</em> Its voice sent a shard of ice down her spine, despite the layers of time between them.</p><p>Her heart pounded as it sprouted the red hair, taking on the familiar form. What would he say? Her hands shook, and she shoved them in her pockets.</p><p>George’s mouth opened. Shut. He whirled back and forth, between her and the phantom.</p><p>“It’s—it’s me,” he said, confusion and hurt radiating from him. Hermione shook her head, but no words would come.</p><p>
  <em>“Face me.”</em>
</p><p>George’s face contorted at the phantom’s tone. When it raised its wand, he stepped, as though subconsciously, between her and the memory, his arm outstretched before her to keep her behind him. Hermione reached up and touched his shoulder.</p><p>“I’m alright, George,” she said, over the sound of the conversation between her past self and the phantom.</p><p>George blinked, shaking his head.</p><p>
  <em>“Come on, Hermione. Hurt me. You’re bloody good at it, after all.” </em>
</p><p>George whirled, looking between her in the past and present, something shattered in his expression. “I-I don’t think that,” he said.</p><p>
  <em>“Or is this all a game for you? A joke, maybe?”</em>
</p><p><em>“I’m not going to fight you.”</em> Her voice sounded tired and frightened. Hermione pulled at George’s shoulder, but he had become transfixed, staring at the horror playing out before them.</p><p>She’d forgotten about this bit. He couldn’t know—couldn’t find out.</p><p>But it was too late; the phantom was already speaking.</p><p>
  <em>“Why? Wish I was Ron? Is that it?” </em>
</p><p>Across the room, Ron tripped, lurching into the cavern wall in surprise.</p><p>“George—I don’t,” Hermione rushed to say, tugging at his shoulder, but he’d frozen in place. Harry’s eyes were wide.</p><p>Her throat tightened, but the phantom kept speaking.</p><p>
  <em>“We both know that if you’d woken up to him, you’d be cozied up with him, a picture-perfect couple by now. I’m just…a replacement.”</em>
</p><p>Ron swore, picking himself off the ground.</p><p>Hermione blinked, the sound of her memory’s protest reverberating around her. George hadn’t looked back at her yet. He was stiff, watching the phantom approach her battered form.</p><p>
  <em>“Well I’ve got news for you, Granger. You weren’t my first pick either.” </em>
</p><p>George sucked in a breath, and his shoulders tightened even further. Her shield charm flashed through the cavern.</p><p>
  <em>“Stuffy old Hermione, always lecturing like she’s better than everyone else. And now you’re running away. Again.”</em>
</p><p>She knew it was coming, but she still jumped at the spell.</p><p>
  <em>“Crucio!”</em>
</p><p>George flinched, reaching back and grabbing her hand on his shoulder.</p><p>The vision of George, crouched on the ground, bleeding, flickered to life. Hermione watched her former figure’s hand reach towards it, shaking.</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t-Don’t leave me, Granger.”</em>
</p><p>George turned, his face aghast in the strobe of spellfire. Had it really been this bad the first time around?</p><p>Yes. It had. Without allowing herself time to think about it, she lunged forward, throwing her arms around George’s middle, pressing her face to his back. He jumped, then she felt his hands come down to rest on hers. She wasn’t sure if the staccato rhythm pounding through her ear was her pulse or his.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m done talking.”</em>
</p><p>It would only speak lies. She tuned the sound out. Instead, she would ground herself in what she knew. She counted her breaths. Focused on the feel of George’s fingers on hers. This was real. Sturdy.</p><p>
  <em>“Come to play, have we?” </em>
</p><p>Hermione opened her eyes and watched as the other girl’s shoulders straightened.</p><p><em>“You’re not my George</em>.” The other Hermione’s voice was loud and bold, echoing through the chamber.</p><p>“Oh,” George whispered. He twisted in her arms, looking down to her. His mouth was open and something like realization dawned in his eyes. He turned back to the memory, his lips moving over the words she’d said like he was concentrating very hard, trying to solve a puzzle.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re only a passing shadow.”</em>
</p><p>The room lit, and the memory faded away. George’s hands had slipped from hers, and she stepped back.</p><p>The enchanted quill dropped onto a stack of parchment. Harry rubbed at his temples.</p><p>“That was—something,” Harry said. “We should talk with Ollivander—see if other accounts of this phantom are of a similar, dark nature, or if Hermione’s experience was isolated.” Ron snapped his fingers, and the quill scrawled a final note.</p><p>Harry slipped between the Pensieve bowl and Hermione, holding her shoulders in his hands.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Harry asked. Hermione nodded, a bit to quickly, and Harry sighed. “No, you’re not. That’s okay.” He spoke softly. “We’re going to go over some notes—”</p><p>“Tell me what you find,” Hermione said. Harry paused, grimacing. “I mean it, Harry.”</p><p>“We’ll probably end up asking for her help anyway,” Ron said in a bored-sounding drawl. His attitude about what they’d just seen was strangely comforting. He was the only one who was successfully pretending that any sense of normalcy they’d managed hadn’t just been blasted to bits all over the floor.</p><p> George and Hermione flooed from the Harry’s office, accompanied by his promises to be in touch.</p><p>The flat was dark around them as they returned. The second their feet touched the wood floors, George’s facade crumbled, and he ducked his head, holding his face in his hands. Hermione froze. Did he want to be alone?</p><p>She stepped towards the hall, but his hand reached out, brushing her sleeve.</p><p>“Please.” His voice was strained.</p><p>Hermione stopped. The glow from the lamps outside played over his face. Something was broken there. Her heart lurched.</p><p>“I need—” he gasped, and his words cracked apart. She didn’t hesitate, only stepped into his arms like she’d done it a million times before. The warmth spread between their torsos, thrumming and singing through her ribcage. The world turned quietly around them for those moments, neither one letting go.</p><p>She could feel his breath, soft on her brow. “You were always my first pick,” he whispered. Then he pulled away, crossing the floor and shutting the study door behind him.</p><p>#</p><p>February 12, 2003</p><p>It was half-passed ten, and Harry hadn’t owled yet. Worse yet, the door to George’s study was still shut tight.</p><p>Hermione paced the kitchen. She needed help.</p><p>She grabbed a fistful of green powder, tossed it into the hearth, and shouted “Fred and Angelina’s!”</p><p>The floo carried her away, and she stumbled out onto stone.</p><p>She was in a small cottage. Large, arched windows across the room showed a snow-covered field. A baby’s crying echoed through the room, but at her appearance, it stopped.</p><p>Someone cleared their throat. Hermione whirled, taking in the redhead, leaning back against the counter. Fred stared at her, brows raised.</p><p>“I should’ve owled,” she said, throat constricting.</p><p>“Nonsense,” Fred answered, taking a long drink from his mug. “It’s about time, really.”</p><p>Hermione’s gaze flicked towards the child, who was staring at her from behind the counter, tears tracking down his face.</p><p>“Is Angelo alright?” she asked.</p><p>Fred sighed. “I wouldn’t let him eat a piece of charcoal.”</p><p>Angelo payed his father no mind, instead opting to stumble to Hermione, arms outstretched. Hermione picked him up, balancing him on her hip.</p><p>“Yes, she’s the nice one, isn’t she?” Fred’s voice was wry, and he turned to rinse out his mug in the sink.</p><p>“Where’s Angelina?” Hermione asked, peering around the room.</p><p>“Practice,” Fred said. He crossed to the shoe rack by the front door. “Let’s get a cuppa. The tea I’ve got here isn’t good enough for this.” Hermione nodded, wordless.</p><p>Together, they wrangled Angelo’s shoes, the diaper bag, mittens, and all of the little things that children hate to put on and love to lose once they’ve gone out the house.</p><p>They floo-ed to Diagon Alley, into the workspace behind the shop. Outside, the sound of customers milling about filtered through the door.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said, staring in the direction of the noise. “He’s working today.”</p><p>Fred tilted his head. “Yes. Generally, one of us watches the place when the other’s busy.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “I thought he was still in his room,” she said. Fred watched her quietly.</p><p>“I don’t know what happened, Hermione, but he won’t bite,” he said. He hoisted Angelo higher onto his hip. “It’s not in his nature.” Even still, Fred waited for Hermione to push the door open.</p><p>The warm light of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes poured over her. George flitted between customers, face lit in a smile. He had on the usual, purple apron, his sleeves rolled up as he grasped a box on the highest shelf, then crouched, bringing it down for a younger patron.</p><p>He looked up, catching the three of them in the doorway. He stilled, then braced his hands on his knees, drawing back up to his full height. Despite the crowds between them, the noise in the room seemed to fade.</p><p>“We’re grabbing tea,” Fred shouted. “If Angelina asks, tell her we’re at the usual spot.”</p><p>George looked around at the customers, then back at them, something wistful in his gaze. But, he nodded, then returned to his work.</p><p>The streets were bustling, and Hermione followed Fred closely to Fortescue’s. They grabbed a booth in the back, and Fred ordered Angelo a large hot cocoa. During the colder months, it seemed Florean had turned to hot drinks and sandwiches to bring in patrons. Fred still got ice cream, though.</p><p>“That’s not tea,” Hermione said, raising her brows. Angelo crawled into her lap, and she shifted, accepting the toddler without comment.</p><p>“Mind your business, Hermione,” Fred said, grinning, leaning over Angelo to murmur a cooling charm over the drink before conjuring a spill-proof lid to fit over the cup’s rim.</p><p>Angelo pointed to Fred’s ice cream. Fred dunked his spoon in and offered it to Angelo, his eyes not leaving Hermione’s face.</p><p>“Right. So, you’ve come to ask about George,” he said. Hermione toyed with her mug’s handle.</p><p>“Yes, I suppose,” she said.</p><p>Fred spooned another bite to Angelo. “Not a word of this to your mother,” he said, then turned back to Hermione. “Have out with it, then. What happened?”</p><p>Hermione’s breath came out in a whoosh. “Last night—we hugged, and he said something.” Her face was getting terribly warm.</p><p>“Hugging? Scandalous.” Fred rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Angelo picked up the spoon and began to go at the Sunday himself.</p><p>Hermione huffed. “He said I was always his first pick.”</p><p>Fred grew still. “There are some things that you need to hear from George, I think.” His voice had gone quiet. Hermione took a long drink of her tea.</p><p>“I know,” she said. “But, as his brother, do you have any advice?”</p><p>Fred drummed the table. “Yes.” He leaned in. “Stop overthinking it and snog him.” Hermione huffed.</p><p>“Be serious, Fred,” she said. Fred grinned.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Ice cream in February?” Angelina’s exasperated voice cut through the moment. Fred started, looking up at his wife.</p><p>“It’s mine,” he said, drawing the dish closer to him. Angelina’s gaze flicked from Fred to Angelo, whose face was covered in the stuff.</p><p>“Right,” she drawled, dropping into the seat beside Hermione. “So, we’re talking about George?” She didn’t bat an eyelash, only proceeded to unbuckle her arm guards.</p><p>Fred nodded. “I’ve just told Hermione she should snog him.” Angelina peeled the guard from her forearm and pelted it across the table. Fred snatched it out of the air, grinning.</p><p>“George wouldn’t want her to do that unless she felt completely comfortable with it,” Angelina said. Fred’s face blanked.</p><p>“Well, obviously.” He turned to Hermione, pointing seriously. “Don’t do it unless you want to.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Hermione said dryly. “I was hoping you might have more to offer along the lines of how I can support him while we deal with this…situation.” That was a shoddy word for it, but it was all she could think of.</p><p>Angelina frowned. “George is the sort of bloke who likes to be helpful, rather than ask to be helped. You’ve got to look for the opportunities to lend a hand, because he’s less likely to speak up about it.” She paused. “You two sort of have that in common.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. They weren’t wrong. But, sometimes it was easier to simply do something yourself than to bother others with it. Surely, there wasn’t anything wrong with that?</p><p>“She’s right,” Fred said, skating a hand through his hair. “In the past, you two seemed to sort of read each other, figuring out what the other needed—even before you got together. If he’s struggling, and you have an instinct for how to step in, don’t second guess yourself.”</p><p>“And if you haven’t a clue,” Angelina reached over, placing her hand on Hermione’s. “Ask. And keep asking.” Hermione swallowed.</p><p>Fred nodded, his expression serious.</p><p>“Thanks,” Hermione said. Her throat tightened, and the tip of her nose began to ache. “I’m afraid that I’m rubbish at all this.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Fred leaned forward and placed his hand on top of Angelina’s, forming a strange stack. “You make my brother happier than I’ve ever seen him.”</p><p>A sob worked its way out of her throat. Merlin, she was a mess. “Not anymore,” Hermione said.</p><p>“You’re wrong,” Fred said. “Blimey, Hermione, don’t you see the way he lights up the second you walk in the door?”</p><p>“He does that for everyone,” Hermione said, wiping her tears away with her free hand. “That’s just George. He’s always been like that, even when we weren’t—”</p><p>A thought hit her. A sobering, real thought.</p><p>“It’s because he’s always happy,” she tried again, but she knew it wasn’t the truth. No one could always be that happy. But she wasn’t ready to face it. Not yet. She pushed the thought away.</p><p>“It’s like she’s never seen him in a room without her in it,” Fred said, turning to Angelina.</p><p>“Stop it, Fred,” Angelina said. “You’re going to scare her.” The other witch leaned over, wrapping her arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about how he looks at you. Just be there.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, lifting the cup to her mouth. She could do that. Be there. She looked out the window, watching the snow come down.</p><p>“I think he’s wonderful,” she said. Fred and Angelina shared a look, but then Fred dove back into his ice cream.</p><p>The group left Fortescue’s together. “We’ll walk you back,” Angelina said.</p><p>#</p><p>They had hardly stepped into the street when camera flashes strobed on the cobblestones. Not again.</p><p>But, they weren’t aimed at her.</p><p>Down the street, a witch with thick, dark hair and expertly tailored robes strode, her cape billowing behind her. Her hand was tucked into the elbow of andf older man who shared her nose and cheekbones.</p><p>“The Vanes,” Fred muttered. Hermione’s fists tightened. She’d seen that name in her notes—the other Hermione had scrawled quite a bit about the things he’d said in the Wizengamot—mostly thinly veiled blood supremacy.</p><p>“Romilda!” one of the photographers cried. “What are your thoughts on today’s <em>Resonant</em>?”</p><p>“I’m thrilled to see more witches and wizards taking a stand to protect wizarding culture,” Romilda said smoothly. “We’re always happy to see support for the important work that my father’s doing in Wizengamot.” She patted the man’s arm.</p><p>“Wait, that’s <em>Romilda Vane</em>?” Hermione turned to Angelina, who nodded, face twisting into a grimace.</p><p>Gone was the giggling fourth-year from Hermione’s time at Hogwarts. What replaced her was embodied prestige—she was polished, composed, and seemed to banter with the reporters in a way that drew laughter and smiles, rather than heckling. On her neck, Romilda wore a black choker with an ice blue stone clasped at the center. Her entire cloak was dragon skin, and it didn’t have a scuff on it, despite the edges draping against the cobblestone.</p><p>“Her dad worked with the Ministry during You-Know-Who’s reign, but afterwards, he claimed he’d been imperio-ed. Barely put a dent in their reputation. Fred thinks he’s lying,” Angelina said.</p><p>“That’s because he is,” Fred practically growled.</p><p>“But I thought Romilda was on our side during the final battle,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“Things changed after the war,” Angelina said, and her expression darkened, her nostrils flaring.</p><p>The witch lowered her sunglasses, and her eyes met Hermione’s.</p><p>She opened her arms, crossing to her and drawing the paparazzi with her. “Hermione, how lovely to see you back in our Diagon Alley!” she cooed, drawing her into a stiff hug. Hermione blinked.</p><p>“How’s your recovery going?” she asked, drawing back, her voice loud enough that the onlookers could hear every word.</p><p>“Very well, thanks. I hope to return to my work full-time quite soon.” Hermione spoke loudly and clearly.</p><p>Despite her having not addressed him, Mr. Vane stepped closer, raising his voice.</p><p>“Surely you’re not planning to return to the Wizengamot in your current condition?” he said, raising his brows.</p><p>“Why shouldn’t I?” Hermione asked, staring up at him. A sneer flickered over his expression, but he was turned away from the paparazzi. The cameras flashed.</p><p>“I mean, you’re hardly qualified, if the reports on your memory loss’s extent are true.”</p><p>The words hit her like a slap. Hardly qualified? She’d been a bit overwhelmed, yes. But not totally lost. Her work still made sense to her.</p><p>Is this what the members of Wizengamot thought?</p><p>“Where’s your husband?” Mr. Vane asked, peering over the group. Fred firmed his jaw.</p><p>“What’s it to you?” he said, coming toe to toe with Mr. Vane, shifting Angelo out of the way. Hermione reached down, clasping the boy’s sticky hand in hers.</p><p>“Down, Weasley,” Mr. Vane said, voice cool. “I only thought Mrs. Weasley-Granger would be most concerned with the state of her own home, before going out to meddle in the rest of ours.” The last part was added more loudly.</p><p>Silence fell. Angelina’s hands shot out, holding Fred’s arms, as though she expected him to go off like a powder keg.</p><p>“I’m not meddling in anyone’s home,” Hermione said, meeting the older man’s gaze.</p><p>Mr. Vane’s lip curled. “When you try to tell me who I can and can’t employ—I consider that meddling.”</p><p>“Slavery isn’t employment,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Typical muggle-born,” Mr. Vane said, his voice dropping low and quiet. “You have no idea the centuries of tradition that you’re spitting on.”</p><p>How was it possible that this man was spitting the putrid rhetoric as the Death Eaters, in the light of day, so long after the war?</p><p>Yes, the words were a bit different, but the implications under them were the same, tired reasoning.</p><p>Romilda stepped between them, smiling prettily. She reached up and grasped Hermione’s arms. “It was nice seeing you,” she said. The girl’s hands were clenched tight like a vice. Hermione lifted her chin. Romilda smirked and let go. The two turned to leave, but then Romilda stopped.</p><p>“Oh!” she said. “Actually,” she pulled a thick envelop from her breast pocket. It was sealed in wax. “This is for George.” She pressed it into Hermione’s hands. “He’ll know what it is.” She gave Hermione a plastic-looking smile, then sauntered away.</p><p>Hermione gritted her teeth. A sharp tug pulled on her hand.</p><p>“Mione,” Angelo said. “Up.” She reached down, pulling the child into her arms.</p><p>The group trudged back to the flat in silence, the envelop heavy in Hermione’s robe pocket. The bell jangled as they entered. The shop had cleared somewhat, a few customers wandered through the back, but George leaned against the counter, scrawling something into the inventory book.</p><p>At their entrance, he lifted his head, his face lit with a broad grin. “Welcome back!” he called. Hermione smiled back. George vaulted, sliding over the counter and landing on his feet.</p><p>“What do we have here?” he said, resting his hands on his hips.</p><p>“George!” Angelo shouted, reaching to him. George swooped in, lifting the toddler from Hermione’s hold.</p><p>He popped a kiss onto the toddler’s forehead, then rubbed the spot in with his palm. “There. Now it’ll stick.” George said with a nod. Angelo screeched with laughter, took George’s hand, and put it back on his brow.</p><p>Fred slipped past George, clapping him on the shoulder. “He’s had a lot of sugar,” Fred said.</p><p>“Brilliant!” George cried, tossing Angelo into the air. Angelo’s screeches of laughter grew louder.</p><p>“You’re riling him up on purpose,” Angelina said. George grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes.</p><p>“I would never,” he said. Hermione bit back a smile.</p><p>“Hand him over, would you? Besides, Hermione’s got to talk to you,” Angelina said, gesturing for her son. George paused, looking over at Hermione with a question in his eyes. Angelina scooped up Angelo, bouncing him on her hip as she walked away.</p><p>“We ran into Romilda Vane,” Hermione said quietly. George snorted.</p><p>“That’s unfortunate,” he said, tone dry. Hermione reached into her robe pocket, drawing out the envelop.</p><p>“She gave me this. Said it was for you,” she said, holding it out. George’s face blanked, and the barricade came down.</p><p>“Right,” he murmured, ripping the envelop open. He skimmed the first couple pages, the line between his brows growing deeper and deeper. “Fred!” he called, turning to the till. Fred looked up from behind the counter, his orange apron now in place.</p><p>“What is it?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George had gone tense, his jaw firm. “They turned us down,” he said.</p><p>“Figures,” Fred said. “Told you it wouldn’t make a difference.”</p><p>“The bid was more than fair,” George said, his eyes flicking back down to the parchment.  </p><p>“Bid for what?” Hermione asked. George wet his lips, opening and closing his mouth. His shoulders had taken on a defeated slump—the spark of playfulness from moments earlier fizzled and gone out.</p><p>“The lot that the shop stands on,” he said finally.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said. A horrible, sinking feeling filled her stomach.</p><p>George scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah.”</p><p>He crossed to Fred, tossing the document onto the counter. Hermione followed, barely catching the last part.</p><p>“That’s not all. They’re raising rent again,” he said, voice lower.</p><p>“Can they do that?” Hermione asked, propping her elbows on the countertop beside him. George blinked down at her. He scratched the back of his neck, then, fidgeted, huffing and skating his hands through his hair.</p><p>“They can do whatever they want. They own the property.” He sounded frustrated, his words clipped and short. “We already pay more than any other shop on the block.”</p><p>“Part of me wonders if we should just—” Fred started, but George shook his head.</p><p>“We’ve got the Hogsmeade property,” Fred said, trying again.</p><p>“That’s Lee’s haunt. Besides, Hermione and I live here,” George said. Fred rubbed his temples.</p><p>“I know. But at this rate… we’ll be hemorrhaging galleons, Mate,” he whispered. George sighed, bracing both hands against the counter and closing his eyes. He looked so tired. Her heart stuttered. She reached up, touching his arm. A faint glimmer of warmth met her fingertips.</p><p>“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Together.” George took a deep breath and nodded, his eyes tracing over her.</p><p>“Why don’t you two take off?” Fred said, shooting Hermione a wink and a thumbs up over George’s shoulder. “I can handle things here.”</p><p>#</p><p>The heavy conversation was still lingering in her ears as George hung his purple apron in the workshop. He began to loosen his sleeves, his movements tired and the slightest bit sluggish. Something about the sight of him tugged at her.</p><p>On a whim, Hermione reached for his hand. His brows shot up. She rolled her eyes and tugged him along behind her, guiding him up the stairs to the flat. A bemused smile crept over his face, but he went along with it.</p><p>“Sit,” she said, pointing to the sofa. George complied, skepticism in his eyes.</p><p>What now?</p><p>Fred had said that she should go with her instincts. Could she be silly? How did one entertain a perpetual entertainer? She bit her lip, searching the room. Surely there was something familiar here that she could use, if only to bring a smile to his face.</p><p>The idea hit her suddenly. It was perfect. Hermione crossed to the record player, setting the needle in the middle of the vinyl.</p><p>At the opening bars, George threw his head back and laughed.</p><p>
  <em>“I work all night, I work all day to pay the bills I have to pay,” </em>
</p><p>Hermione grinned, lip syncing to the song. She danced around the room, tossing a throw pillow at him.</p><p>
  <em>“Ain’t it sad?”</em>
</p><p>“You’re mad,” George sighed, but he was smiling at her, warmth spilling out of him, setting the living room aglow. Hermione flicked her wand and summoned the mop from the closet. It zipped to her hand. She leaned against it, singing like it was mic.</p><p><em>“In my dreams, I have a plan—if I got me a wealthy man,” </em>the record played.</p><p>George crossed his arms, grinning. “After me for my galleons, are you?”</p><p>“Most definitely,” Hermione said, straightening her face out. “I’ve always planned to marry into a wealthy family.” George barked out another laugh, tipping his head back.</p><p>“Oh Merlin,” he said, chuckling at the ceiling. “I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong bloke.”</p><p>Hermione grinned and did an atrocious rendition of a moonwalk. Already, George’s shoulders were relaxing, his posture shifting as though the weight of the shop had vanished. Excellent. As she watched, he tipped his chin, glancing to see if she was looking at him. That ever-present twinkle shone in his eyes. Her heart beat faster in her chest.</p><p>She was being ridiculous, but it was working. She paced around the other side of the sofa, crouching behind him and propping her head on the couch’s back.</p><p><em>“Money, Money, Money—” </em>sang the record. She tapped him on one shoulder, then the other with each repetition of the line through the chorus, then screeched, laughing and ducking out of the way when he finally twisted around to block her onslaught with a chucked pillow.</p><p>Hermione stopped mid-sentence, breathing harder than perhaps she should have been.</p><p>“It’ll be alright, George,” she said, grinning up from her seat on the floor.</p><p>
  <em>“It’s the rich man’s world.”</em>
</p><p>He braced his hands on the sofa’s back. A strange look had come over him as he looked down at her—something wistful and distant.</p><p>“George?” she asked. He tilted his head, confused, coming back to himself.</p><p>“You’re a proper riot tonight,” he said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. She pelted him with the throw pillow, then proceeded into the kitchen.</p><p>George started to follow her, but she pointed at him.</p><p>“No. I make dinner tonight,” she said. George raised his hands.</p><p>“Am I being punished?” he asked. Hermione laughed and proceeded into the kitchen. “No, truly. Did Angelina put you up to this?” he said, following her.</p><p>Hermione pulled a few Butterbeers from the pantry, tossing him one. His quick beater’s reflexes responded, and he caught it out of midair.</p><p>“Careful,” he said, blinking at the bottle and then furrowing his brow at her.</p><p>“Loosen up,” she said, popping the lid off of hers and taking a pull. She shot him a grin. The irony of her command wasn’t lost on him. He stood there, gawking at her.</p><p>She sorted through the fridge. “We’re having eggs,” she said, surveying the ingredients. She knew fried eggs. She could do eggs.</p><p>George laughed. She smiled into the fridge, then tucked the carton under her arm.</p><p>She didn’t try to charm the ingredients, opting instead to do it all the muggle way. As she cooked, she bantered with him, the record playing softly in the background. His eyes followed her every move, like a man who’d happened upon an oasis in the middle of a barren land.</p><p>#</p><p>At some point, the sun lowered below the horizon, and they were both gasping with laughter, almost crying over their plates.</p><p>“It’s only a small bit of eggshell,” Hermione wheezed. “Eat it, George, I dare you.”</p><p>George bugged his eyes out, crunching into the bite, but he couldn’t hold it in, and with his laugh, the stray shell that she’d dropped into the pan by accident flew across the counter.</p><p>“Rude,” she said, draining the last of her second bottle. George’s eyes flashed.</p><p>“I’m rude? You’re trying to poison me, woman!” he reached over the countertop and lightly tapped her on the shoulder.</p><p>Hermione exploded into giggles, leaning over the island between them to poke him back. “You think you’re so funny,” she said.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, grinning.</p><p>“And cute—” Hermione said. “So bloody cute.” That idea was quite funny to her, and the giggles rose up again.</p><p>George’s eyes widened.</p><p>“And, that’s enough for you—” he said, tugging the bottle from her hands, his brows raised. His face had become quite red, the flush spreading over his freckles.</p><p>“Are you blushing?” Hermione gasped, leaning in.</p><p>“Of course not,” George said, coming round the corner. He crossed his arms, frowning down at her.</p><p>“Yes you are; your face is all red,” she said, pushing on his shoulder. George’s gaze dropped to her hand, then back up to her face.</p><p>“Are you alright?” he asked, studying her with a concerned expression.</p><p>The warm, bubbly feeling overtook her, and she wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing him tight.</p><p>“You’re wonderful, George,” she said. His hands came up slowly, halting, then he cradled her head. His leaned down, touching his forehead to hers.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Her breath hitched.</p><p>“Thank you,” he said. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.</p><p>They were close. Very close. George’s thumbs stroked over her cheeks, tracing little sparks over her skin.</p><p>“I—“ George stopped. He blinked, pulling back. Hermione looked up at him, heart pounding.</p><p>He gave her a soft, pained smile.</p><p>“You’re wonderful too,” he whispered.</p><p>Then, he swallowed, backing away. “It’s late Granger. I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p>She watched him retreat, slipping back to his room, leaving her in the afterglow of something she didn’t quite understand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Ashes, Ashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Battle of Hogwarts</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone!<br/>I'm going to try to keep the note short this week. &lt;3 Thank  you so much for all of your support. Your comments (on every platform!), kudos, and you taking the time to read this...I can't thank you enough. Thank you thank you thank you. &lt;3 As a special thank you, I've got a small, spin-off one-shot in addition to this week's chapter cooking up, and I'm hoping to post later today or tomorrow. It is Lumos-universe, and it will be set from Angelina Johnson's POV. &lt;3 </p><p>I want to include a content warning with this chapter: As it includes the Battle of Hogwarts, there will be death, including the death of children.</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>The songs for this week include some of those that we've had before, but also some we haven't. "Lion" by Saint Mesa, James Blake's "Godspeed" in the last scene, but also Alexandre Desplat's "Statues" and "Year of the Young" by Smith &amp; Thell. &lt;3 </p><p>OKAY. Please forgive me for any mistakes. This chapter was a marathon, but I really wanted to get through the final battle in one go. My apologies for the length. &lt;3 You may notice that I've blended the book and movie battle canon, and that's simply because I like parts from each. I've also taken some creative liberties which I hope you'll forgive. &lt;3 &lt;3 :) </p><p>Grab your snacks (I've got some eggs today), a warm drink, and your favorite blanket. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>Chapter Sixteen: "Ashes, Ashes"</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>March 1998</p><p>The fire in the hearth at Shell Cottage cracked and popped, lighting the room. Hermione’s steady, slow breaths emanated from his shoulder, where her head had tipped after she’d gone to sleep. The others were speaking quietly in the kitchen, their voices a soft hum.</p><p>He could die happy, just like this.</p><p>He looked down at the curves of her face—the smooth bridge of her nose, the way her lashes fluttered.</p><p>“George—” she whispered, stirring. But her eyes stayed closed.</p><p>She was saying his name. His name. His heart sped in his chest.</p><p>What did this mean?</p><p>Someone shook his shoulders, and the scene tipped, the room spinning.</p><p>“George—” Fred peered over his bed, shaking him. “Wake up. I need your help with something. It’s an emergency.”</p><p>Reality crashed in. He wasn’t at Shell Cottage. He was at Aunt Muriel’s.  They’d left directly after he’d tumbled from Hermione’s mind—Ron’s hard stare following their backs.</p><p>Staying wasn’t a viable option, as much as it hurt to leave Hermione in that state. The cottage was small and already overcrowded, and they were needed elsewhere.</p><p>Leaving had felt wrong, though.  He groaned, pulling the covers back.</p><p>Aunt Muriel’s home was tucked away into the remote hills, a forty-five minute broomride from Ottery St. Catchpole and a three hour broom ride from Diagon Alley. But, somehow, it felt much, much father. Worlds away.</p><p>He missed the orchards. The bustle of the streets outside of their shop. Helping customers in person. He missed the remaining members of his family. He missed Hermione.</p><p>And Ron and Harry too, of course.</p><p>The thick hedges that surrounded the estate ensured that no prying eyes could see in and witness the troupe of Weasleys who’d migrated, but it also made George feel a bit as though he’d been caged in. When they’d arrived, hours after the incident at Shell Cottage, he’d been a bit worried that Aunt Muriel would turn the lot of them away. Her loyalty to blood was greater than the sway of her ill-temper, however.</p><p>This was only temporary.</p><p>He said it to himself many times a day, crouched in the tiny bedroom she’d allotted to he and Fred. The lighting was terrible, and they had no room to brew half their products. The mail service had been significantly pared back, but they managed to get a small trickle of orders out. The delivery times were long due to the security precautions they’d had to take with the owling, and but their customer base was understanding. Thusfar, at least.</p><p>It would go faster if they’d let Verity help, but neither of them was willing to put her residence at risk of discovery like that.</p><p>He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” he asked, pulling his trousers on. Fred fiddled with the buttons on his shirt.</p><p>“I need a witness.”</p><p>George raised his brows. “What d’you mean?”</p><p>“You heard me,” Fred said, straightening a tie around his throat. He plucked a suit jacket from his bed, slipping it over his shoulders. “Wear something nicer than that, please.” He flashed George a grin and ducked from the room.</p><p>They snuck from the mansion quietly, mounting their brooms and turning about in the cold, morning air.</p><p>“You haven’t told me where we’re heading, Freddie,” George called over the roar of the wind. Fred winked.</p><p>“Trust me,” he said. “I’ve just got to take care of something. A quick errand.”</p><p>They flew hard and fast, the cloud cover dampening their jackets. George’s shirt stuck to his skin. He should have brought a coat.</p><p>They were over a nearby muggle village, the sun cresting, when Fred landed in front of a limestone building. “Right,” he murmured, muttering a drying charm. He adjusted his tie, taking the steps two at a time.</p><p>“Fred—” George called, chasing after him. “What is this about?”</p><p>He pulled open the glass, windowed door, following Fred inside. A lone clerk stood behind the counter, rifling through files. The room was empty, save for a figure swamped in a raincoat, poised in the corner chair.</p><p>“Fred,” George tried again, tugging on his twin’s elbow. Fred raised his hand to quiet him, and approached the other person, taking slow, easy steps. He knelt before the woman, looking up under the hood of her slicker.</p><p>There was a pause as Fred searched her face, an expression of almost disbelief lighting his features.</p><p>“Hello Darling,” Fred whispered, the grin he couldn’t keep back bursting forth.</p><p>Suddenly, George knew why they were there.</p><p>The woman in the chair gave a loud cry, wrapping her arms around Fred’s shoulders and crushing him tight. Her hood fell back.</p><p>It was Angelina. Of course it was Angelina.</p><p>Fred was grinning, sniffing a bit, pressing his face close to hers. “Are you ready, then?”</p><p>“Heart and soul,” Angelina said, staring back him intensely. George couldn’t help but smile.</p><p>“This is a sizeable caper, Fred,” George said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “You sure you’re ready to pull it off?”</p><p>Fred grinned. “Positive.”</p><p>The clerk moved far too slowly for George’s liking. They were all a bit fidgety—George from the wet clothes, Fred and Angelina from the nerves. But soon, they were tucked away into a dry, warm room, the county employee speaking the ceremony. The man was a muggleborne wizard who’d gone into hiding just before the start of the war, posing as a muggle in the small town to the south of Aunt Muriel’s estate.</p><p>The ceremony was quick but meaningful, Fred bouncing eagerly on his toes through the whispered vows. The couple’s clasped hands glowed as the officiant sealed their marriage.</p><p>They rode back from the ceremony, the sun streaking the clouds, three brooms, zipping through the fog, parting it like streaks of light through a darkened room.</p><p>#</p><p>April 1, 1998</p><p>The clock struck midnight.</p><p>George clicked the radio off and on, just to be sure. Static.</p><p>They hadn’t heard back since Collin had sent the encrypted message about Neville. George didn’t have details, but he knew it was bad. The words of the Carrows’ doings carried on dark whispers.</p><p>Ginny wouldn’t tell him all of what she’d seen, but the way her hands shook when asked set his insides on fire.</p><p>Word from Hogwarts would arrive tonight. He wouldn’t sleep until it did.</p><p>The remaining D.A. members would be alright—they had to be. Not to mention the youngsters—the children who flitted in and out of their shop just last year, so much more carefree and unscarred than they were sure to be now.</p><p>Click. Click.</p><p>Nothing yet.</p><p>George hunched over the radio receiver.</p><p>#</p><p>April 10, 1998</p><p>George flicked his wand, clearing the dust from the boxes. They’d had to fight through thick cobwebs to reach this side of the attic.</p><p>“This is ghastly, George,” Ginny asked, face contorted at the grime around them.</p><p>“It’s only a bit of dust,” George said, rubbing some off the surface of the trunk and flinging it at her with a laugh. Ginny swerved.</p><p>“Why don’t you ask Fred to help you explore?” she asked, picking some of the lint from her jumper.</p><p>“Because Fred wants to be with Angelina right now,” George said, turning back to the trunk. “Reckon there’s a body inside?” He bugged his eyes out at Ginny, who didn’t seem as amused as he’d hoped at the joke.</p><p>Instead, she crouched, staring up at the rafters. “How is it so stuffy and hot up here? It’s only April.” Her nose wrinkled. His grand plan to distract Ginny from her worries wasn’t going so well. He turned, opening the trunk before him.</p><p>“I know they’re married, you know,” Ginny said, staring into the corner. George swallowed, staring down into the decaying contents.</p><p>“That’s ridiculous,” he said.</p><p>Ginny raised her brows. “Yeah, she’s hiding in my room at night, but did the lot of you ever stop to think about the family wards around this place?” Ginny kicked at the trunk’s corner, and a sheath of parchment shifted off the top of the pile, revealing a dusty photo underneath.</p><p>George coughed. “Angelina’s basically family,” he said, picking up the photo. The subjects were crowded around a pair of iron gates. In the distance, a lighthouse loomed over a set of cliffs.</p><p>A tall man with pale, white hair stood in the front. Aunt Muriel wore an ostentatious hat that crowded out the faces of those nearest her at the edge of the frame. He furrowed his brow, looking closer. It was like ghosts of some of the students he’d known at Hogwarts were looking back at him, though it was slightly off—a nose different here, a chin sharper there.</p><p>He flipped the photo over.</p><p><em>“Merlinsguard, ’32.”</em> was the only writing on it.</p><p>“They would’ve gone off if she weren’t married in, and Aunt Muriel would know she was here. We both know it,” Ginny said. He turned to glance up at her. She looked angry, accusatory.</p><p>George shifted, sitting against the trunk. He muttered, rubbing his temples. “You can’t tell Mum and Dad—or Muriel.”</p><p>“Obviously,” Ginny said. “Muriel would kick them both to the curb if she thought Fred went behind her back and eloped, only to sneak the bride into the house—”</p><p>“And Mum and Dad have enough to worry about—” George added, looking at Ginny meaningfully.</p><p>“I know,” Ginny said, but she still didn’t look happy.</p><p>“What’s got you rankled?” George asked, nudging her with his foot. Ginny’s eyes flashed.</p><p>“He didn’t invite me to come along!” Ginny said, her whisper growing in volume, the hurt pouring off of her.</p><p>“Ah.” George said. “It wasn’t exactly safe, Gin.” This did nothing to soothe her anger, and she narrowed her eyes at him.</p><p>“Stop it,” she said, her words carrying an edge. “I’m not a child. Not anymore.” Her nostrils flared, and the hint of a shadow glinted in her eyes. “Not after—” she stopped, blinking down at the floor.</p><p>George’s throat constricted, and he buried his face in his hands. “But you should be,” he said, sounding more tired than he intended. “Merlin, Ginny, let us pretend.” His voice was strained.</p><p>A shuffling sounded as Ginny clambered towards him. “Budge up,” she said, and George scooted over. She took a seat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.</p><p>George lifted his face, taking in a deep pull of the musty air. “How about this,” he said, staring across the attic. “If I ever get married, you can be my best man.”</p><p>“No,” Ginny’s voice was soft and amused. “That wouldn’t work. Hermione will want me for her maid of honor.” George stilled, but Ginny didn’t react to her own declaration, as crazy as it was. “You’ll have to ask Fred. Or maybe Charlie,” she said.</p><p>He exhaled and tucked his arm around her shoulders. “I think the dust is addling your brain,” he said.</p><p>“I’m not stupid,” Ginny said. “Also, you talk in your sleep.”</p><p>George’s face heated. He’d forgotten that Ginny had taken to manning the radio in their room during some of the night shifts.</p><p>“You must’ve misunderstood,” he said. Then, he crawled to his feet. “I think we can consider this room explored. What do you think?” He asked brightly, extending his hand to her.</p><p>Ginny gave him a bemused look but took it.</p><p>A pop echoed through the attic. Aunt Muriel’s house elf, Biddy, was staring at them with watery, narrow eyes.</p><p>“Morning, Biddy,” George said, keeping his tone even. The heavy glaze over Biddy’s eyes was disconcerting. He hadn’t noticed it as a boy, but now, after all of the things Hermione had said, he was starting to wonder. “How are you?”</p><p>Biddy didn’t answer, only looked back and forth between Ginny and Hermione.</p><p>Finally, the elf spoke. “Mrs. Angelina is looking for you,” Biddy said.</p><p>George blanked. “Who?” he asked, scratching at the back of his neck. This was bad.</p><p>“The girl Mr. Fred has hidden,” Biddy said, looking unimpressed with George’s facade. George stepped forward, panic lacing through him. What if she apparated away and told Aunt Muriel?</p><p>“Biddy—wait,” he said, reaching out. The glazed look in Biddy’s eyes flickered, and she lifted a gnarled finger, pointing at George’s wand.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley shall have to obliviate Biddy,” she said. “Or the old magic will—” Biddy made a choking sound and twisted her hands together. George’s heart hammered, and he crouched before her.</p><p>“Do not worry, Mr. Weasley. Mistress does not know,” Biddy said. She paused, looking back and forth through the attic, her eyes darting from corner to corner. “Only, going forward, please have Biddy stay away from the rooms that Mrs. Angelina might be found.”</p><p>George nodded, his throat tight.</p><p>Biddy sighed, closing her eyes and waiting for the spell. “Whenever Mr. Weasley is ready.”</p><p>“I’m sorry that we have to do this, Biddy,” George whispered. “Is there another way?”</p><p>Biddy’s face contorted. “Mr. Weasley ought not be asking about such kinds of magic,” she said. “It’s not safe for a human.”</p><p>George leaned closer. “What are you talking about, Biddy?”</p><p>Biddy clenched her hands into fists, her frame trembling. “Hurry, Mr. Weasley,” she said. “It hurts to keep secrets from Mistress.”</p><p>George’s eyes widened, and he flicked his wand. “Obliviate.”</p><p>#</p><p>April 22, 1998</p><p>George grasped Bill’s elbow, pulling him to the side in the drawing room. Aunt Muriel’s voice was still droning from the parlor, the only room in the house that didn’t have large patches over the wallpaper.</p><p>“What?” Bill asked, pulling his jacket back over his shoulders.</p><p>“Are they—” George started, peering around to ensure that no one else was in the room to hear.</p><p>“Yes,” Bill said. “For now. She’s healed up. They’ve been talking to Griphook, though.” Bill crossed his arms, his voice dropping low. “Don’t think they’ll stick around much longer.”</p><p>George’s breath came out in a whoosh. Figures Harry wouldn’t want to stay in one place for too long.</p><p>“Do you know anything?” George asked, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Bill shook his head, buttoning his jacket.</p><p>“Not enough to go on,” Bill said. “The longer this goes on, the more I—” He stopped his hands’ movements and swallowed. “I wish the rest of us had been given more to do.”</p><p>The moment stretched out, and Muriel’s screeches for Biddy echoed through the space. George winced.</p><p>“I should go help Biddy with that,” George said. In between shifts at the radio, he’d been spending more time with the house elf. Biddy had no idea as to why, of course. She didn’t remember their encounter, and her eyes followed him with a bit of suspicion whenever he leant a hand in the kitchen. But, over the past week, she’d begun to relax, even going so far as to show him some new techniques.</p><p>Bill grimaced. “I’d slip her a sock, if I didn’t think it’d throw the lot of you, Biddy included, into danger.”</p><p>George swallowed. He’d thought about it. But, as of yet, there was nowhere else for them to go, and the world was a very dangerous place for house elves at present. Not for the first time, his thoughts turned to Dobby and the little headstone outside of Shell Cottage.</p><p>A heaviness settled over him.</p><p>He followed Bill to the door. It swung open, and George stared at the overgrown hedges, separating the property from the outside world. Like prison walls.</p><p>Bill turned to leave. He was seven steps down the drive by the time George worked up the courage.</p><p>“Tell them I send my love,” George said. “We all do.” Bill’s pace slowed, but then he turned and nodded.</p><p>“I will, Mate,” Bill called. “Keep fighting.”</p><p>His brother blinked out of existence, leaving nothing but the hedges and the fog.</p><p>#</p><p>May 1, 1998</p><p>“D.A. call, do you read?” the radio crackled, and George started, scrambling upright at his station. “We have a new weather report.”</p><p>George thrust the speaker to his mouth. “D.A. two here, we read you. What’s the weather?”</p><p>The voice on the other end was Nigel. A bright little boy who’d plucked trick wands from their shelves just the year before. He sounded different now, older, but his voice was bold and exuberant as he answered, “Lighting has struck. I repeat, lighting has struck.”</p><p>“Sounds like a good day to walk in the rain,” George said, excitement licking up his chest, into his throat. It was time.</p><p>It was finally time.</p><p>#</p><p>The tunnel between Aberforth’s and the castle was long—longer than the old passage that led up through Honeydukes, but that one had been closed off. Lee stumbled in the dark, cursing as his foot caught on a stone.</p><p>“Shhh,” Ginny snapped. She’d came upon them as they were hurriedly packing a crate of supplies, and she’d insisted on apparating with the group. Mum and Dad were following swiftly behind. They’d be furious when they saw her, but it’s not as though they could’ve kept her back.</p><p>“What do the Carrows look like?” Angelina asked in a whisper. “So, we know who to aim for.”</p><p>Ginny’s voice grew icy. “They’re brother and sister—pale and a bit stocky. They usually patrol the halls at night, but they’ve never found the room of requirement, so we shouldn’t run into them yet.”</p><p>George shifted his broom onto his other shoulder, adjusting his grip on the crate.</p><p>“Almost there,” Ginny said, pointing towards a glimmering light that had appeared.</p><p>The rush of voices from the room spilled into the tunnel as they approached, and George could hear Harry, protesting. He shot Fred a look.</p><p>Together, they climbed from the portrait hole, back into Hogwarts.</p><p>“It’s the Weasleys!” someone cried from the crowd, and heads swiveled. George peeked around the corner, but there was no glimpse of the trio yet.</p><p>“Do I look like a redhead to you?” Lee grumbled, hoisting his end of the crate onto the floor. “We’ve come to fight, Harry.” The bodies parted, revealing him.</p><p>Harry was frozen, his face a mask of wonder and pain. George followed the direction of his gaze.</p><p>Ginny stood in the portrait hole, shoulders back, eyes trained on Harry with unsettling intensity. Very, very slowly, a smile crept over her face, and Harry’s shoulders sagged.</p><p>“I didn’t want you caught up in this,” he said.</p><p>“Don’t be thick,” Ginny said, crossing to his side. She folded her arms, staring out at the rest of them as though she’d elected herself second-in-command. Harry didn’t look upset enough to fight her on it. Instead, he took a deep breath, then her hand, looking over the gathering of heads.</p><p>“So, what’s the plan, Harry?” George asked, searching the crowd distractedly. Surely, the others were with him. Surely.</p><p>His heart pounded.</p><p>Ron’s muddy, red hair peeked at him from behind Harry, but Granger’s curls were absent.</p><p>George whirled around, searching. Where was she? Where was she?<br/>His eyes were pricking, the meter in his chest going wild, sparks just at the edges of his fingertips, and then—</p><p>Something warm brushed his shoulder.</p><p>“George Weasley, please tell me you’ve brought nothing illegal in that crate,” Hermione said. He grinned.</p><p>“Going to report me, Granger?” he said, then he turned to finally face her.</p><p>She was wearing his jacket.</p><p>The breath left his lungs.</p><p>She looked like she’d been dragged through a bog, her face a mess of scrapes and her hair coming free from a scraggly braid, but the sight of her smiling and alive in his old jean jacket was the most wonderful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.</p><p>“Yes, I’m afraid I’ll have to speak to McGonagall,” she said, lifting her chin, a rogue spark in her eyes. She was-she was joking with him. At a time like this, as though the danger and darkness were only passing annoyances.</p><p>“I’d hate to lose those house points,” George muttered, shaking his head with a smile.</p><p>She looked up, grinning, and their eyes met. In that moment, George saw what could be, cascading out before him. Them, spinning in the flat above the shop, Granger’s laugh, their hands tangled together, swooping down, picking her up, kissing her face, her peel of laughter—doing anything—anything to make her smile.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>There was so much to lose.</p><p>“Brilliant, ask her if she can hand over any of the prototypes that she confiscated years back?” Fred chimed in, his arm slung over Angelina’s shoulders.</p><p>Granger’s face lit. “That’s a good idea, but I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to chat with her before—” Hermione said, dropping off as her eyes trailed over to Harry. The boy who lived and kept living, despite the odds. He didn’t seem very happy about the appearance of the army behind him, but Harry never was one to accept help when it would place others in danger.</p><p>Finally, Harry turned, addressing the room. “There’s something we need to find. Something-something that’ll help us overthrow You-Know-Who. It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw. Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone ever come across something with her eagle on it, for instance?”</p><p>So this was what the trio had been up to. George listened as the conversation turned to Ravenclaw’s lost diadem—a neat bit of Hogwarts trivia, but nothing he’d ever seen in person. He crouched and began to unload the crate, handing explosives, shieldware, and Peruvian Darkness Powder to Lee, who handed them to Angelina, who handed them to Fred, who placed them on the long table across the room.</p><p>It certainly looked impressive, but there wasn’t nearly enough if the Death Eaters’ ranks were as large as rumor told. Hermione’s warm presence stooped, joining him in the unloading.</p><p>“Harry’s gone to look for the diadem with Luna,” she murmured. “We’ve got to start separating out the younger students.” Her gaze flicked over the crowd, many of whom were not yet of age. “Can you start on that while Ron and I check the bathrooms for something?” George nodded, and Hermione and Ron slipped from the room.</p><p>He stood, addressing the group. “Alright, listen up. How many of you plan to fight?” Almost every hand rose, and George’s throat tightened at the sight. A great number of the hands were small.</p><p>“And of those of you, how many are seventeen?” A significant number dropped. George groaned. “Right.” He swallowed, straightening his expression. “If you’re not seventeen, you’re not fighting.”</p><p>The cries of protest washed over him—like echoes of his own voice from years prior.</p><p>“The answer is no,” he said, his tone stern and clear, ringing through the space. “That’s final.” The clamor faded.</p><p>Across the room, Fred began handing out supplies to the older students grouped around the table.</p><p>“That’s not fair!” a brave student shouted. “Ginny’s fighting!”</p><p>“She absolutely is not,” a familiar voice called from the portrait hole. Mrs. Weasley emerged, her hands on her hips. In her wake came a wave of Order members—Dad, Bill, Fleur, Lupin, and Kingsley.</p><p>“I don’t know what the two of you were thinking, bringing her along,” Mrs. Weasley’s gaze was fire crawling over George’s skin. He ducked his head. Stopping Ginny would’ve been akin to placing a flimsy parchment in the path of a hurricane. She would’ve found a way.</p><p>George shrugged, letting Fred take point on fighting their mother over Ginny’s fighting ability. Truth be told, he didn’t love the idea of Ginny in battle, but he also didn’t like forcing her to return home, not when she believed in their mission so thoroughly.</p><p>Harry re-entered the room.</p><p>“What first, Harry?” George asked, striding towards him. “What’s going on?”</p><p>Harry’s eyes were dazed as he took in the greater amount of bodies. “They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s meeting in the Great Hall to organize,” Harry said. “We’re fighting.”</p><p>Neville shouted, and the cry carried into a loud roar, as some of the older students in the room rushed through the doors towards the Great Hall. In the chaos, Lupin stood, catching various students by the collar and sending them back towards the tunnel.</p><p>“You weren’t here when I taught D.A.,” Lupin said calmly to an infuriated Gryffindor. “There’s no way you’re of age.” He nodded to the exit hatch. “I admire your courage, but you’re holding us up. Into the tunnel with you.” The lanky boy’s eyes narrowed, but he did as he was told.</p><p>With a start, George realized that almost his entire family would be fighting tonight—save Charlie and-and—</p><p>As though summoned by the thought, an additional mop of curly, red hair emerged from the portrait hole, stumbling.</p><p>“Am I too late?”</p><p>George blinked. He was seeing things, he knew it. Pale, covered in sweat, and ministry robes askew stood a slight figure, hunched in the entryway. Percy straightened, untangling his robe. “Has it started? I only just found out, so I—I—”</p><p>George’s stomach twisted. There was some mistake, there had to be. Percy would never—</p><p>The panic welled up in him, and he couldn’t explain it. Just horrible, blinding anxiety that he’d misunderstood yet again—that Percy would turn and disappear.</p><p>“It’s alright, George,” Granger’s voice murmured at his side. “I think he’s here to help.”</p><p>He turned, taking her in. She was looking at him with those soft, brown eyes, as though she could see straight through him, to the most fragile parts of himself.</p><p>Percy’s shout broke the silence. “I was a fool! I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a—a—”</p><p>“Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron?” Fred said, his tone icy.</p><p>Percy’s eyes flicked from Mrs. Weasley to Fred, and George balked at the vulnerability there.</p><p>“Yes, I was,” he said faintly. Fred’s face opened up into a grin that George had yet to feel.</p><p>Fred stepped forward. “Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” said Fred. Their mum was sobbing, pushing Fred out of the way to hug Percy.</p><p>“I’m s-sorry—” he was speaking rapidly, clinging to their mum, tears coming out of his eyes.</p><p>It didn’t add up. Why now? Why here? Why after all the chances he’d had to turn back was this night the night that Percy planned to rejoin them?</p><p>George’s heart pounded, his head spinning.</p><p>He was small and abandoned on the Ministry’s floor.</p><p>“What made you see sense, Perce?” George asked, trying to gain some footing. The unspoken question hung in the air.</p><p>
  <em>How do we know we can trust you?</em>
</p><p>Percy stepped from their Mum’s embrace, sniffing. He blinked, adjusting his glasses, seeming to look everywhere else in the room but at George.</p><p>Just when George thought that Percy wasn’t going to answer the question, his older brother lifted his head and met his eyes.</p><p>“You,” he said, then his face contorted, and he began to cry again in a most un-Percy manner. The crowded room was quiet. “I’m so sorry, George, I’m so sorry—I tried to get the Minister to stop it, but it took too long, and I couldn’t check on you after or they’d know I’d turned traitor—”</p><p>George launched into Percy at a speed that knocked the other man off-balance.</p><p>“You’re a git,” George said, crushing Percy in a hug. Percy shook but clung back just as tightly.</p><p>“My whole family’s here, I can’t stand waiting there alone and not knowing and—” Ginny’s cry cut through the moment. Mr. Weasley was attempting to guide her towards the tunnel, but she wasn’t having it, tugging free. She looked from their Dad to Harry, whose gaze dropped at the look Mr. Weasley was giving him.</p><p>Ginny huffed.</p><p>“I’m not a child,” she said. “I led these students all year. Me.” She looked around the room, eyes on fire. “I may be just shy of seventeen, but I know the fighting drills we’ve run. I’m the one who held all of them when the Carrows did something ghastly.” She flung her hand towards the doors, where Neville and Luna had just left. “I’m not leaving them now.” She lifted her chin. “You’ll have to Imperio me.”</p><p>For a moment, Mrs. Weasley looked as though she might.</p><p>“Molly, how about this,” said Lupin. “Why doesn’t Ginny stay here, then at least she’ll be on the scene and know what’s going on, but she won’t be in the middle of the fighting.”</p><p>Ginny looked ready to fight this concession, but Mr. Weasley spoke up.</p><p>“That’s a good idea. Ginny, you stay in this room, you hear me?” he said, eyeing her. Ginny crossed her arms. It was as a good a deal as she’d get from them, and they all knew it. Finally, she nodded.</p><p>Harry turned, facing George. “Where’s Ron? Where’s Hermione?” he asked. He barely got the question out before he grimaced, holding a hand to his head. George reached up and grabbed Harry’s shoulder to steady him.</p><p>“They said something about a bathroom,” Ginny said. George nodded, his hand shooting out to grab the arm of a second-year he recognized from the shop, who had been trying to sneak past.</p><p>“Don’t even think about it, Henry,” George said.</p><p>George watched Henry’s retreating back until it vanished into the tunnel.</p><p>“Alright,” he said, raising his voice to the next group of fighers who’d gathered around Fred. “Who’s ready to make some trouble?”</p><p>#</p><p>The Great Hall’s ceiling was full of swirling galaxies, stars peppering the black over the long, wooden tables. Rather than Granger sitting across from him, munching on a bowl of cereal, it was his parents, watching McGonagall’s organization efforts.</p><p>The professor was explaining the evacuation procedures for the remaining students, but George could barely make out her words. He looked around, worry gnawing at him. Granger and Ron really should’ve been back by now.</p><p>Then it happened.</p><p>A cold, terrible voice entered his head, like a hand, claws outstretched, tearing into his mind.</p><p>
  <em>“I know that you are preparing to fight.” </em>
</p><p>It was Voldemort. Screams echoed around the room.</p><p><em>“Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me</em>.” George grasped the table’s edge, his knuckles going white.</p><p>
  <em>“I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.”</em>
</p><p>He swallowed. Across the table, Fred’s arm had gone around Angelina, their faces frozen in tight grimaces.</p><p>The next words slammed into him.</p><p>
  <em>“Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.”</em>
</p><p>George took a shaky breath, but firmed his jaw. He would die first. They all would, and that was something the Dark Lord hadn’t counted on. Harry Potter would be defended tonight.</p><p><em>“You have until midnight,”</em> Voldemort’s voice faded to a wisp, then withdrew. George flinched as the cold talons slipped from his mind.</p><p>George slumped, gasping onto the table.</p><p>One hour.</p><p>One hour to prep the castle.</p><p>One hour to find Granger.</p><p>#</p><p>“I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, George,” Fred said atop the astronomy tower. Blue strobed from their wands, joining with the other strands. George strained, putting a bit more of himself into it. He’d need to reserve some for fighting, but it was a tricky call to make. How much to the shield—how much for later?</p><p>In the end, Shacklebolt made the call for all of them. “Enough!” he shouted, and they all lowered their wands.</p><p>The shield wouldn’t hold for long, but perhaps it would buy them enough time for Harry to do what was needed. The sky strobed.</p><p>In the distance, through the dark, George could just make out a moving mass—countless cloaks. Waiting.</p><p>He turned to face Fred.</p><p>“You okay, Freddie?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said, glancing back. He was lying. George could see it in the way Fred’s eyes skated back and forth over the sky, the slight tension in his shoulders.</p><p>“Me too,” George said, nudging him.</p><p>Bill’s voice sounded in his ear. “McGonagall said you lot were in charge of resealing the passages?” he asked. George nodded, trying not to lose himself in the thought of what would happen after the perimeter was breached.</p><p>Because the Death Eaters would get in. It wasn’t a question of if.</p><p>It was a matter of when.</p><p>#</p><p>Fred had headed to the statue of the hump-backed witch to re-seal the passage there, while George, Bill, and Fleur and gone down to the kitchens to evacuate the House Elves. He’d ducked his head into the bathrooms on that floor, but hadn’t seen anything of Ron or Hermione.</p><p>Were they mad? What was taking so long?</p><p>From there, the trio dashed up to the fifth floor. They were to re-seal the passage behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy before stopping by the Room of Requirement to check the evacuation.</p><p>His hands shook as he checked and re-checked the solid stone. One wrong move, and lives would be lost.</p><p>“Get back,” Bill said, still breathing heavily from the run. George flattened himself against the opposite wall as Bill unfurled a swirl of spells—light flashing over the statue, the castle’s stone rumbling. A pair of stone soldiers marched past, raising the hair on the back of George’s neck.</p><p>Bill’s hair blew back from his face, away from the raised, pink lines of his scars as he finished the job. His expression was a mask of concentrated lines.</p><p>Sometimes, George forgot that his brother was a cursebreaker. That the same Bill who cheered over catching frogs in the creek was capable of this.</p><p>“Try breaking that,” Bill said, whispering under his breath. Bill turned, taking Fleur’s hand. “Let’s go.”</p><p>The trio ran, breakneck speed, Fleur’s cloak billowing as they took the stairs two at a time on their way to the Room of Requirement.</p><p>The stone seemed to urge them forward.</p><p>
  <em>Faster, faster.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You must hurry.</em>
</p><p>George blinked. It was as though the castle was speaking to him.</p><p>He looked behind him just in time to see the soldiers leap from the windows, landing in a crouch in the courtyard below.</p><p>The glass shattered, spraying towards them. George and Bill raised their wands, deflecting most of it, but a stray piece still caught him in the cheek.</p><p>Onward.</p><p>They reached the Room of Requirement, George stepping into the threshold right as Mrs. Longbottom came through.</p><p>He peered around. “Has anyone seen Granger? Or Ron?” he shouted. Seamus pointed—there they were. Relief filtered through him. Hermione and Ron stood, carrying armfuls of basilisk fangs.</p><p>They’d been in the Chamber of Secrets.</p><p>“The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen, won’t they?” Ron was saying. Hermione turned, and Harry asked a question that George couldn’t quite catch. Ron shook his head.</p><p>“I mean, we should tell them to get out. We don’t want any more Dobbys, do we? We can’t order them to die for us—” Hermione’s eyes went wide, and she launched into Ron, throwing her arms around his neck. Ron blinked, then, without another moment’s notice, kissed her thoroughly. Granger didn’t pull away.</p><p>Time seemed to slow. He stood in the threshold of the room, and the castle shook around him. Through the arched windows, George watched as the great balls of light collided with the blue.</p><p>And then the shield fell—flakes of crumbling red, raining from the sky like ash. Ron had yet to part from Granger. George’s ribs contracted—tighter, tighter.</p><p>The hall boomed, and rubble tumbled from the ceiling. George tore his eyes from Hermione, and heart pounding, headed back into the fray.</p><p>#</p><p>Outside the room of requirement, glass was shattered on the ground. But this time, there were no statues. Black fog zipped through the hall, and George’s stomach flipped.</p><p>They were inside. Already.</p><p>He shouldered through the bodies, sprinting to the astronomy tower to help.</p><p>#</p><p>Lupin coughed, blood spraying. George grimaced, but the Dittany wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping. “I don’t know if I’ll see the end of this one,” Lupin whispered. Around the corner, the clamor of spellfire grew nearer. They didn’t have much time. He had to get Lupin onto his feet.</p><p>“Stop it,” George said, pressing more firmly on the wound, pouring magic into it. But nothing changed, the blood continued to come up in great waves, spilling over his hands.  It wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t—</p><p>It was some sort of curse, and he didn’t have the training to fix it. He gritted his teeth, keeping back a sob.</p><p>“You’ve got a baby boy, Lupin,” George said. “Hold on.”</p><p>“Give him this,” Lupin’s fingers shook, pressing the wand into George’s arm.</p><p>“Don’t say that!” George spat, trying harder, his voice breaking. But then, Lupin’s arm was falling. His eyes became glassy.</p><p>No.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>A purple ball of light streaked around the corner. George scrambled, pulling Lupin from the wall, dragging him backwards, step by step, into a nearby bathroom.</p><p>He rested Lupin against the wall, but it wasn’t really Lupin anymore. George gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>He’d have to leave the body. It was too dangerous. They’d have to come back to collect it later.</p><p>He swallowed. Lupin was a good man. George tucked Lupin’s wand up his sleeve, tightening the the button on his cuff to secure it.</p><p>His face twisted, and he stooped, picking up a long section of piping that had been pried free from the wall in the chaos. The metal was ancient, but heavy and sturdy in his palm.</p><p>Sort of like a beater’s bat.</p><p>George flipped it in his hand. Alright then.</p><p>His wand in one hand, weapon in the other, George emerged from the rubble.</p><p>Dolohov would regret this.</p><p>#</p><p>George sprinted, explosions trembling in his wake. Behind him, the deftly planted Wizbangs erupted, raining stone on a line of dark hoods. It wasn’t enough—one of the Death Eaters had dodged, escaping around the corner. Luna, Dean, and Fleur shot disarming charms after them. He yanked the pipe from its makeshift holster on his back, cracking it across the knees of the remaining hooded figure.</p><p>The bone splintered under his blow.</p><p>They went down, and George kept going.</p><p>He would hold the line. He would buy them time—time for the children to escape to Hogsmeade, time for Harry to find what he needed to end the Dark Lord, time for Hermione to think of something brilliant that would save them all. He would hold the line.</p><p>#</p><p>He was on the fourth floor when he saw it. The Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes shield hat, tumbled on the stone floor. His eyes traced from it, up to the panicked Gryffindor, her dark hair askew, chin bloody, as though she’d just been struck across the face.</p><p>Sarah.</p><p>She shouldn’t be here; she was only a third-year.</p><p>Her eyes widened at the sight of him, hope flaring.</p><p>“Protego!” he shouted, bolting towards her. The shield charm missed, though, rebounding in a blast of purple light. He dashed forward, but not in time. The green light jettisoned through the hall, burrowing deep into the girl’s stomach.</p><p>She blinked, pitching forward, crumpling to the ground. The decoy detonator in her hand clanged as it hit the stone.</p><p>#</p><p>A screech drew George’s feet faster down the hall, into his old Charms classroom. He blinked. A hooded figure loomed over a small form, crouched against the wall. George vaulted over desks, and the space seemed to contract around him, pushing him faster across the room.</p><p>“Hey!” he shouted, and the figure turned. It was a werewolf—one he didn’t recognize, blood smeared over his mouth.</p><p>George didn’t hesitate. He whirled, backhanding the Death Eater across the jaw with the strip of pipe. It cracked as it hit the man’s face. George pivoted, twisting his wand, and the dark robe flung back through the room, crumpling motionless in the hallway.</p><p>George scrambled towards the child—a first or second year by the look of them. Ash and dust coated their reddish-brown skin in murky grey, and their eyes were wide with shock, Ravenclaw tie askew.</p><p>“I—I—needed my notes. I couldn’t leave without them,” she gasped, her fingers trembling over her bookbag’s strap as she stared into the corner. George followed her gaze.</p><p>There, in a rumpled pile, was Collin Creevey. Pale, unmoving, his throat opened up to the air. George tasted ash in his mouth, counting, waiting for the boy’s chest to move.</p><p>It didn’t.</p><p>“I thought I knew enough spells, but—” the Ravenclaw was falling to pieces.</p><p>George stepped into her line of sight. “Hey—look at me, look at me,” he said, examining her face and hands for signs of venom. There were none, but it was hard to tell in the dark.</p><p>“That you, George?” a call sounded from the door. It was Bill, Fleur at his side.</p><p>“Yeah—” he shouted. “I found someone.” He turned back to her. “How old are you?” he asked.</p><p>“Eleven” was the shaky reply.</p><p>Bill swore, striding in to help while Fleur watched the door, casting a Muffliato.</p><p>“There was a werewolf, Bill,” George said, trying not to look back over at Collin.</p><p>“Greyback?” Bill asked, examining the Ravenclaw’s scrapes. Then: “Did it bite you or claw you?” to the Ravenclaw. She shook her head, tears filling her eyes as they flitted over George’s shoulder.</p><p>“Not Greyback,” George said.</p><p>Already, the older man was watching for their next move, leaning to see out the doorframe. George straightened his shoulder, then flicked his wand, affixing the strip of pipe to the back of his jacket with a semi-permanent sticking charm. Fleur motioned for them to wait as footsteps clattered down the hall outside.</p><p>“What’s your name?” George asked, bracing his hands on his knees.</p><p>“Emmeline,” she whispered, and George barely caught it through the tramp of boots on stone.</p><p>“Alright, Emmeline,” George said. “We’ve got to get you back to the Room of Requirement. Do you know where that is?” he asked, holding out a hand. Emmeline nodded.</p><p>“I was there earlier,” she whispered. “When Harry came through.” She reached out, grabbing his hand, and he helped her up. Outside, someone was screaming. He blinked, struggling to keep his tone calm.</p><p>“Brilliant, don’t let go,” he said, lifting her hand up. “Bill, Fleur, and I are going to get you to a safe place, but if something happens to us, I want you to keep running. Alright?”</p><p>She made a noise of acknowledge, quiet though it was.</p><p>His eyes caught Fleur’s. She crossed the floor, taking Emmeline’s other hand.</p><p>Somewhere, floors above their head, an explosion boomed. This was louder, longer than the rest, shaking the castle around them. Something in George twinged, and the breath left his lungs.</p><p>George looked at Bill. “Did-did you feel that?” he asked.</p><p>Bill blinked back at him. “We’ve got to hurry.”</p><p>Hurry.</p><p>
  <em>Hurry.</em>
</p><p>They dashed through the hall, the rubble coming down around them in large, horrible crashes. The curses were flying around them, whistling past his ear and temples, but they couldn’t go any faster. The first-year’s hand slipped, coming free. Bill lurched forward, taking it up before she could stumble, and they carried on.</p><p>He couldn’t see—couldn’t breathe.</p><p>The stairs were shifting beneath his shoes, Bill’s shouting could barely be heard above the bone-chilling chirps of the large spiders, making their way through the hall, closer, closer.</p><p>George whipped around the corner, up another flight of stairs. And another. They came upon it suddenly—the large, stately doors were broken in two, black smoke roiling from inside.</p><p>Ginny stood before them, hurling jinxes at Dolohov. The walls flashed purple, and George dove, ripping the pipe from the back of his jacket.</p><p>“Expulso!” he shouted, sprinting towards them, flinging the ball of fire towards the Death Eater. Dolohov sidestepped, and the explosion cracked into the wall, toppling an empty painting frame.</p><p>“Stupefy!” Ginny screamed, and Dolohov had to spin to dodge. In that moment of distraction, George leapt, muscles straining, and drew the pipe back.</p><p>It was like striking a bludger—a heavy, fleshy bludger. The pipe thudded against Dolohov’s side, and he swerved, crashing into the stone.</p><p>“Brachiabindo!” George cried, and ropes sprang forth, wrapping around Dolohov’s torso. George snatching up Dolohov’s wand. The Death Eater’s eyes were livid, but George lifted it, then brought it down over his knee.</p><p>It snapped in two.</p><p>Dolohov writhed, screaming, spitting at them.</p><p>Another hood rounded the corner, flicking his wand. The ropes severed, and Dolohov was up in a flash, running after the other cloaks. The new Death Eater lowered his hood.</p><p>It was Vane. From the Ministry.</p><p>Vane shouted, and the curse hit George in the chest. His body sailed back through the air, smacking against the wall.</p><p>Crack.</p><p>Fire crept over his ribs, and he gasped. His bad leg rolled, and the pain shot up his ankle, re-igniting the scars from Umbridge’s curse.</p><p>“Crucio!” the next curse was fast, agony searing up and over his chest into his throat.</p><p>“Flipendo!” Ginny’s voice cut through the pain.</p><p>The curse released him. His ears rang. He could just make out the sound of Bill and Fleur’s voices tangling with Ginny’s.</p><p>The dust was so thick, he was choking.</p><p>Where was he?</p><p>“George!” Ginny was suddenly in front of him, eyes wild. “Have you seen Harry?” she screamed over the din.</p><p>He blinked, gasping.</p><p>“Focus, George!” Ginny shouted.</p><p>“I don’t know—I don’t know,” George said. Everything seemed so heavy all of the sudden, and he didn’t understand why. It was like a cord inside of him had been snapped. A tie of some sort, severed.</p><p>Ginny looked up. Her voice sounded distant as she said, “Bill, he’s going into shock.”</p><p>Bill ducked forward, looking into his eyes. The room spun.</p><p>“Look at me, George” he said. George swallowed and nodded. With that, Bill flicked his wand at George’s leg. He roared as an electric pulse swept through it, tearing at his nerves like fire. After, though, a more tolerable numbness settled.</p><p>“We have to move fast,” Bill said, his face a grimace. With that, he swore, then yanked on George’s hand. George followed, trying his best to keep up, but his feet kept tangling.</p><p>They made their way back down the staircases, dodging jets of green and purple light. Bodies littered the floor, so covered in rubble that it was impossible to say who was friend or foe.</p><p>Where was Hermione?</p><p>George blinked away the thought. He couldn’t-couldn’t let himself go there.</p><p>Then came to the wider passage, just before the staircase that would lead them down to the Great Hall. The black hoods were thick, the area completely overrun by Death Eaters. George’s breath rattled in his chest.</p><p>Fleur stepped forward, releasing the first-year’s hand. “Close your ears,” she said softly, her eyes trained on the threat. Bill turned the first-year away, and wordlessly, the group plugged their ears.</p><p>Fleur stepped forward, spreading her hands out.</p><p>“What’s she—” Ginny mouthed, but then Fleur bared her teeth. She opened her mouth, and even through the barricade of his fingers, the screech that swarmed from her lips was unbearable.</p><p>The Veela’s cry.</p><p>The Death Eaters contorted, twisting in agony, hurling themselves out the windows. George grimaced, but he couldn’t look away. Closing his eyes to it would leave him open to attack.</p><p>When Fleur finally stopped, a path was clear, but she had drained herself, stumbling forward, considerably paler than she’d been minutes before.</p><p>Ginny firmed her jaw and took the first-year by the hand. “Forward,” she said.</p><p>Together, they pushed through the rubble. As they approached the doors, a strobe of spellfire lit the passage, knocking George off his feet and dragging him backwards into a wall.</p><p>His family’s voices sounded distant as he twisted, scrambling to get up against the wall, flailing his wand in front of him.</p><p>“Expelliarmus!” George shouted, and the light of his wand cracked against the jet from his attacker’s. He was disoriented—tired, so tired, and the spark moved towards him.</p><p>This was it.</p><p>His hair blew back from the force of it, and his wand shot from his hand. His chest heaved, and he groped blindly for it among the rocks.</p><p>His attacker’s face twisted, and they opened their mouth.</p><p>Black fog spewed out. Tendrils sprang towards him, and he shied back, against the archway. His magic stirred, urging him to action, whispering a warning: If it should touch him, it would consume him. Not even memories would be left.</p><p>Then, that terrible, cold voice echoed in his head once more:</p><p>
  <em>“You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.”</em>
</p><p>The Death Eater paused, head tilted. George tightened his fists. Across the hall, the first-year bent, tears streaming down her face.</p><p>
  <em>“Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat, immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.”</em>
</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>
  <em>“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman and child who has tried to conceal you from me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>One hour.”</em>
</p><p>The Death Eater shot up in a column of smoke, streaking away into the night.</p><p>Trembling, George hoisted himself from the wall, making his way back to the Great Hall’s doors.</p><p>He opened them, and the sound of his mother wailing flooded over him.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>He limped forward. The vacant, pitying stares of the people grouped at the entrance followed him.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>Madam Pomfrey backed away from the cots. Her apron was streaked with dark red.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>The small tangle of red-heads parted as Percy stepped back, revealing a stretcher on the floor. His mum was making terrible—horrible sounds.</p><p>
  <em>Something was wrong.</em>
</p><p>George gasped, lurching forward. Please no. Please, God, not this. Not this.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley lifted her head, and he could see, finally. There, under her shaking hands was Fred.</p><p>Eyes closed, face pale.</p><p>Chest still.</p><p>The Weasley luck had run out.</p><p>He collapsed in on himself, like a dying star. The cold eating away at him.</p><p>He splintered.</p><p>Broke.</p><p>It was as though his feet had come unmoored from the floor.</p><p>He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—his knees hit the floor, and his forehead crashed into Fred’s cold chest as he unraveled.</p><p>He was crying, throat raw, his voice choking. He could feel his father’s hand on his shoulder, but it couldn’t reach him where he was. There weren’t any words.</p><p>There was only the dark.</p><p>He lost himself in the howling pain, the wind kicking up around him, snuffing out the torches on the walls.</p><p>“Why?” he could barely get the word out. “Why is this happening?”</p><p>This time, Fred wasn’t there to answer.</p><p>George was lost to the world, detached from the passage of time. Perhaps it had been five minutes or forty—he didn’t know. He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, the pained gasps.</p><p>But, suddenly in all the darkness, a pair of arms came up around him. The smell of chamomile.</p><p>It was like a faint beacon, a pull calling him towards something solid and tangible. He breathed. Again. The pain hadn’t lessened—but there was an anchor in the storm.</p><p>His hands found her arms, and he clung tight, gripping her like a lifeline.</p><p>He took a breath, and then a strange feeling swept over him.</p><p>The world seemed to shift around him, the castle groaning. Time itself seemed to bend, slowing, moving backwards and forwards in a tangled river.</p><p>A shimmering, golden pop around Fred’s body.</p><p>George stilled.</p><p>Fred stirred, groaning.</p><p>But that—George blinked. The groups of the people around them had shifted, as though the events around them had been re-arranged, just slightly. Fred’s eyes flickered open, gold magic sparking and fading inside of them.</p><p>Letting loose a fierce cry, George lunged forward, crushing his twin in his arms.</p><p>“There was—a train, but my ticket,” Fred was mumbling, staring around him in confusion. His arms halted, coming up around George. “It disintegrated.”</p><p>“What are you talking about, Fred?” Bill stooped, a line of concern appearing between his brows. “Pomfrey said you hadn’t suffered a concussion, but we may need to have her take another look.”</p><p>It was as though it had never happened. Mrs. Weasley was across the room, comforting Trelawney.</p><p>He felt a body shift behind him, crumpling. He reeled back. It was Granger, limp in Ron’s arms. He moved to help, but she was already coming to, struggling to get upright.</p><p>“S-Sorry, I blacked out for a moment,” she murmured, holding her head. “I must’ve stood up too fast.” She looked confused, her gaze flitting from George to Fred, then back to George. Ron’s arm tightened around her waist.</p><p>Had she seen it too?</p><p>Before he had time to voice the question, the doors of the Great Hall burst open. Angelina Johnson stood in the rubble, her face a mess of bruises and cuts, her robes singed and smoking. She firmed her jaw, wiping her nose on her sleeve, and tossed her broom onto the floor.</p><p>“Is he here?” she cried, looking over them. Fred struggled to his feet.</p><p>Angelina’s eyes widened, and she catapulted across the space, throwing herself into his arms. As their bodies collided, she released a handful of bloody, metal shards onto the ground.</p><p>George knelt, drawn to the golden flash.</p><p>Between the scorch marks, George could just barely make out the markings on the piece.</p><p>“It’s—it’s a broken time turner,” Hermione said, kneeling beside him. She lifted her face, alarm contorting her features. “Angelina, where did the sand go?”</p><p>Angelina’s voice was muffled in Fred’s shoulder. “The castle took it.”</p><p>Hermione blinked, and George could almost see the gears in her mind turning. Suddenly, she shifted, springing upright.</p><p>“Where’s Harry?” she asked, voice small, quiet, and afraid.</p><p>#</p><p>No one could find him. George squeezed his eyes shut. Surely, Harry hadn’t been so foolish as to go into the Forbidden Forest.</p><p>But, he’d had the perfect distraction, slipping away when everyone was so numb with pain and confusion. Perhaps they’d only missed him, and he was still searching for whatever it was he’d come to Hogwarts for, rifling through drawers in a back room.</p><p>Yes. That had to be it.</p><p>The alternative was unthinkable.</p><p>The sun was dawning over the landscape, lighting the dust and rubble. George picked his way through the entry hall, looking for wounded. The hour would be up soon, and they’d have to fight once more.</p><p>He swallowed and straightened his shoulders. So be it.</p><p>Then, that cold, terrible voice rang out over the grounds.</p><p>“Harry Potter is dead.”</p><p>They were lying.</p><p>“He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him.”</p><p>Harry would never run away. That’s what made Harry…Harry.</p><p>“We bring you his body as proof that your hero has gone.”</p><p>It had to be a trick—some sort of dark magic.</p><p>“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war.”</p><p>George’s heart pounded in his ears. Beside him, Lee reached out, steadying himself against an archway. Fred’s arm tightened around Angelina’s shoulders.</p><p>“Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family.”</p><p>Unbidden, the image of Fred’s once-still form flashed through George’s mind. No. He couldn’t give in to that.</p><p>“Come out of the castle, now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared.”</p><p>Bill, Mr. Weasley, and Mrs. Weasley walked up, their faces grim. Ginny was frozen, her breath coming rapidly, shaking her head.</p><p>“It’s lies,” she gasped. “He’s lying.”</p><p>On his right, Hermione was gripping Ron’s arm. The group of them stared at the entryway doors. No one moved.</p><p>“Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live, and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”</p><p>Voldemort’s voice was coming closer now, as though it was just outside, in the courtyard, the boom louder than all the gasps, the cries, the frantic shouts in the building behind them.</p><p>Neville took a deep breath and pushed the doors open.</p><p>The light seared their eyes, and George flinched at it. Hagrid, bound by ropes, had a bundle in his arms.</p><p>No.</p><p>He hadn’t.</p><p>Harry, why?</p><p>McGonagall’s cry of shock cut through the courtyard, and the lot of them spilled out, looking on Voldemort for the first time.</p><p>“No—” Hermione’s gasp was quiet, then she repeated herself, louder.</p><p>Ginny screamed, sprinting forward as though to attack, but Mr. Weasley grabbed her arm, yanking her back.</p><p>A delighted smile crept over Voldemort’s face as he surveyed their reaction.</p><p>Without Harry, how would they win?</p><p>They would die here. His family wouldn’t kneel to the Dark Lord, so they would die. Fred, Angelina, Bill, Fleur, Ron, Mum, Dad, Ginny, him.</p><p>Hermione.</p><p>Her sobs rent a tear straight through his center. His heart rattled in his ribcage, protesting at the unfairness of it all.</p><p>All of it—for nothing?</p><p>He swallowed, turning to Granger. The last time he’d been at Hogwarts, she’d told him something, the sunlight streaming through the glass windows, pouring over her.</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t lose your hope, George. It’s the most beautiful part of you.” </em>
</p><p>Even though it was a memory, he could almost hear the determination in her voice.</p><p>The present Hermione looked at him, a shard of who she’d been that day. George took a deep breath.</p><p>“We have to hold on,” he shouted. “For Harry.” Beside him, Neville shouted. Another cry rose up.</p><p>They would die fighting for what was right. Pressing back against the tide of darkness with everything they had.</p><p>“Silence!” Voldemort shouted, and the charm settled over them, sucking the sound from George’s throat. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”</p><p>Hagrid shuffled forward, laying Harry gently in a clear spot amongst the rubble.</p><p>“You see?” Voldemort shouted, pacing. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”</p><p>“He beat you!” Ron’s cried, breaking through the charm. The fighters began the shout again, railing against Voldemort’s lies.</p><p>Voldemort snarled, flicking his wand, and it was as though a large, invisible rag had been stuffed down George’s throat. He choked, gagging.</p><p>“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” said Voldemort. “Killed while trying to save himself.”</p><p>Without warning, Neville surged forward. Voldemort waved a hand, and Neville crashed to the stone, his wand removed. George’s stomach twisted.</p><p>Voldemort croned over Neville’s stiff form, taunting, Bellatrix chiming in.</p><p>“But you are a pure-blood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”</p><p>“So what if I am?” Neville struggled, spitting back into Voldemort’s face.</p><p>Voldemort stooped closer, whispering. Neville returned the question with a shout: “I’ll join you when hell freezes over.” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his wand.</p><p>Neville was brave. George hoped that when it was his turn, he would be as Neville was—bold and resistant to the end. He gritted his teeth, expecting the final blow to come.</p><p>Instead, the sorting hat sailed through the air, looking limp and beaten. Voldemort stuffed it onto Neville’s head, hissing out some poison about Salazar.</p><p>“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” said Voldemort.</p><p>The Sorting Hat burst into flames. George’s stomach dropped. He had to do something. Hermione screamed, and George tensed, looking for an opening, his mind whirring. He’d have to do it—run through the courtyard, across the empty space. He began to push forward.</p><p>Then chaos unfolded.</p><p>A crowd, Charlie at the front, surged over the castle walls. Voldemort and his followers turned, and in that moment, Neville broke free from the charm, pulling a long blade from the hat.</p><p>Godric.</p><p>The thick coil of snake at Voldemort’s feet sprang up, and Neville cut clean through it. It exploded into dust.</p><p>Spellfire swarmed across the courtyard’s grey stone. George strained, blinking, wand aloft.</p><p>Harry had vanished.</p><p>#</p><p>He choked on the dust, stumbling after Lee, Fred, and Angelina. If they were going to make a fight of it, then fight they would. A green flash zipped past his head, and he ducked.</p><p>“Help me!” Lee shouted. With the others, George pointed his wand at Yaxley. The dual casting was potent, and the Death Eater’s body slammed into the ground.</p><p>In the distance, Bellatrix’s cackle echoed. George turned, running. Not Hermione. Not again.</p><p>He rushed by McGonagall, whose face was steel, her wand moving at a speed he’d never before witnessed. She wasn’t fighting Bellatrix, though. She was fighting Voldemort, the other professors crowding around her to help.</p><p>He skirted a centaur carrying a house-elf on its back, doubling back towards the entrance of the Great Hall.</p><p>George’s feet flew, turning the corner to the room. A bolt of red light sped towards him, and he ducked, sliding on his knees under the stream before tumbling forward and dashing on.</p><p>There, on the tables, Bellatrix pranced, surrounded by Hermione, Ginny, and Luna. Bellatrix twisted, flicking her wand.</p><p>“No!” George shouted, vaulting over the table between them. The jet of green light from her wand narrowly missed Ginny’s head. Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed as she took him in.</p><p>“Blood traitor!” she screeched. Hermione whirled, looking from Bellatrix to George, her mouth open, but no sound came out.</p><p>Bellatrix lifted her wand, and George lifted his, but Bellatrix was faster in life, and the spell knocked him back, his head ringing. George blinked, expecting the follow up. It would be a blast of green light. The tables and rubble spun around him, his head throbbing.</p><p>But then his mother stepped forward. He couldn’t make out her words, only the sound of her scream.</p><p>The floor cracked under their feet as the spells rebounded.</p><p>Hermione’s hand had found his elbow, helping him up. A warm pulse shot through him, and the sound from the room came back into focus. He shifted, trying to gently push her behind him, but she wasn’t having it, stepping out in harm’s way again, eyes afire, wand raised.</p><p>“You will never touch our children again!” Mrs. Weasley said, shooting a bolt of pure light. It collided with Bellatrix’s chest, and the Death Eater stared down in surprise.</p><p>She exploded into ash.</p><p>The room stilled. Voldemort turned, raising his wand, and George lunged forward.</p><p>“Protego!” The shout hadn’t come from him. Instead, at Mrs. Weasley’s side, there stood a new person—someone who hadn’t been present for the duel.</p><p>It was Harry.</p><p>“He’s alive!” George shouted. Voldemort’s yell rent the air, and he disappeared into a column of smoke, flying out the door.</p><p>Harry dashed after him, George following close behind. There—against hole blown through the outer wall, Harry stood, facing the dark robed figure.</p><p>“Come on, Tom. Let’s finish this the way we started it,” Harry said. “Together.”</p><p>He reached forward and grabbed Voldemort’s robes, pulling him off the side of the building, the black fog twisting and struggling.</p><p>George’s heart pounded, and he followed the direction of the trail—down into the courtyard. Lighting cracked, red and green. He ran down, fast as he could, reaching the doors with a crowd of others.</p><p>“I am the true master of the elder wand,” Harry’s voice rang in the morning light.</p><p>Then, the two spells clashed in unison:</p><p>“Avada Kedavra!”</p><p>“Expelliarmus!”</p><p>The light fought each other, green, then red surging. The light flared, and George saw spots. Then Voldemort’s wand sailed into the air, the burst hitting Voldemort’s face.</p><p>The Dark Lord’s body sailed backwards, flaking away to nothing before it hit the ground.</p><p>The crowd was still.</p><p>And then it wasn’t.</p><p>George let himself shout, the exuberance washing over him in an overpowering wave.</p><p>Then, the sound died down, and a sob rose in his throat.</p><p>#</p><p>The bodies of the fallen lined the end of the hall, and George couldn’t bring himself to look at them. It’d taken hours to sort them out. He’d gone back for the ones he remembered—Lupin. Sarah. Collin.</p><p>Charlie had found Tonks on the grounds, the womping willow still above her.</p><p>Fred settled beside him, leaning his elbows back on the table. “Rough day,” he said, looking over the spectrum of emotions in the room. There had been a lot of crying, all morning. Then laughter, then more crying.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>Across the room, Ron tucked his arm around Hermione’s shoulders.</p><p>George stood, gritting his teeth at the pang that radiated through his leg.</p><p>“I’m going to do another sweep of the castle,” he said, limping off. “Make sure we didn’t miss anyone.”</p><p>“I’ll go with you.” Fred’s voice was calm, and he fell in step beside George. “Someone’s got to be there when you eventually topple over.”</p><p>#</p><p>2 a.m. May 3, 1998</p><p>George leaned against the fridge, staring blankly at the The Burrow’s kitchen table. It had taken a few hours to set the house aright when they returned, but now, it was almost as though nothing had changed at all.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>His chest shook, and he tightened his grip. His breath came out in a shudder.</p><p>Where was the bloody kettle?</p><p>He flicked his wand. The cupboard rattled, and the instrument sprang forth, zipping into his hand. Right.</p><p>Magic could do helpful things, too.</p><p>He lit the burner and stood, watching, until the water boiled. The hot water splashed into his mug. There was no tea in the cannisters, so George sipped on the plain water instead.</p><p>It was something. It would keep his eyes from closing, from seeing the faces of the dead.</p><p>A soft patter drew his attention to the staircase.</p><p>Hermione stood, wrapped in a dressing robe, purple slippers on her feet. She blinked owlishly at him, then shrugged, stepping into the kitchen.</p><p>“You too?” she asked, making her way past him to open the cabinet. She frowned at the empty tea cannisters.</p><p>“Weasley twins don’t sleep, Hermione.” George tried for humor. “Never have.”</p><p>“Then what were you doing in Binns’s class all those years?” Hermione asked, voice bored as she rifled through the drawers.</p><p>“Studying, of course,” George said, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter beside her. “We were his best students, you know.”</p><p>“I’m sure,” Hermione said. “Pity I wasn’t in your year to witness it.”</p><p>George’s throat tightened. “Yeah. Pity,” he said. His hand had frozen, his mug stilled near his chin, halted on its journey to his mouth. Something wistful lodged in his chest as he looked at her, preoccupied with her quest for tea. Hermione withdrew a box from the back of the drawer.</p><p>“We can make do with this,” she said, face brightening. “You look for sugar.” She paused, then went up on her tiptoes, peeking into his mug. “Merlin, George. Are you drinking hot water?”</p><p>“Couldn’t find anything else,” he said, shrugging and heading into the pantry. The sugar was undisturbed, and he hoisted the sack onto the kitchen table.</p><p>“There’s always something,” Hermione said, re-lighting the burner. “You only have to know how to look for it.”</p><p>She scooped dark cocoa powder from the box into George’s mug, then spooned some sugar in before doing the same to her own.</p><p>They carried their drinks to the living room, Hermione settling on the sofa and George on the armchair. She lit the fireplace, then curled up, leaning on the arm of the couch. They didn’t speak while they drank. George rubbed his thumb over his mug’s handle, watching her. In the firelight, her guard had come down, and he could see the weight on her shoulders.</p><p>Always carrying more than her fair share.</p><p>He was about to ask when she spoke.</p><p>“I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.” Her voice was raw and broken. “I keep seeing them—when I close my eyes.” She took a breath, staring into the fire.</p><p>A lump formed in his throat.</p><p>“How can I help?” he asked. Hermione blinked at the fire.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she whispered.</p><p>The fire popped. George braced his hands on his knees. Then, in slow, certain movements, he rose, picking a dust-covered tome off the mantle. Her eyes followed him as he approached her, a question flickering in them. Wordless, he leaned in, their fingers brushing as he took the mug from her hand and rested it on the table.</p><p>Then, he settled on the floor in front of the sofa, leaning back against the cushions.</p><p>“I’ll read to you, Granger,” he said. The book opened to the place they’d left off, as though it had been waiting for them to return.</p><p>As he read, he felt her shift, stretching out behind him. He peeked back at her. She’d tucked her right arm under her head and was looking at him with those owlish, brown eyes. His head tipped back on the cushion, resting just beside her left hand.</p><p>He kept reading, long after her eyes closed and her breaths grew long and slow.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Arresto Momentum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oh.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First: AAAAAAAAAAA<br/>Second: One hundred thousand words. How is that possible?<br/>I am thoroughly dazed right now, but so grateful for the kindness shown to me by you all. Much love to you all. &lt;3<br/>Thank you for your comments, clicks, and encouragement! &lt;3 </p><p>The songs for this week are "Wonder" by Shawn Mendes and "Fragile" by Kygo &amp; Labrinth (especially in the last scene).</p><p>Please forgive any mistakes you find. &lt;3 </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>Grab yourself a hot tea and maybe a scone, bundle up in your warmest blanket, and let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Seventeen: Arresto Momentum</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>February 13, 2003</p><p>Hermione stepped from her room, rubbing her bleary eyes on her pajama sleeve.</p><p>“Morning,” George’s drawl drew her attention to the stove, where he stood over a pan. She crossed to the stool at the bartop, sliding into it. George shoveled eggs—scrambled this time, onto a couple of plates. He leaned over her shoulder, placing a dish in front of her.</p><p>“I did set aside a bit of shell, just in case you wanted it,” he said. She reached back, pushing on his arm without looking.</p><p>“You’re terrible,” she said.</p><p>“No—” George said, sliding into the seat beside her. “I believe what you said is that I’m cute.” Hermione face went hot, the blush licking all the way from her throat to her forehead.</p><p>He took an oversized bite, brows raised at her. “Or, bloody cute, rather,” he said after he swallowed.</p><p>“I didn’t say that,” she said, her voice was faint as she scraped her eggs around the plate.</p><p>“Relax, Granger, I’m only joking,” George said, nudging her with an elbow.</p><p>“I believe what I said is that <em>you</em> think you’re bloody cute,” Hermione said, ducking her head and taking a bite. If she had to endure some teasing for an effort-free breakfast, then that was just as well. George’s cooking was worth it.</p><p>The company wasn’t bad, either.</p><p>“Oh, my mistake,” George said, grinning. Somehow, his teasing made the situation better. Less awkward and more like a funny joke. George was good at that—she’d have to add it to his column in her journal later.</p><p>“Made you something this morning.” He pulled a paper flower from his apron pocket, holding it out to her. The stem was rolled parchment, but the petals were sparkling and golden, little shimmers spinning out across their surface.</p><p>“That’s remarkable, George,” Hermione said, beaming up at him. His cheeks went pink, and he ducked his head, clearing his throat.</p><p>“May I?” he said and gestured to her ear. Hermione bit back a smile, nodding. George leaned in, and his thumb brushed her face as he tucked the stem there, against her temple. “It’s only a prototype, but we’re thinking of selling them.” His voice was soft in his concentration.</p><p>“You should,” Hermione said, reaching up to adjust her messy plait.</p><p>He turned in his seat, his face still flushed. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked lightly.</p><p>Just then, a large screech owl emerged through the delivery hatch. It swooped, dropping a thin envelop on her lap, then exited, wings flapping.</p><p>The Wizengamot’s tell-tale “W” was emblazoned on the wax seal. Hermione sucked in a breath and ripped it open.</p><p>
  <em>“Dear Mrs. Weasley-Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We received your request to hold another hearing on your most recent case. However, the Wizengamot feels that your condition is unsuitable for the legislative and judicial environment. We wish you a speedy—”</em>
</p><p>Hermione lowered the parchment, her throat tight.</p><p>George was studying her intently. At her expression, he slowly reached up, tipping the parchment towards himself with an index finger. Hermione let him, releasing it.</p><p>“Can they do this?” she whispered. George’s hands tightened around the letter.</p><p>“Well, they’re certainly going to try,” he said, inhaling and looking over the page. His hand came down to rest on her shoulder lightly, and that warm pulse was there again. “We’ll fight it.”</p><p>He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The two of them against the Wizengamot.</p><p>Despite her frustration at the Wizengamot’s ridiculous actions, warmth curled in her ribcage.</p><p>“I’ll send an owl to the House Elves’ representative,” he murmured. “The two of you can meet to sort through plans for moving forward.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, blinking at the counter. It wasn’t right. In the muggle world, if someone was sick, people weren’t allowed to discriminate against them in the workplace. It still happened, but the blatant maneuver in the letter made her blood boil.</p><p>There had to be some way to get around it.</p><p>“What if we faked it,” the words slipped from her mouth before she had time to think them over. George paused, crossing his arms.</p><p>“Faked it?” he asked.</p><p>“That I’m better,” Hermione said. “Only in public.” She bit her lip, looking up at him. George rubbed the back of his neck.</p><p>“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Granger,” he said. Hermione stood, carrying her dish to the sink.</p><p>“You don’t think I can do it?” she asked. The frustration leaked through her words. That wasn’t fair. This wasn’t George’s fault.</p><p>“That’s not what I said,” he said, sounding tired. “But, for-for that to work, we’ll have to—I mean—” he trailed off, looking lost.</p><p>“I understand,” Hermione said. “Pretending that we’re back to whatever normal was might be difficult.”</p><p>George leaned against the counter, his hands braced on the surface and shoulders hunched.</p><p>“Alright,” he said, finally. “If this is what you want to do, we can make a go of it.”</p><p>Hermione’s heart thundered.</p><p>“Not around my family, though,” George said, his gaze still lowered. “They’ll know.”</p><p>“George?” she asked. His head tilted up, his expression shuttered. “What were we like, before?”</p><p>His breath left him in a whoosh, his eyes tracing over her. “What d’you mean?”</p><p>“What were we like together?” she asked. George bit his lips together, then tapped the countertop with a knuckle.</p><p>“Wait here,” he murmured, disappearing back into the office. After several moments, he returned, photo frame in hand. He propped it on the counter.</p><p>It was them, in the shop at some sort of event. George was in his uniform, Hermione draped in a hunter green jumper. The Hermione in the photo leapt suddenly, jumping into George’s arms. He roared with laughter, closing her into an embrace, pinning her hands behind her, peppering her cheeks, chin, and nose with kisses. She studied it closely, letting the image loop again and again.</p><p>It was as though George’s face had opened up, and sunlight flowed out of him. She looked from the photo to him in the present, his expression hesitant and the slightest bit pained.</p><p>“I wish I remembered it,” she said softly. “It looks lovely.”</p><p>“You will,” he said, voice almost pleading.</p><p>“I hope so,” she murmured, looking back down at the photo. She pressed the photo into his hands, nodding at it. “I think I can do this.”</p><p>George blinked. “What?”</p><p>“For the Wizengamot—I can manage this. It may not be as bubbly all the time, but I can act a bit more like this with you in public. If that’s alright with you?”</p><p>The barricade came down, hard. It was like the emotion slipped from his eyes until they were blank slates.</p><p>She hesitated. “Is that alright with you, George?” she stepped forward.</p><p>He looked down at the photo blankly. “Of course, Hermione,” he said. Then: “We may as well reach out to the Wizengamot today and tell them that they’re mistaken about your condition.”</p><p>He took the photo with him as he left. The pacing of his footsteps seemed odd—stiff.</p><p>#</p><p>February 21, 2003</p><p>They hadn’t received any real news back from Harry or the Wizengamot. The latter had sent a brief note, stating that they would be in touch eventually. The former claimed to still be working through evidence. After Hermione delivered the Wyvern shackle, he’d assured them that once he and Ron had anything of importance to share, they would.</p><p>Hermione wasn’t sure if he was lying. She was starting to feel more grounded, but everyone around her still saw her as fragile—watching her expression for signs of hurt, stepping lightly around jokes, referencing times that they knew she remembered rather than ones that she didn’t.</p><p>And the memories. The memories were still absent. Would it be like this forever? What if they never came back? Would the family continue to look at her as though she was only a fragment of herself? Harry and Ron were claiming that they were still sorting through evidence. But honestly, how long could that process take?</p><p>So, she did the only thing she could—she started working the case in secret. During her many hours alone, she cleared out a side of closet, creating a vast stringboard, penciling notes to the wall. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the files on Harry’s desk, but she could follow the trail through the papers—and there were loads of issues from <em>The Quibbler</em> detailing hits on locations across wizarding Britain.</p><p>Traces of the same darkness followed each incident—people going mad, explosions, ice covering the space that took days to melt. It was hard to know what became of the victims—they rarely spoke to the papers after.</p><p>It seemed that there’d been a lull since their trip to the Liathach. As though the mastermind behind everything was regrouping. Bracing for something.</p><p>Hermione stepped from the shop onto the pavement, bundling her coat tight around her. They were going to run some errands because that’s what regular couples did. The street bustled around her, people filtering in and out of the potions shop across the way.</p><p>“Where to first?” George asked, locking the shop door behind her. The store was dark, closed for the day. The winter wind blew his hair back from his brow, and he pulled a knit hat from his pocket, shoving it down over his head. She could see the start of his scar peeking out, just below the hem.</p><p>She hesitated, then reached up, adjusting the hat so it would better shelter him from the wind. Her fingers grazed his scar, and he shivered. Her face heated, and she snatched her hand back, thrusting it into her coat pocket.</p><p>She tried to think of what she’d seen the girls at Hogwarts do, with their boyfriends. There wasn’t much to go on, as she hadn’t paid much attention. Until Lavender dated Ron, that is, and only because she found it so offensive that she couldn’t look away. Strange, how it had felt so hurtful then, but rather silly now.</p><p>She took a deep breath, then looped her arm through George’s, giggling. “Let’s go, Georgie.” He gave her a confused look, his features contorting at the name. Alright, so that was a miss. She bit her lip.</p><p>“How do you feel about Helga’s Nook?” she asked, nodding to the end of the street. The wizarding thrift shop had cropped up sometime in the past five years. It crawled into the sky with reckless abandon, towering over seven stories high. It was run by a former Hufflepuff named Sam who had a penchant for collecting old things.</p><p>George snorted, and they stepped off the pavement and onto the cobblestones together.</p><p>“What?” Hermione asked. George’s face had lit with an amused smile, like he was enjoying a private joke.</p><p>“Nothing,” George said, glancing back and forth as they made their way through pedestrian traffic.</p><p>“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Hermione said, tugging on his elbow.</p><p>“You take me here quite a lot, Granger,” he said, grinning down at her. “Some might say too much.”</p><p>Hermione’s brow wrinkled. “Do you not want to go, then?” she asked. What a shame. She’d heard they had an extensive stationery and book section on the fourth level.</p><p>“No, I do,” George said, tugging her along towards the tottering, brick building.</p><p>A camera flashed.</p><p>Hermione forced herself to relax, to beam up at him as though she’d never been more in love. What would such an expression look like? Perhaps a bit foggy-brained, maybe loopy? She tried her best. George blinked down at her, a slight shadow crossing through his eyes before his face cleared, and he smiled back.</p><p>The store’s bell was enchanted to play a Weird Sisters jingle when they stepped through. Racks of clothing crowded the room, and an iron, spiral staircase led to the next floor.</p><p>“I assume you’d like to see the books?” George asked. Hermione nodded eagerly, and they climbed up together.</p><p>Wizards were a bit rubbish at sorting their books. At least Hogwarts had grouped things together by subject. But here, they were sorted by size. Hermione milled about, pulling one volume, then another from the shelves. George was just behind her, watching her with a mirthful twist to his mouth.</p><p>She flipped a page. <em>Magical Mayhem: A History of Wizarding Mishaps</em> seemed quite intriguing, even though the prose was a bit dry. She was turning back to the table of contents to skim the chapter titles when George reached from behind her to pluck a thick book from the tallest shelf, the heat of his body washing over her. She started, looking up at him. His brows were drawn in concentration, his eyes skimming over the contents. A frowning wizard scowled at her from the book’s cover. The words “<em>Magical Tradition</em>” were stamped into the leather in emerald, blocky letters.</p><p>He flipped through it, his frown growing deeper.</p><p>“This might be helpful, for your wall,” he mumbled softly, then tucked the volume under his arm.</p><p>“You-you saw that, then?” she asked, turning. The bookshelf pressed into her back. George lifted his eyes from the tome, his hand still braced on the shelf above her head.</p><p>“Yes, Hermione,” he said, amusement laced through his tone. He snorted. “It’s taken over the whole wall on my side of the closet, and I do have to go in there once in a while to switch out the clothes that I keep in the study.” He paused, staring into the space above her head. Finally, he added, uncertainly, “Was I not supposed to?”</p><p>“No, no, um. It’s fine,” she said. “I didn’t realize, is all.” Surely, he must think that she’d gone round the bend, tacking up <em>Quibbler</em> articles and string, chasing threads that likely weren’t related.</p><p>“Alright,” he said, searching her face. “We usually do this sort of thing together. Sorry.” The words were soft. Her heart lurched.</p><p>She reached up, touching his shoulder lightly. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad for the help,” she said. Sparks flew up her fingers, to her elbow. George’s eyes dropped to her hand, then back to her face, his calm exterior cracking as he looked at her with what could only be described as longing.</p><p>She could count the freckles on his nose like stars.</p><p>Then, he blinked, and it was as if all of it had been tucked away—like he had stashed the emotions somewhere out of reach. His eyes were clear and calm as he pushed back from the shelf.</p><p>Perhaps she had imagined it all.</p><p>“Anytime, Granger,” he said, smiling. He held his hand out. “I’ll carry them, if you’d like.” He nodded to the books in her arms.</p><p>They headed down to the first floor together. They were walking to the till when a flash of faded, purple knit caught her eye from a clothing rack. She drifted over to it as George chatted with Sam. It was soft like cotton, and the stitching on it was sturdy and thick. Hermione rubbed the fabric of the sleeve between her fingers.</p><p>“Mione?” George asked, coming up behind her suddenly. Hermione dropped the sleeve.</p><p>“Just looking,” she said. George lifted his brows and pulled the hanger from the rack.</p><p>“Seems a bit big for you,” he said dryly.</p><p>“Well, I was thinking for you, maybe,” she said.</p><p>“I have about fifteen jumpers at home,” he said, shooting her a skeptical look.</p><p>“Yes, but this one’s purple,” Hermione said brightly. “Purple’s your color.” George tilted his head, surprise coming over his features.</p><p>“What?” Hermione asked, half-distracted as she sorted through the nearby jumpers on the rack. George cleared his throat.</p><p>“Well, d’you want me to try it on?” he asked. Hermione grinned.</p><p>“Yes please,” she said.</p><p>He led her over to the changing rooms, and she took a seat on the ancient, claw-foot sofa in front of them, tucking her legs beneath her.</p><p>He ducked into a booth. She didn’t have to wait more than a minute before he slid the curtain open with the jumper on, stepping out. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, then leaned to avoid a charmed memo slip that zipped past his head, towards the spiral stairs.</p><p>“Well?” he said. His face had gone pink, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile.</p><p>“I think it’s very nice,” she said. “But it’s your opinion that matters, George. You’re the one who’ll have to wear it.” Amusement flashed through his eyes, and he opened his mouth.</p><p>But then he closed it, and his gaze dropped back down to the jumper. His mouth was a thin line.</p><p>George turned to the mirror propped against the wall. “I like how it has honeycomb stitching on the arms, and cableknit down the front,” he said, studying it. “Two galleons is a bit much for a thrift shop, though. I could probably make it myself.”</p><p>Hermione grinned. “You knit?” she asked.</p><p>George folded his arms. “Yes, and I do it well.” He lowered his chin, assessing her. “Are you going to tease me?”</p><p>Hermione shook her head, unable to restrain her smile. Of course George knitted. George would knit. He was wonderful like that. “No, I love that you knit,” she said, propping her chin on her hand. George’s shoulders relaxed. “Did your mum teach you?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded, examining the stitching on the sleeve’s hem. “Yeah. She started me on scarves until I was able to help with the Christmas jumpers.”</p><p>Hermione leaned forward, her hand dropping.</p><p>“Did you ever help with mine?” she asked. The idea of George sitting in the Burrow or the common room all those years ago, knitting away at a sweater for her—it seemed a bit far-fetched. He’d had so many more important things to do at the time. She was being ridiculous.</p><p>George’s face had gone blank, and his mouth opened, then closed.</p><p>“You know—this is a nice jumper. I think we should get it,” he said abruptly, stepping into the changing room and sliding the curtain shut.</p><p>She laughed.</p><p>“It was just a question, George,” Hermione called. “I was only teasing. I mean, honestly, you knitting me a jumper. You were far too busy with your business and Quidditch and being popular for that.”</p><p>He didn’t answer. She hadn’t asked anything that strange, had she?</p><p>He had a funny look on his face as they left the shop, the cameras flashing around them. Hermione took his arm, leaning in close.</p><p>George took a deep breath, then smiled brightly at her, as though the strange exchange hadn’t happened. The sparks were there, but they seemed muted, barely travelling past her fingertips.</p><p>He was quiet the whole walk back to the flat, and he still hadn’t said anything after they trudged up the staircase. As the door closed behind them, he gently removed her hand from his arm and crossed the floor. His back was turned, but she could see the rigid line of his shoulders.</p><p>“George?” she asked, her step faltering.</p><p>“I-I’ve got to get some work done,” he mumbled. “Deadline on this new product’s development.” He disappeared into the study. Hermione watched him leave, then paced to her journal on the table.</p><p>She flipped it open, staring at his column.</p><p>Then, she picked up a quill and added “he knits” to it. She waited in the living room for hours, hoping he’d come back out.</p><p>But he didn’t.</p><p>#</p><p>February 26, 2003</p><p>Hermione studied <em>The Prophet’s</em> front page, a deep line between her brows.</p><p>
  <em>“Wizengamot Reconvenes to Hear Case on Magical Property Boundaries.”</em>
</p><p>So, they’d skipped the House Elf rights case, even though it was technically still open.</p><p>Anger flared under her sternum.</p><p>It wasn’t right.</p><p>Eventually, they would have to come back to it. But, not even so much as a note as to why they’d opted to schedule this hearing before hers. They were attempting to shuttle the case off in the corner, and with it, the needs of the House Elves, Centaurs, Goblins, and Werewolves.</p><p>She flipped open the paper. In the social section, a photo of her and George’s excursion to the thrift shop dominated the lower half of the page. She clutched his arm, and George stared ahead, face solemn. She could see the title of the volume in his hands—Magical Tradition. The photo’s animation had cut the part where he smiled at her.</p><p>That was strange. Had they done that on purpose?</p><p>No story accompanied it—only a brief caption about her being on the mend. That was alright, she supposed.</p><p>The Quibbler hadn’t run anything. She’d have to ask Luna about it.</p><p>Hermione sighed and tossed <em>The Prophet</em> into the bin.</p><p>Maybe George would be in the study, and he’d have something worth laughing about. She made her way to the cracked door, but when she peered through it, she found him bent in concentration, hands working over a complicated looking firecracker.</p><p>Best not bother him.</p><p>#</p><p>March 1, 2003</p><p>The coming of March had done nothing but make the air outside even colder. Leaving the flat left her with helplessly tangled hair and red, raw hands. Sometime between the jumper incident and the present, something had changed. George was nice enough, asking her about her day, listening attentively when she spoke.</p><p>But, it was different. The playful spark that had been cultivated between them—it was gone. Fizzled out.</p><p>And she missed it dearly.</p><p>When they did share a room, it was most often quietly—taking turns watching each other when the other was faced away. For what, she wasn’t sure.</p><p>It was rather inconvenient, because she’d grown quite fond of his little interjections, the nudges he’d give her with his elbow, the way his eyes sparked when he made a joke. It was rubbish that she didn’t know how to fix things.</p><p>She’d hoped that after a few days, they might adjust. Instead, things had only gotten worse.</p><p>Perhaps he simply wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. But, it was hard to understand when he wouldn’t. When they went out for tea or a walk, he was the perfect gentleman—nodding along to her stories, smiling at her from across the table, laughing at her jokes. But, it wasn’t the same. He didn’t make jokes of his own. He seemed faded, distant. The worst part was after each outing, when they arrived back at the flat. George would murmur some excuse and slip away.</p><p>The lump rose in her throat, and she tried and failed to swallow it back.</p><p>Whatever it was, he’d rather deal with it in isolation than with her. Her heart twisted.</p><p>She frowned. What was wrong with her?</p><p>It was fine if George needed some space. Truly. His wife had lost her memories, and it was only a matter of time before that began to wear on him. It was only natural that he needed time to sort through his emotions. Hadn’t she asked for the same thing before?</p><p>Rather than joking in person, he’d taken to leaving her notes. Little scraps of parchment plastered to walls, the loo mirror, her desk using semi-permanent sticking charms.</p><p>It was something, little fragments of George’s playfulness, peeking out through the wreckage of the situation. Hermione collected them all, gluing them into her journal. Slowly, the portrait of George was expanding into something more complicated. Silly and serious. Loud and quiet. A walking contradiction.</p><p>He was—he was so<em> interesting</em>.</p><p>Today, the note was a small scrap fluttering on the fridge door.</p><p><em>“Left you breakfast on the top shelf. Will be greatly offended if you don’t eat it.”</em> A picture of his face, stern and teasing at the same time flashed through her mind. Despite her worry, she couldn’t help but smile, peeling the parchment from the fridge.</p><p>He’d made her an omelet. She slid into the barstool across the counter and tucked in, hating the lonely sound of her fork scraping against the plate.</p><p>She ate quickly then rose, sending her dish to the sink and setting the scrub brush to work on it before heading to the stove and reaching for the kettle.</p><p>The door to the flat creaked open, and Hermione turned, teapot slipping in her hands.</p><p>It was George—cheeks ruddy, apron on, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He bobbed his head at her in greeting then strode to his room door.</p><p>This was new. He was in the flat during the day. For the past week, he’d been spending more time in the shop, almost always coming up after dinner was long over. Her heart stuttered, and she stepped lightly after him. Maybe, maybe things would turn around.</p><p>But as she arrived at the threshold of the study, he didn’t say hello. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice her presence as he flipped through files of blue graph paper in his desk cabinet.</p><p>Her ribs tightened.</p><p>An abrupt hoot filtered in from the kitchen, followed by the tell-tale noise of flapping wings. George lifted his head. He started as his eyes landed on her, sucking in a breath.</p><p>“Merlin’s pants, Granger, have you been there the whole time?” he said, dropping his gaze back to the files.</p><p>“Yes,” she whispered, blinking and stepping away from the doorframe. She fiddled with the kettle in her hands, hoping that he would look at her again. “Would you like some tea?” She took care to speak normally, keeping her voice even.</p><p>George pulled a sheath of blue paper from the file, brow furrowed. “Thanks, but I’ve really got to head back down there, sorry,” he murmured, evidently caught up in whatever was so fascinating on the sheet of paper. “Besides, I think there’s an owl for you.” He sounded distracted, preoccupied.</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to remember something. Anything. But it was a vast, empty desert. A blank space. Her fingers tightened around the kettle handle.</p><p>She spun, hurrying away before the tears came. Her shoulder tightened, and she slapped the kettle onto the stove. It clanged, ringing through the apartment.</p><p>George’s footsteps were rapid from the study to the kitchen. She looked up. He stood at counter, file lowered, eyes wide.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked, searching her face.</p><p>“I don’t care about the bloody owl,” she said, clutching her stomach. She turned to the burner, lighting it. Her curls fell like a curtain in front of her face. Good. The tears were slipping out now, and she didn’t want him to see them.</p><p>“If you really want tea, we can have tea,” George said softly.</p><p>“That’s not-not it,” Hermione said, her voice breaking. George laid the file on the countertop, slipping his hands into his pockets.</p><p>“What is it, then?” he asked.</p><p>“I’m trying as hard as I can,” she said, blinking at the little, digital clock above the stove. They must’ve had a muggle one brought in.</p><p>“What are you on about?” he said, and he sounded genuinely confused.</p><p>“I know that you’re tired of me being like this,” she whispered. “I can see the way that it’s effecting you. I know that you’re worn out. It’s—I’m too much.”</p><p>George was at her side a moment later, dragging her into his arms. “Not at all,” he said, whispering the words into her hair. “Not for a single moment, Hermione Jean.”</p><p>“Don’t lie,” she said, blinking at the warmth of his embrace. “I don’t want you to lie to me.”</p><p>“No, you listen to me, Hermione,” he said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “This isn’t easy, no. But you are not too much. You, in whatever state, are wonderful.” His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb clearing the tears away.</p><p>“But, you’ve-you’ve faded,” she cried. George stilled, and for a moment, he said nothing.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never meant for you to feel this way.” His thumb had paused its movements along her cheek.</p><p>“That’s beside the point,” Hermione started. “You do feel—”</p><p>“What I feel isn’t your fault,” he cut in, backing up and holding her shoulders in his hands. George leaned forward, looking intently into her eyes, a pained look coming over him. “I just didn’t know how to keep things separate, I suppose.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” she asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve.  </p><p>He sighed. “I’m doing my best, but, this?” he gestured between them. “It’s not fake for me, Hermione, and that’s hard.” He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking hard. “I thought I’d be able to compartmentalize, but I reckon I’ve never been very good at that when it comes to you.” He glanced down, shaking his head. “You talk about yourself before the accident—calling you the ‘other Hermione,’ but you don’t realize how truly alike the two of you are. The way you move. Your smile. There’ve been so many times where I’ve looked over at you, having forgotten what happened. But, then, you look at me, and it’s—” he swallowed, taking a deep breath. “I’ve known you for most of your life. I know how you look when you’re angry, when you’re sad, when you’re truly delighted or just putting up a front.”</p><p>“What are you saying?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“I’m saying that I can tell that you’re performing, and I don’t blame you for that, but it still—” his voice caught in his throat. “—kills me a bit, watching you step outside every day and suddenly pretend to love me when you don’t.”</p><p>The silence in the kitchen stretched out. There was nothing she could say. Not to that.</p><p>“I didn’t want you to know,” he whispered. “You have so much to worry about as is. But it’s been hard to hide it, and now you’re upset, and I should’ve been more honest with you. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Have I ruined everything?” she asked. George’s face contorted.</p><p>“No—Heavens, no,” he said, crushing her close. “Not at all.” The thrum of magic pulsed between them, warming Hermione from the inside out.</p><p>“I wish I’d never suggested this plan,” Hermione said into his apron. “But it’s too late to take it back.” She slumped, but George’s arms tightened around her and he hugged her close.</p><p>“We’ll sort it,” he said softly.</p><p>#</p><p>March 2, 2003</p><p>It had seemed like a good idea—dinner with her parents. During their brief phone calls since the accident, Hermione had kept the conversations to things like Muggle celebrities, the weather, and articles she’d seen in the handful of Muggle publications she was still subscribed to. Those topics were safe. There was no room for questions about George, or opportunities for her parents fear of magic to appear. But, it also felt cold—like she was speaking to Monica and Wendell, and not her parents.</p><p>From what George had said, they were reluctant to acknowledge the magical part of her life, so all they’d been told was that she’d been ill and a bit off, but that she was slowly on the mend. If they were to tell them the truth, there was a chance that it would resurface a lot of hard feelings. Apparently, their relationship had yet to fully recover since their memories had been restored.</p><p>Having been through it herself, now, Hermione could better understand why they were so upset. Especially to the degree that she’d gone to during the war—stripping out the most central pieces of their lives, altering their identities. She’d lost five years, and that alone had thrown her whole world into chaos.</p><p>But she missed them.</p><p>It was time, wasn’t it?</p><p>She cleared her throat, staring at the brass knocker on their door. It had taken her four hours to work up the nerve to go through with the visit, and they’d already owled the Burrow, explaining their absence at Sunday dinner. It would be a bit ridiculous for her to turn around and hide now. She shivered, staring down at the doormat.</p><p>“Follow my lead,” George said, taking her hand. He was warm and solid beside her. Since their chat, they’d decided on a set of ground rules. They would approach this as a team and communicate after each event in public. He’d promised to tell her if something bothered him, and vice versa. “Don’t worry, Hermione, they really do like you.” He said, cutting into her thoughts with a wry smile.</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione whispered, and George rang the bell.</p><p>The door flew open, and her father appeared. His hair had gone a bit more grey at the temples, and extra lines stretched over his brow where there used to be none.</p><p>“Dad,” Hermione breathed, and then she broke down into tears, throwing herself into his arms.</p><p>Her dad hugged her back, stunned. “Goodness—is she alright?” he whispered.</p><p>“Bit tired. Long day.” She could hear the warmth in George’s voice as he watched her. He must’ve known she’d react like this.</p><p>“I’ve just missed you,” she sobbed. Her father pulled back, skepticism in his eyes.</p><p>“It’s only been a few months, Sparrow,” he said, chuffing her under the chin. “But, you’re always welcome to visit more often, if you’d like.” He helped her out of her coat, and Hermione stepped through the threshold.</p><p>It was like entering a time machine—nothing had changed, and it was wonderful. She turned about the room, taking in the muggle photos of her in primary school, her and her parents visiting Paris, and the same, silly cottage painting on the wall.</p><p>“Mum?” she called, heart hammering.</p><p>“In here, Darling!”</p><p>Hermione’s feet flew, tearing around the bannister.</p><p>“I’ve missed you so much!” she shouted, launching across the kitchen floor. Mrs. Granger had just set a plate of scones on the counter to cool, and she laughed as she hugged Hermione back.</p><p>“Did you now?” she said. Her mum had chopped her hair shorter, soft curls falling around her ears.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione said, breathing in the smell of lavender. Finally, she released her, smiling. “It’s been a weird couple of months.”</p><p>“How’s George’s filling been treating him?” Mrs. Granger asked, leaning back to hang the towel on the bar over the cupboard door.</p><p>“Fine, thanks—” George’s call was swift from the other room. George had gotten a muggle filling? Why?</p><p>He stepped into the room with them, his coat and hat removed, hair a bit tousled. “Can I help with anything?” he asked, looking over the covered dishes waiting to be taken to the table.</p><p>“Not presently,” Mrs. Granger said, then turned to Hermione. “But, there is a box I left in your old room. Could you take a look at it while your father and I set the table?”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Come on, George,” she said, taking him by the wrist and pulling him after her. Her feet pounded up the stairs, George’s footsteps echoing shortly behind her. She flung the door open, and it was a miracle.</p><p>She’d gotten rid of everything, hiding it in storage. But, here it all was. Her enormous corkboard, nailed in its usual place on the lilac walls. The lamp, propped exactly where it had been. The blue rolling chair, waiting in front of the white desk. The purple curtains, hanging undisturbed. Her tape player was tucked onto the bookshelf that wrapped around the corner wall, and her sky blue, knit bedspread didn’t have a single wrinkle.</p><p>George leaned against the doorframe, smiling at her warmly.</p><p>“This is my room, George!” she whispered, turning around. “How is it all here? How is it all back?”</p><p>He shrugged, but something sparked in his eyes. A private joke, one she didn’t remember. But, she didn’t care. Hermione rolled the chair out, dropping into it.</p><p>“I used to do my summer work for Arithmancy, right here!” she said, grinning broadly. George stepping into the room, approaching her.</p><p>“You did your Arithmancy summer work?” he asked, shaking his head. Hermione laughed.</p><p>“Every last bit of it,” she said.</p><p>“Crying shame,” he said, then he bit his lips together, but the corners of his mouth betrayed his smile. Hermione smirked, rising. Her closet doors were open, and the box in question rested on the top shelf. She strode to it, reaching up to pull it down.</p><p>It was heavier than anticipated, and it teetered in her hands.</p><p>George was there, suddenly, reaching above her to keep it from falling. She turned, almost bumping into him.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The smell of parchment, cinnamon, and sunshine washed over her.</p><p>And suddenly, she was seeing something. George, pulling his hand back from her eyes, showing her this room, beaming. And she was launching towards him—</p><p>“George, did you do—” her voice stuttered in her throat.</p><p>The image faded, and the room spun. Hermione shook her head. What was it? It had just been with her, and now it was gone. Her mind churned, and she lurched forward, tripping over the box on the floor.</p><p>“Hermione,” George’s voice shook, his arms coming up around her. “Hermione, are you alright?”</p><p>She blinked. Her heart pounded in her chest, crying out as though she were being drowned in a dark, rushing river.</p><p>“I think so,” she whispered. “I must’ve stood up too quickly.” Why was her mouth so dry?</p><p>George shifted, leaning down to study her, still supporting her elbows. His mouth was open, a deep line between his brows.</p><p>“You-you said,” he murmured. “Hermione, did you remember something?”</p><p>She blinked, panic swarming her. What was he talking about?</p><p>“I don’t know—I don’t know—” she gasped, reaching and colliding against the steel wall in her mind. It rang back at her, unmoving. She flinched. “I don’t think so.”</p><p>“But you said—” George’s face had morphed into something more alarmed, and he drew her back to sit on the bed, kneeling in front of her.</p><p>“What did I say?” she whispered, horrified. She was saying things now, and not remembering them? Was she getting worse? They’d been reaching up for the box, and now she was in pain.</p><p>Why was she in pain?</p><p>His breath left him in a whoosh. He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders tightened.</p><p>“We need to tell Healer Marcus about this,” he said. Hermione nodded, blinking back tears. George’s head lifted, and he reached up, cradling her face. “I’m here, Granger.” Her magic stirred, and a comforting pulse flowed from his touch, sinking into her, calming her.</p><p>Hermione nodded, head clearing. “I meant to say something to the healers weeks ago, but things got so hectic,” she whispered. “I thought the dizzy spells were—” she trailed off. They had stopped, for a while. She’d hoped they were gone.</p><p>George sucked in a breath and held it. “What do you want to do now?” he asked. Hermione peered around the room.</p><p>“I want to finish this dinner with my parents. Then, I want to owl Healer Marcus when we get home,” she whispered. George nodded, his hands slipping from her cheeks, and with them, the comforting pulse.</p><p>“We should probably look in that box,” Hermione said, sniffing. George backed away, flashing her a final, concerned glance before opening the cardboard flap. A purple feather boa laid on top. He snorted, moving it to the side. Underneath, there were piles of books.</p><p>“Shocking,” he said dryly, but then he winked at her. Hermione wiped her eyes, sliding off the bed and crawling towards the box.</p><p>The text on the covers called out to her. “Oh—These are NEWT level textbooks!” she said, excitement zipping through her. She began to pull them out and examine them.</p><p>“Arithmancy!” she said, hugging it to her chest. “And here’s Herbology, and Potions, and—” she rambled, tugging books free from the box. She’d never seen any of them in her life, but the spines were worn and when she flipped through the Defense Against the Dark Arts essay collection, she caught a flash of her own handwriting.</p><p>George pulled a lilac, leather bound volume from the side of the box. “Used to carry this around,” he murmured, cracking it open to the middle, where the ribbon had been tucked.</p><p>His face flooded with color, and he snapped it shut.</p><p>“What’s that?” Hermione said, looking up at him.</p><p>“Old journal,” he said.</p><p>“Really?” Hermione raised her brows. “I’ve never seen it before.”</p><p>“It’s—it’s from the time after the war,” he said, staring down at it with wonder. Hermione’s face fell.</p><p>“I probably shouldn’t read it then,” she murmured. George didn’t answer. “Healer Marcus said that witnessing my memories in detail could harm the prospect of their return, right?” She’d read her treatment sheet so many times that she had it memorized.</p><p>“Right,” George said faintly.</p><p>“But,” she said. “If you read it—”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” George said, flushing even deeper.</p><p>“Oh come on, George,” she said, stacking the sonnet collection a bit hard onto the Arithmancy text. “It couldn’t hurt.”</p><p>“But, it could, though,” George said, tucking the journal back to the bottom of the pile. Hermione frowned. “I’d rather we ask Healer Marcus about it first,” he said. “Especially with—” he trailed off, but she caught his meaning. Especially with what had just happened.</p><p>“What’d you see?” Hermione asked. “Just give me a hint.”</p><p>George shook his head. Had it been something about Ron? That was the only thing that could elicit such a response, surely. Hermione stared at the journal. What had she written? It had to be after the war, but before her and George were living in the shop’s flat, as it was here, with the rest of her NEWT things.</p><p>“I wish I could remember taking my NEWTS,” she said, shoulders slumped. George’s expression twisted into something incredulous.</p><p>“You’re mad,” he said.</p><p>“Well, I don’t remember them. I really ought to review these materials,” she said, biting her lip. George shot her a wry smile, then helped her repack the box.</p><p>He lifted it down the stairs. They’d apparate with it once they were safely out of sight, but for now, it could lay at the door, waiting for them.</p><p>At dinner, George said all the right things. He complimented her mother’s cooking and her father’s baking. He deftly switched topics with ease, directing the flow of conversation away from potentially stressful subjects. She was shocked, until she remembered that George had plenty of experience with her parents. Surely, he would’ve helped her navigate the conflict there in the past.</p><p>“No, I knew,” her dad’s voice was jovial as he helped himself to a sugar-free scone. “From the day you showed up here, that Christmas—”</p><p>George’s face had gone pink. What were they talking about? She’d gotten distracted and missed something.</p><p>“And you didn’t kick me to the curb?” George asked, raising his brows. Mr. Granger laughed.</p><p>“I should’ve, the way the lot of you snuck off with her at the end of the night,” Mr. Granger shook his head, smiling. “But, Hermione’s always had good judgment. We trusted her.”</p><p>Hermione’s face fell. She’d never told them that the Burrow was on fire. She hadn’t wanted them to be frightened and pull her out of school, but Harry needed her. The horcrux hunt had needed her. Running away would’ve only prolonged the danger.</p><p>George’s hand found hers under the table, giving her a comforting squeeze. The sparks zipped through her, and then he released, and they were gone.</p><p>How did he know?</p><p>When it came time to leave, Hermione wrapped her parents in a final hug.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re starting to feel better,” her mum whispered. Hermione nodded.</p><p>She hoped that soon, it would be the truth.</p><p>#</p><p>When they returned home, there was a package waiting on the table—the one they never used in front of the kitchen windows. It was small and wrapped in pages from the Quibbler. George hoisted the box from her parents’ through the flat, heading into the study. Hermione hung her hat and coat on the rack beside the fireplace then crossed the floor.</p><p>“There’s something here,” she called, approaching the gift. She dropped her wand on the table and tore the wrappings off. That was strange. It was an empty, glass jar.</p><p>“Who’s it from?” George’s voice echoed as he walked back through the living room. She shrugged, eyeing it. The wrappings indicated Luna, but there was no way to be sure. Perhaps there was a note underneath it.</p><p>“There’s no name,” she said, reaching to pick it up.</p><p>“What?” Alarm entered his tone, and he darted forward. “Granger, wait—” George’s hand shot out, taking her elbow, but it was too late. Her fingers had closed around the glass. The world sucked away from them, spinning.</p><p>#</p><p>The wind howled around them, snow pelting Hermione’s face in the dark. Her legs hit something solid, but it squealed, breaking out from under her.</p><p>Free fall.</p><p>Time seemed to slow as they dropped. Hermione’s arms pinwheeled uselessly in the empty air, George’s hand slipping from her elbow. Her scream sounded distant, ripped from her throat by gravity.</p><p>What had she done?</p><p>There was a flash as George’s voice rang out:</p><p>“Arresto Momentum.”</p><p>Magic wrapped around her arms, hoisting her up, slowing her descent. A sickening crack rang through the air. Then she collided with George and the ground, rolling into a heap.</p><p>She opened her eyes. Darkness. She blinked, ears ringing. She could just barely make out the shape of her breath as it came out in a cloud of white.</p><p>The glass jar lay in shards before her.</p><p>She was an idiot. It was a portkey, and she was an idiot.</p><p>She slammed her fist into the floor, and the metal clanged in response.</p><p>George groaned faintly at her side.</p><p><em>George</em>.</p><p>He’d taken the brunt of the impact, slamming into the chamber’s base, unaided by his own spell. The spell he’d used to save her.</p><p>She twisted, leaning over him. “George, are you alright?” she whispered. He opened his eyes, but they were unfocused.</p><p>“I’m—” he started to speak, but he sucked in a breath, grimacing. “My leg,” he hissed, tilting his head back. His face was white. Panic coursed through her veins.</p><p>“I-I don’t have my wand,” she said.</p><p>“I do—my pocket,” George’s voice was a wheeze, his chest rising and falling rapidly.</p><p>“Alright, alright—” Hermione’s whisper was frantic and high as she looked him over. There it was, the handle poking out of his coat. She took it.</p><p>“Lumos,” she whispered, and the aqua light cascaded over them.</p><p>It wasn’t good. His trouser leg had torn, and she could see bone sticking through in several places. It looked far worse than what had happened to her shoulder.</p><p>“Hurry,” George said, strained and faint. His arms were shaking. He was going into shock.</p><p>The snow swirled down through the broken hatch, floating around them. She couldn’t wait for a healer. It had to be fixed now.</p><p>“I’m going to set it,” she said. “It’s going to hurt, but-but,” she paused, shifting closer to his head. She took his hand, resting it on her shoulder. “Hold tight,” she whispered. George’s fingers curled and he heaved, gripping her jumper.</p><p>She hovered the wand over his knee and slipped her other hand behind his neck, supporting him, willing their connection to help him as it had helped her.</p><p>“Okay, okay, okay,” she said, the words spilling out of her like a rapid prayer. “I’m going to—okay—” His breath was ragged and short. “Episky,” she said, grimacing, trying her hardest to hold steady.</p><p>George stiffened, and the sound he made went through her like a physical blow. The first break had set itself, but the larger one above it was still there, a bloody mess. There had to be a better way. She took a deep breath, willing herself to sound calm.</p><p>“Look at me, George,” she said. “Trust me.”</p><p>George glanced up from his leg, stilling at the expression on her face.</p><p>“What are you doing—”</p><p>She darted forward, pressing her lips to his.</p><p>“—Granger—” George gasped the name against her mouth as she pushed another wave of Episky through the wand. She could feel it—his leg shifting, knitting itself back together. The sparks of magic unfurled between them, purple and gold, whirling in great strobes.</p><p>George had gone rigid, and his hand shook on her shoulder as though he didn’t know what to do with it. The spell ended, and trembling, Hermione broke off, breathing hard.</p><p>As she pulled away, he exhaled in a shaky rasp.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry, George.”</p><p>“Hermione,” he whispered. Then his eyes opened, his pupils blown wide. “What’d you do that for?”</p><p>“I thought it would help,” she said, voice small. George’s mouth was still open, and he was looking at her in what seemed like confusion and shock.</p><p>“It did,” he whispered, blinking as though he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. His hand had started to move, his thumb stroking a line of sparks up and down her neck. The winter outside didn’t touch them.</p><p>“Brilliant,” she said, swallowing. “What next?”</p><p>“What next?” George asked faintly.</p><p>Hermione peered around at the sloped, metal walls. It was some sort of bunker. High over their heads, the ceiling had caved in a hole just wide enough for the both of them to tumble through.</p><p>Rough letters were etched into the wall.</p><p>
  <em>Mudbood.</em>
</p><p>This was intentional. They’d fallen right into some sick, blood supremacist trap. George’s gaze flicked the wall, and a shadow fell over him. His hand dropped.</p><p>Finally, he spoke.</p><p>“I’ll call Patronus for help, but it might take a lot out of me,” he said, not looking away from the letters. A hard edge had entered his voice. “It depends on how far off this portkey has taken us.”</p><p>Then he sighed, turning his head at last from the terrible word on the wall.</p><p>Instead, he looked at her, his eyes dropping to her lips as he pulled the wand from her hand. Hermione’s breath caught. But, then he seemed to shake himself free, closing his eyes, breathing slow—the words steady and confident.</p><p>“Expecto Patronum.” He flicked the wand in a complex motion—some sort of complication on the regular Patronus charm.</p><p>Blue exploded outwards, spinning and convalescing into a small creature. It flipped head over tail, then hovered, awaiting his orders.</p><p>An otter.</p><p>Hermione fell back from her spot at George’s side. She braced her hands against the metal floor, blinking in the bright light. It had been a magpie in D.A.  She was sure of it.</p><p>But—but it was an otter, now.</p><p>Oh. Oh, George.</p><p>She swallowed.</p><p>“Rogue portkey. No sign of the people who made it, but we’re trapped in some sort of bunker. Follow my Patronus to find us.” George’s low tones washed over her, but she didn’t comprehend half of it, her mind working at a million kilometers an hour. His brow furrowed, and he flung his arm upward, sending the Patronus shooting into the sky to bring them help. Safety.</p><p>The magic left him in a wave, and he toppled back on his elbows, breathing heavily.</p><p>It had been too much, too soon after the break.</p><p>“George—” she said.</p><p>“I’m alright,” he said, frustration leaking through his tone. He lifted his head, and his eyes found hers once more in the blue glow. He stilled at the look on her face.</p><p>“George—” she tried again, voice breaking and dying in her throat.</p><p>He stared at her, the barricade smashed to pieces between them. “But, you must’ve known. Surely, you must’ve known,” he said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Whomping Willow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>George woke to the feeling of a hand, skating through his hair, brushing it back from his brow. Breath filtered into his lungs, and he mumbled, turning his head to the side, leaning into the touch.</p><p>“Wake up, George,” it was Hermione’s voice, soft and kind over him.</p><p>What a wonderful dream. The trail of warm sparks fluttered over his face. Oh, just let him melt away into nothing, with this as his last memory.</p><p>He had been so tired, for so long.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone!<br/>I hope you've had a great week. :) Thank you so much for continuing to take the time to read, comment, and kudos. Every chapter, I'm so nervous and excited for you all to see it. It can be sort of scary posting sometimes, but working on a deadline that other people care about has really helped me as a writer. You all have been so encouraging. So, thank you for sticking around. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 </p><p>The songs for this week are "Hey Brother" by Avicii, "Brother" by Kodaline, and two by Abba--"Fernando" and "Take a Chance On Me." </p><p>OKAY. THAT SAID. You're going to want to get your comfiest pajamas on for this one. (I mean, you don't have to. I don't make the rules. This is only a suggestion.) Maybe some warm soup (I had tomato while editing, and it was very good) or chamomile tea? </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or characters. </p><p>Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter 18: Whomping Willow</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>May 4, 1998</p><p>George woke to the feeling of a hand, skating through his hair, brushing it back from his brow. Breath filtered into his lungs, and he mumbled, turning his head to the side, leaning into the touch.</p><p>“Wake up, George,” it was Hermione’s voice, soft and kind over him.</p><p>What a wonderful dream. The trail of warm sparks fluttered over his face. Oh, just let him melt away into nothing, with this as his last memory.</p><p>He'd been so tired, for so long.</p><p>“Reckon we could shave his eyebrows off?” Fred’s voice was louder, full of mirth.</p><p>George’s eyes flew open, and he blinked at the orange rays filtering through the curtains. He’d fallen asleep, book in his lap, head propped on the sofa. Granger was leaning over him, terrycloth robe wrapped around her pajama-ed shoulders, her curls in wet ringlets from the shower.</p><p>“You looked so comfortable that I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said, grinning. “It’s your turn for the shower, though, and I figured you wouldn’t want to miss it.”</p><p>“Right,” George said, mouth dry and head spinning. Had he really fallen asleep out here? In the living room? He pushed himself to his feet, joints groaning. The mileage from the battle had caught up to him overnight, and every muscle in his body ached. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Anytime, George,” Hermione said. She patted him on the shoulder and proceeded into the kitchen. Once her back was turned, Fred leaned forward, smacking a hand into George’s arm.</p><p>“Shut it,” George whispered.</p><p>“I didn’t say anything,” Fred whispered.</p><p>George pinned him with a murderous look and headed up the stairs.</p><p>#</p><p>Breakfast was crowded, but that was wonderful. It was the first time all the Weasley children had been back around the table in years. Bill and Charlie were having a bit of fun with Percy. They kept asking him to fetch them more tea or strips of bacon, and Percy was tolerating it, popping back and forth from the table to the kitchen, not complaining when Bill would chime in, asking for something else right as Percy sat down and picked up his own fork.</p><p>Eventually, they’d break him.</p><p>Fred and Angelina, meanwhile, were totally absorbed in each other, laughter and elbows going back and forth, rough housing at the breakfast table. His mum couldn’t get them to sit still long enough to plan their wedding reception.</p><p>And what a surprise that had been; apparently, she had known the second after the marriage, Weasley clock and all. Now, she was exacting her revenge by way of a reception: A formal event to honor Fred and Angelina’s union. It was cunning. Perhaps his mum should’ve been in Slytherin after all.</p><p>George grinned as Angelina roared and mussed Fred’s hair in retaliation for a whispered comment.</p><p>The stairs creaked, and every head turned. There was Harry, pajamas askew, hair ruffled, looking at them all like he had the first Christmas at Hogwarts—eyes large and astounded, as though he couldn’t quite believe the scene before him.</p><p>“Well, hurry up and get a plate, before Ron eats all the toast,” Hermione called. Ron shot her an indignant look. Harry grinned and stumbled into the room, eyes flickering over the seats. With ease and confidence, he nicked the chair from the end of the table (next to Charlie) and carried it across to the crowded side with Ginny. Unceremoniously, he plunked the seat down beside her and slid into it.</p><p>Ginny just about outshone the sun, her face lighting with unrestrained excitement. Harry reached forward, casually entangling his fingers with hers.</p><p>“Hi,” he said.</p><p>“Hi,” Ginny said, swiftly switching her fork to her off-hand and clumsily proceeding as though everything were normal.</p><p>“Gross,” Charlie said, grinning and taking a wolfish bite of his eggs. “Perce?”</p><p>“Yes?” Percy was already half-way out of his seat.</p><p>“Have we had a meeting of the council of brothers to discuss this?” Charlie nodded at Harry and Ginny.</p><p>Percy’s face flushed. “I assure you, Charlie, Harry’s an honorable young man,” Percy said. George choked on his orange juice.</p><p>“If that’s the case, then I rescind my approval,” Fred said nonchalantly, passing a basket of peaches to Angelina.</p><p>“Couldn’t stand the shame if Ginny married someone uptight,” George said, smirking. “We have enough prefects and head boys in the family as is.”</p><p>Harry laughed—a rich, happy laugh that filled the room. Hermione snorted. George leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of her from across the table to see her response, but Ron shifted, absentmindedly scooping beans into his mouth, blocking her from view.</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said, swiping a piece of bacon from Ginny’s plate.</p><p>“Harry, I’ve got a dish for you,” Mrs. Weasley said, gesturing to the plate next to Charlie. “Charlie, pass it over for Harry, please.” She beckoned for it, cheeks rosy.</p><p>“Oh, Mrs. Weasley, this one’s just as fine, if that’s alright?” Harry said, dodging Ginny’s fork to steal another bite.</p><p>“After what Harry’s done?” Mr. Weasley said from behind the paper. “He can eat the house if he wants.”</p><p>“That reminds me—” Harry started. “The house.”</p><p>“What about it?” Mrs. Weasley said, buttering some toast and handing it to Percy, who had finally gotten a moment’s rest.</p><p>“I know things are cramped, and eventually, I’ll have Grimmauld Place ready, but I wanted to ask if there was room for one more, temporarily,” he said, looking anxiously from Arthur to Molly.</p><p>Molly didn’t even flinch. “Of course,” she said. “Who?”</p><p>“My godson,” Harry said. The noise of cutlery on plates stopped. Harry blinked. “Is that alright?”</p><p>Ginny nodded eagerly, looking from Harry to Mrs. Weasley.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley had lowered her toast, staring at Harry. “Are you very sure, Harry? Have you spoken with Andromeda?” Harry nodded, shoving a hand through his hair.</p><p>“I know I’m young,” he said. “But, with Andromeda’s health—Teddy needs someone, and it’s got to be me.”</p><p>“That’s quite a large responsibility, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, the paper now resting on the table.</p><p>“Respectfully, sir,” Harry said, looking up from his cup of tea. “I’ve never felt more certain about anything in my life.” Harry rested the cup on its saucer, adjusting the handle. “I know it like I know how to fly a broom. It’s got to be me, and I want it to be me.”</p><p>“Merlin, Harry, it’s a baby,” Angelina said, brows raised. “Babies are a lot of work.”</p><p>“Yeah, so’s fighting a dark lord,” Harry said, shrugging and going for another strip of bacon.</p><p>“He’s got a point there,” Fred said.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley settled back in her chair. “Well, of course we’ll help,” she said, appraising Harry. “Anything you need, dear.”</p><p>“Really, Harry,” George said, his breakfast forgotten. “We can get you a crib, some toys—babies need toys.”</p><p>“Not from you lot,” Ginny said, pinning George with an icy stare. George lifted his hands in mock surrender.</p><p>“No explosives until he’s twelve. We give our word,” George said.</p><p>“He gives his word,” Fred added. “I’ve promised nothing.”</p><p>The rest of breakfast was a talkative affair, conversations skirting the more serious matters in favor of the light-hearted. The dark fog of death and loss that they’d endured was waiting for them, just outside the door, but for those happy hours, they let it rest—finding comfort in each other.</p><p>#</p><p>The fire’s dying embers glowed. The talk that night had been long—there was much to do before things would be stable. First, they had to get the Ministry back up and running, sort out who was imperio-ed and who wasn’t. Most of the Death Eaters had fled after the battle and were still at large. Kingsley had been elected as interim minister, and the poor man was already swamped in work. And the funerals. Merlin, they still had to organize the funerals.</p><p>“Kingsley’s going to meet with the reconvening Wizengamot next week to sort out the Ministry’s priorities moving forward.” Mr. Weasley rubbed his hands down his face. “He asked me if I have any suggestions.”</p><p>George stared at the carpet where Harry lay sprawled, baby sleeping on his chest. Ginny was tucked against his side, face hidden in her elbow, her other hand completing the pile on top of Harry, draped over Teddy’s back. They’d had a long day—Teddy’s cries hadn’t faded for hours, and his hair strobing between flashes of pink and dusky brown. Harry had held him through it all.</p><p>“We need to look into the latent dark magic that’s festering around,” Bill said. “If this war showed us anything, it’s that we can’t be complacent.”</p><p>“Agreed,” George said, taking a long drink from his mug.</p><p>Hermione turned a page in her book.</p><p>“Don’t you have anything to add?” Ron asked, leaning down and jogging Hermione’s shoulder.  “Dad can pass it along.”</p><p>“I already spoke with Kingsley yesterday,” Hermione said quietly, not stirring in her spot beside the coffee table. George’s insides warmed. Of course she had. “He asked me, and I said that we should focus on rebuilding and on liaisons with the people and magical beings who have been affected by Voldemort’s reign.”</p><p>Ron’s face had flushed a dark red, and he stared at his hands.</p><p>“Like mugglebornes?” Bill asked.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione replied, not looking up from her book. “And werewolves, and giants, and goblins, and centaurs, and house elves and any magical creature or being who’s been dragged into this conflict.”</p><p>“That’s a bit much to ask,” Bill said. “I don’t know that we’ve got enough staff to look after all of that.”</p><p>“We’ll make it work,” George said, the glazed-over look in Biddy’s eyes flashing through his mind. “We should look into the history surrounding those groups, too.” He plunked his drink on the table. “I think there’s more to it all.”</p><p>“What d’you mean?” Fred asked, shifting carefully in his seat in front of the couch so as not to wake Angelina, who was tangled between his legs and cradled against his chest.</p><p>“Biddy,” George said, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “She said something about the old magic, and the look in her eyes—” he paused, thinking.</p><p>“Who’s Biddy?” Hermione asked, setting her book aside.</p><p>“Auntie Muriel’s house elf,” Bill said, face grim. “George and I have been trying to sort a way to free her. Her life’s misery in that house.”</p><p>“Muriel isn’t going to give her up,” Mr. Weasley said, scrubbing his hands over his face.</p><p>George huffed. “We aren’t going to sit here and tolerate it,” George said. “There’s something off about it all. You didn’t see it, Dad. It was like she was in some sort of trance, and she was trying to break out.”</p><p>“No, I believe you,” Arthur said, staring into the hearth.</p><p>“We could trick her into giving Biddy clothes, like Harry did with Dobby,” George said, leaning in towards Bill.</p><p>“I don’t think that will work,” Hermione said, grimacing.</p><p>“Why not?” George asked. “Isn’t that what you did at Hogwarts all those years?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. “I think it’s more complex. Dobby seemed to be already half-freed from it all, and I don’t know why. But, Winky—” Hermione took a deep breath. “When Barty Crouch gave her clothes, it hurt her—physically and mentally.”</p><p>“Well, that might make sense,” Arthur said, pulling his feet from the ottoman. “Most of the elf magic is centralized in the oldest wizarding homes. Whatever’s at play—it may be more exposed there, which would make it more vulnerable to attack.”</p><p>“You think Dobby did a bit of tinkering?” George said, draining his mug.</p><p>“Or someone else did,” Hermione said. “Regardless, it wasn’t easy for Dobby, either. He was always slamming his head into cupboards, and Harry had to tell him not to hurt himself loads of times.”</p><p>“So we’ve got to be careful,” George said, a heaviness settling over him. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Biddy further.</p><p>“Yes,” Granger said, voice soft and focused in thought.</p><p>“I’m tired,” Ron said, cutting through the silence. He swung up from the armchair he had been sprawled in. “Let me know what we’ll be doing for the funeral preparations tomorrow.” He stopped at the landing before heading to his room. “And—and if you need any help with—” Ron gestured, indicating the house elf subject. “Let me know.” He sighed, shaking his head and turned to go to bed.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze followed him up the stairs.</p><p>The dark circles under her eyes seemed more pronounced. She could use another tea, probably. George rose. He lifted her empty mug from the table, brushing his hand along her head in a brotherly manner as he moved to get her a refill. Sparks flew up his fingers.</p><p>George stumbled, almost dropping the mug, staring down at his hand.</p><p>“Alright, Georgie?” Mr. Weasley asked.</p><p>“Yeah,” George murmured, his brow furrowed as he blinked down at his fingers.</p><p>He must be tired.</p><p>#</p><p>May 11, 1998</p><p>George shouldered the weight of the casket, his hand slipping on the slick, metal handle. The days since the battle had been a blur of dark robes, crying parents, and terrible, stretched glossy boxes.</p><p>The fallen forty-nine. That’s what the papers called them.</p><p>And the lot of them—those who’d fought through the war—had been to every ceremony, clustered in chairs reserved near the front of every ceremony. Oftentimes, they acted as pallbearers, ushers, and when the situation demanded it like it would today, speakers.</p><p>Lupin was the last of the group, and after that, everyone would be laid to rest.</p><p>He’d always imagined the end of the war as a happy, celebratory time. But this was awful.</p><p>The first funeral he’d ever been to was his Uncle Bilius’s. The second was Cedric. The third was Dumbledore. And the fourth through whatever number they’d reached now—those were his friends, one after another.</p><p>One could’ve been Fred.</p><p>George snuck a glance at his brother, who carried the handle opposite his. Fred’s eyes were downcast, but he was still here, and that was something.</p><p>They’d spoken with the families, offering fireworks and sendoffs to anyone who wanted them. Some had taken them up on it. More had slammed doors in their faces, hurting that their children had gotten wrapped up in a war, blaming anyone who had influenced them to place themselves in danger.</p><p>George thought of Sarah’s Weasley Wizard Wheezes hat, feeling his ribs cave inward.</p><p>They’d played a part.</p><p>George helped the team lift Lupin’s box into its place on the grassy field, just beside the fresh mound from Tonks’s grave.</p><p>Teddy was screaming in the front row, clutching Andromeda’s frail hand. The older woman looked dazed, but Harry had to start the ceremony. George adjusted the cuffs on his jacket and loped over, sliding into the seat beside her.</p><p>“I can take him, if you’d like,” George said. The older woman nodded wearily. They’d taken to passing Teddy around so that no single person had to entertain the child constantly. Funerals were long.</p><p>George propped Teddy in his forearms and stared down at him. “You’re fussy, but that’s alright,” he whispered. “After this, we can sneak back to Mum’s for cookies, and everyone will smile at you, and you’ll feel better.”</p><p>Teddy’s eyes were still flooded, but he stopped screaming, opting instead to examine George’s face.</p><p>“It’s okay, buddy,” George murmured. The hair on Teddy’s head began to shimmer, taking on a faintly strawberry-blonde color that shifted to a deeper auburn.</p><p>“That’s a neat party trick,” Fred whispered, taking the seat on George’s other side. “See if he can do your ear, too.”</p><p>“Don’t think it works like that, Fred,” George said. “He’s still pretty young.”</p><p>Kingsley crept into the row behind theirs, tucking his robes around him as he sat. “Fred,” he whispered. “George.”</p><p>“Evening, Minister,” George said, turning in his seat. “Say hello to Teddy.”</p><p>“Hello, Teddy,” Kingsley said, smiling wryly. “Listen, I need a word with you both after the ceremony.”</p><p>“What about?” Fred asked.</p><p>“We’ve found a lead on the Carrows,” Kingsley said, leaning in between them, voice low. “Their secret keeper gave them up for a plea deal. We need a team to raid the house and help us bring them to justice.”</p><p>A dull roar filled his ears, and his chest got tight—the feeling of that over-inflated balloon pressing against his ribs.</p><p>Kingsley was still speaking. “We’ve lost so many aurors, and a large number are still recovering from Imperius or other curses. I hate to ask you, especially after you’ve given so much, but we’re really needing to pull from the reserves for this, and you two are some of the best fighters’ we’ve got.”</p><p>George stared down at Teddy.  He’d been foolish to think that the fighting would stop after the Battle. There was still so much work to do, and very few people to do it.</p><p>“Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”</p><p>Fred nodded beside him. Kingsley nodded, and opened his mouth to reply, but Harry stepped up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. His hair had been trimmed back a bit, and George could see the old scar, red lines on his forehead.</p><p>Harry pressed his wand to his throat and began to speak.</p><p>“Lupin was a friend of my father’s—” he started. The crowd was silent, waiting for the next bit. Harry froze, gripping the stand. “He-he was—I mean—” Harry blinked rapidly, his throat bobbing. “He shouldn’t be gone, but here we are.” Harry’s voice shook. He had begun to cry.</p><p>Harry hadn’t cried once since the final battle, and he didn’t seem thrilled about it now, dragging his sleeve across his face hurriedly. “It’s not fair, is it?” Harry said. “And there’s nothing I can say that will change that.”</p><p>George’s throat closed. Harry was lost, now, blinking out at the crowd. He kept scanning, back and forth, looking for something. Then his gaze landed on Ginny, who was already making her way to him, pushing past Xenophilius Lovegood’s shoulders. She fought her way through, making it to Harry and closing her arms around him as she beckoned for George, who was next up.</p><p>He brought Teddy with him, handing him to Harry, whose arms were already outstretched for the child. George didn’t look at the crowd—instead, he looked at Harry and Teddy.</p><p>“Remus Lupin was an incredible man,” he said. “I was there when he died. He gave me this, to give to Teddy. I figure you can hold on to it for him, until he’s old enough.” He pulled Lupin’s wand from his robe pocket, extending it to Harry, who took it. “His last thought was of his family, because that’s the sort of man he was. Always thinking of others and doing what he could to make the world better. Sirius, and from what I’ve heard, James and Lilly, were the same way. And Tonks, of course.” George cleared his throat, looking at the box. “I figure Lupin’s in good company now.”</p><p>A cold shiver went through him as he remembered the blankness in Remus’s eyes—how his spirit, once so kind and warm, had faded out of him. No, Lupin wasn’t in that box. It was only a shell.</p><p>“I owe him my life. He was one of the best professors I ever had, and he taught me two critical lessons,” George said. “First: always carry chocolate.”</p><p>He snapped his fingers, and the charm went off, little chocolates zipping down the center aisle, spilling into people’s hands and laps. This earned him some laughs, mostly from the D.A. section of seats. Harry’s seeker reflexes kicked in, and he reached out, snagging a piece as it zipped past and studying it absently.</p><p>The wave of exhaustion hit him, but George gripped the podium and kept from swaying. The wandless magic had been a bit of a risk, but Lupin and Tonks deserved a proper sendoff. He waited for the din to fade before continuing.</p><p>“But more importantly, Lupin taught me this: we must hold on,” he said, dropping his gaze to stare at the wooden surface below his hands. “During the war, we got caught up in a bit of nasty business, and I was in rough shape.” He pointed at the scar of his ear, shrugging. “I was slipping off my broom, and I shouldn’t have made it. But, Lupin didn’t give up. He kept me going, told me hang on.” George gripped the stand, leaning forward. “Now, I know that sometimes, life is terrible and unfair. Things spin out of control, and it seems all we can do is howl at the pain and brokenness of it all.” The crowd was still. George took a deep breath, his voice unsteady. “But, we can’t let it end there. No. We’ve got to hang on to our brooms, right?” He swallowed, looking down at the stand. “So, hold tight. Today, this hurts. Tomorrow, it’ll still hurt, but we’ll get up, we’ll drink some tea, and we’ll keep trying. Together. We mustn’t let go, no matter what.”</p><p>A sharp sob broke his attention, and his gaze flicked up.</p><p>It was Granger, stuffing a handkerchief to her mouth.</p><p>“That’s all I’ve got, I suppose,” George said, unable to tear his eyes from hers. “It’s not much, but it’s what I know.”</p><p>Ron leaned forward, patting Hermione on the back, his expression grim. George stepped away from the stand and returned to his seat, the voices of the next speakers washing over him. <strike></strike></p><p>He didn’t let himself look back over. He knew what he’d see.</p><p>#</p><p>After the ceremony, the group walked the grounds outside Hogwarts, leaving the mounds of fresh earth behind them. They reached the Whomping Willow, where Lupin had once spent so many nights, and where Tonks had made her last stand. The tree was still against the orange sky, as though it knew why they had come. Slowly, they stood, watching the light fade from the sky and the stars blink into view above them.</p><p>An hour of silence, and then it happened.</p><p>Bill stepped from Fleur’s side, the full moon’s light playing over his scars.</p><p>“For Lupin,” Bill said, and he howled. Long, mournful, and loud over the Scottish landscape.</p><p>Ginny followed suit—then Harry. Ron. Hermione. Fred. Angelina. The members of the D.A.—Lupin’s former students.</p><p>Finally, George tipped his chin up and joined them. As they carried on, the howls morphed into screams. The war’s broken children cried out until their voices ran raw. At the edge of the clearing, Professor McGonagall stood with some of the older attendees, watching, still and solemn.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 1998</p><p>George gripped his wand, his robes billowing in the wind as he strode towards the ancient Carrow Manor. He didn’t think of the danger, or of the potential traps.</p><p>No.</p><p>When he kicked in the door, he thought of the shadow in Ginny’s eyes.</p><p>#</p><p>When they returned, the light was on at the Burrow. His shirt stuck to his skin with sweat and grime, but the Carrows were safely in custody, along with a harrowing number of cursed artifacts. Neville was still at Mungo’s, but they’d patched the wound alright and the younger boy had told him to go home. Fred and Angelina were heading back to her parents' place, and by the intensity of the looks they were giving each other, George doubted they wanted his company.</p><p>So, he returned to the Burrow alone. It wasn’t that big a deal. He was fine being alone.</p><p>He swung open the door, numb from his crown to his feet.</p><p>Granger sat in the armchair, book in her lap. “Tea’s on the table,” she said, not looking up.</p><p>She’d thought of him.</p><p>Just like that, the cold cracked away, and the feeling came rushing back. He crossed the Burrow’s living room.</p><p>“Thanks Granger,” he said, grazing his hand along the top of her head. She hummed lightly in response. The warm tingles flickered up his wrist, and he shook his head, staring at his palms. Perhaps it was a side effect from one of their products—tinkering with magical explosives had its downsides. He reached the tray of cups and was picking one up when her voice interrupted him.</p><p>“Is everyone?” she asked, still in her seat by the fire.</p><p>“Yes,” George said. “They’re all safe.”</p><p>“Good,” Hermione said, her frame relaxing. She stood, crossing her arms. Her gaze travelled over him. “And you?”</p><p>“Unharmed,” George said, measuring out a scoop of tea. His hand quaked the slightest bit as he dumped it in.</p><p>She nodded. “Good.”</p><p>#</p><p>May 16, 1998</p><p>“Ron, please—”</p><p>Hermione’s voice was thin and sharp on the other side of the door. George stumbled back from the wooden surface. He hadn’t meant to intrude.</p><p>“No, where does he get off on this? Asking them and not us?” Ron was loud outside the back door, and George could still hear him, even on the other side of the living room.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>“I don’t care what Kingsley says—” Ron continued. The door swung open and Hermione strode through, cheeks red and plait coming loose. George swerved, picking up picked up the thing closest to him and pretending to be absorbed.</p><p>It a Quidditch supply catalogue, and he’d lifted it upside down.</p><p>“We’re not done talking,” Ron stormed in, his voice booming. He stopped short at George, almost plowing into Hermione’s back. “D’you mind?” Ron asked, crossing his arms.</p><p>George lifted his brows and slid the magazine into its slot on the wooden rack beside his dad’s rocking chair.</p><p>“Don’t mind me,” he said flatly, making his way to the stairs.</p><p>“Did you ever think, Ronald, that the reason Kingsley didn’t ask you is because you’re too important to die?” Hermione’s tone was clipped. “They’re looking to us as symbols of hope right now.”</p><p>George paused on the stairs. “She’s right, you know,” he said, irritation with Ron thudding through his chest like a terrible drumbeat.</p><p>Hermione’s face colored. “Oh—George, that’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“No, but it’s the truth,” George shrugged. “I’m expendable. I could pack it in, and the Wizarding world would keep turning.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned back into the bannister. “But people need to see you—the three of you, at the front and center of this reorganization. Things could get ugly, otherwise.”</p><p>Ron rolled his eyes and headed for the front door. “Rich words, coming from someone who was handpicked by Kingsley.” It slammed behind him.</p><p>Hermione glared after him, her shoulders tightening. She inhaled, then exhaled in a huff, turning about. For a moment, he thought she was going to chase after Ron—but she didn’t. Instead, she lifted a pillow from the sofa and hurled it at him.</p><p>It smacked into his chest, and he caught it, stunned.</p><p>“If I ever—” she hissed. “—hear you refer to yourself as ‘expendable’ again.” Her eyes flashed, the tension in her body lit like a livewire. George stepped from the bannister, crossing his arms.</p><p>“You’ll what?” he asked. The thunder rolled over her face, and she moved closer.</p><p>“I’ll tell your Mum,” she said, her chin jutting out like it used to when she railed against their mischief at Hogwarts. It’s not as though he’d said something untrue.</p><p>“You’ll have to come up with something better, Granger. We’re not children anymore,” he said. Merlin, where had that come from? Heat crawled up his collar. But, she was responding like he’d said something ridiculous when he was only backing her up.</p><p>Hermione didn’t flinch. “Then act like it, George,” she whispered, a hardness entering her gaze. “Don’t say terrible things like that, and don’t pick fights with Ron.” George’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed, his eyes working over her.</p><p>“Sorry,” he whispered. “I was trying to help.” Granger’s steel exterior slipped away.</p><p>“I appreciate the intention, truly, but you know how Ron is.” She paused, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “He has a good heart, but he’s always felt a bit overshadowed by you all.” Guilt lanced through him. Sure, Ron was being a git, but George had forgotten about the reasons behind his brother’s insecurity. He should’ve been more patient, like he had been with Harry. He should’ve taken Ron aside and explained the reasoning for Kingsley’s choice in more detail before things got out of hand. Why had he spared Harry the time, but not Ron? What was that about? He’d been angry, and-and jealous. He was a better brother than that.</p><p>He was internally berating himself over this when she interrupted him. “I want to make sure you know, George—” Her voice was softer now. “We all have different parts to play. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t important.” Her hand came up, touching his forearm lightly. Warmth spread from the touch, filtering up his elbow and shoulder, straight to his chest. “You are. To all of us.”</p><p>She smelled like chamomile, and he wanted to drown in it. She was looking at him like she could see right through his skin to the brokenness beneath—the tiredness, the irritation, the hurt.</p><p>But she didn’t turn away.</p><p>“While I’m grateful for what you’ve been doing, that doesn’t mean I think you’re expendable. Because you’re not,” she said. “I care about you. You’re my friend, George. One of my closest friends, really, and I don’t say that lightly.”</p><p><em>Thrum, thrum, thrum</em> went his heart.</p><p>He leaned closer, biting back a smile. “Blimey, I’ve always felt that we were never very close,” he said, grinning. Hermione rolled her eyes. “I mean, honestly. Have we ever really talked?”</p><p>“You git,” Hermione said, throwing the pillow at him again.</p><p>“I’m only joking!” he called. Then he bolted, hurrying up the stairs two at a time, before he said something stupid, like the truth.</p><p>#</p><p>May 24, 1998</p><p>George flipped the cardstock in his hands, drawing a long drink from his bottle of Butterbeer. The supplier had finally opened back up, along with a handful of shops in Diagon. Theirs was still in ruins. They’d been so busy with everything that they hadn’t had a chance to visit, yet.</p><p><em>“You’re invited”</em> was laminated across the front in lilting script. Underneath there was a line, informing him to bring a plus one.</p><p><em>“Get on it, Mate,”</em> Fred’s hasty scrawl was penned at the bottom. As if.</p><p>The git. As though Fred really thought that he would ask Hermione.</p><p>Asking Hermione to be his plus one. Right.</p><p>Like it was that easy.</p><p>He turned on his heel, apparating to the Johnson’s.</p><p>Fred answered the door. “Good, you got it,” he said brightly, gesturing to the invite in George’s hands.</p><p>“Come off it,” George said, his tone practically a growl.</p><p>Fred huffed and shut the door behind him, stepping onto the patio with George. “You can be so thick,” he muttered. “Just ask her!”</p><p>“I can’t!” George said, flinging the invitation at him. The cardstock bounced against Fred’s jumper and drifted to the ground.</p><p>“Why not?” Fred challenged, crossing his arms. It was patronizing, and it turned George’s insides molten. Yes, he was happy that Fred was happy, but this was too much.</p><p>“You know why,” George said, firming his jaw and glancing towards the open windows. Fred flicked his wand, and they closed with a thud.</p><p>“I don’t think I do,” Fred whispered, an edge poking through his tone. He tilted his head, drumming his fingers against his bicep like he waiting in a queue. George huffed, but Fred didn’t cave. Bloody—he was going to make him come right out with it.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>“They kissed, Fred,” George said. He closed his eyes. The words were exhausting to say. “During the battle. I saw it.”</p><p>“Yes, but did she kiss him back?” Fred asked, as though this wasn’t significant news.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yes—Merlin, yes,” he said, voice strained.</p><p>“Are you sure she didn’t just freeze? From the way Bill tells it—”</p><p>George cut him off, his patience fraying. “Please—stop it with this. Just stop it, Fred.”</p><p>Fred didn’t speak for several moments. His hand came up, gripping George’s shoulder. “No,” he said, smiling.</p><p>George pulled away, facing contorting. Fred’s grin faded, and he rubbed the back of his neck.</p><p>“Okay.” Fred was quieter now. “Okay. If that’s what you need,” he said. “I’ll lay off. But, don’t give up, Mate. You never know how these things will work out.”</p><p>“I just want her to be happy,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>“But not with you,” Fred muttered and studied him, shaking his head.</p><p>“No,” George said, the heaviness in his ribcage expanding. “It’s Ron she wants.”</p><p>#</p><p>May 29, 1998</p><p>George groped through the kitchen, searching for the tea tin. With all the people in the house, it was never in its proper place. He’d need it extra strong. Teddy had screamed long into the night, and even the Muffliato charms in the hallway hadn’t been enough to mask it completely.</p><p>Harry had insisted on trying to handle it alone, even though he was clearly overwhelmed. Twenty minutes ago, the crying had finally faded, just in time for George’s alarm.</p><p>It was early, but McGonagall had said she’d owl about something important, and he couldn’t sleep anyway.</p><p>Something thumped in the pantry, and he froze—his instincts kicking in, his hand on his wand and shoulders ramrod straight. His nerves, frayed from the past month’s raids, pricked at him, urging him to move. He inched forward and peered around the door.</p><p>It was Hermione, whirling around with a strange contraption about her ears. It looked a bit like Lee’s headphones, but flimsier. A wire ran from it to a small, black box in her hands. Teddy slumbered on her shoulder, asleep for the first time in days.</p><p>“There was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando,” she sang softly, spinning. George bit back a grin, leaning against the door frame.</p><p>“They were shining there for you and me. For liberty, Fernando.”</p><p>She ran her hand along Teddy’s ears, smoothing his wispy baby hair. “If I had to do the same again, I would my friend, Fernando—” she cradled him close, pressing her face to his head.</p><p>She turned, catching sight of George. At first, he thought she would bolt. But she didn’t. She just smiled and kept swaying, her curls wild in the dim light.</p><p>“He likes it,” she mouthed.</p><p>“Seems so,” George said, a slow smile breaking over his face. “What is that?” he mouthed, pointing to the box.</p><p>Hermione grinned and motioned for him to come closer. George swallowed and stepped towards her. “Put it on,” she whispered, handing the headset over. Halting, George lifted it over his head. She clicked a button on the box, and a whirring came through the orange earpieces.</p><p>Then, she clicked it again.</p><p>
  <em>“If you change your mind, I’m the first in line.”</em>
</p><p>George’s mouth opened as the music washed over him.</p><p>“What is this?” he whispered, blinking.</p><p>
  <em>“Honey, I’m still free. Take a chance on me.”</em>
</p><p>“A Walkman,” Hermione mouthed.</p><p>
  <em>“If you need me, let me know. Gonna be around.”</em>
</p><p>“Brilliant,” he whispered.</p><p>
  <em>“If you’ve got no place to go, when you’re feeling down.”</em>
</p><p>Merlin, he was going to cry. He handed back the headset, throat closing, a dangerous impulsivity thrumming through him.</p><p>“I was wondering,” he started, willing his voice to stay even. “I know you’re busy,<br/>but—”</p><p>“Anything you need, George,” Hermione said, smiling.</p><p>“Well—”</p><p>Where was he going with this? Not the invitation. That would be ridiculous. He blanked, paling at how close he’d just come to asking something stupid.</p><p>A hoot filtered in from the kitchen. The owl. He’d forgotten about the owl. They turned, making their way to McGonagall’s letter. George took Teddy from Hermione, swaying to keep him asleep while Hermione read.</p><p>“They’re looking for volunteers,” she whispered. “To help start the Hogwarts rebuilding.”</p><p>“I imagine there’s a lot to do before September,” George said. Out the window, the sun was starting to crest over the hillside.</p><p>“Will you be going?” Hermione asked, studying the parchment.</p><p>“Nah. I think they should’ve taken the walls out ages ago. Imagine—Potions and Apparition lessons in the same room,” George whispered, grinning. Hermione rolled her eyes and tossed the parchment on the table.</p><p>“What were you saying, though?” she asked, rooting around in the drawer. Godric, she hadn’t lost focus. He hadn’t done a good enough job of distracting her. He wracked his brain, thinking frantically. Finally, it came to him.</p><p>“Well, Fred and I could use some extra hands with our shop,” he said, staring at his shoes. “I know you’ve got a lot going on, but even if you just came by to talk while we work, that would be a help.”</p><p>Hermione closed the drawer with her hip, and George’s head lifted. She was grinning at him. “I’d love to,” she said.</p><p>“Really?” George asked, a bit breathless. “I mean—you don’t have to, though. It was just an idea,” George added hastily, pretending to find some lint on Teddy’s baby blanket.</p><p>“Of course I’ll come. It’s about time that you two started making trouble again,” she said, tilting her head. “Let me know a time and date that works for you.”</p><p>“Thanks,” he said. Something had warmed in his chest—a rogue, nonsensical hope. She was only helping. It didn’t mean anything. But, the fact that she cared sent those sparks through him, wiring him from crown to toe. “I reckon we’ll see some of this through first,” he nodded at McGonagall’s letter. “But I’ll let you know.”</p><p>“Excellent,” Hermione said, eyes sparkling. She turned to head into the living room.</p><p>“Hermione?” her name slipped from him, unbidden.</p><p>“Yes, George?” she asked, turning absent-mindedly as she searched a stack of books on the side table.</p><p>“It’s good to have you back,” he said. “We missed you.”</p><p>Hermione smiled. “We missed you too,” she said.</p><p>Teddy stirred on his shoulder.</p><p>Harry lumbered into the kitchen, hair sticking up wildly around his head, toothbrush held in the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, he lifted Teddy from George’s arms.</p><p>“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, heading back upstairs.</p><p>#</p><p>June 1, 1998</p><p>The Hogwarts campus was in chaos. Flitwick stood on a table, breaking volunteers into teams.</p><p>Ron and Harry had gone with a large group comprised of most of the former Quidditch players to restore the pitch, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were helping to mend the masonry in the entry hall. Percy was assigned to assisting Professor McGonagall in piecing together the stone soldiers. Neville, meanwhile, was in the Greenhouses, cataloguing the plants with Professor Sprout. Finally, Dean, Luna, and Seamus were helping Hagrid with his hut—or what was left of it.</p><p>Flitwick’s eyes coasted over the remaining volunteers. George squirmed. He’d never been picked this close to last before.</p><p>“You two,” Flitwick pointed at George and Hermione. “You have knowledge of the school’s topography. Start by making your way from room to room, recording any significant damage. Additionally, I’m afraid things were moved around quite a bit during the battle, so if you should find any historical artifacts in the wrong place, please move them to their proper rooms.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. Her drawstring backpack had a <em>Hogwarts: A History </em>sized lump in it, so it was a perfect task for her.</p><p>“Please use caution,” Flitwick said, lowering his voice. “There are some areas that we have yet to secure.”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“We won’t let you down, Professor Flitwick,” Hermione said, eyes shining. Blimey. They’d been back thirty minutes, and she was already in prefect mode.</p><p>They crossed to the hall together, and George stooped down to whisper in her ear. “Twenty points to Gryffindor,” he said. The laugh bubbled out of her, and she swatted at him.</p><p>George ducked around the corner, grinning.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The passage was caved in, stone pillars capsized around the hall.</p><p>“Let’s get to work,” Hermione said, eyes bright and focused on the obstacles before them. Without waiting for his reply, she scrambled forward, scaling the first, large stone.</p><p>#</p><p>They stood, shoulder to shoulder in the back corner of the Gryffindor common room, furniture overturned around them.</p><p>A large, golden mirror leaned against the wall.</p><p>“I’m surprised it survived,” George said, leaning towards it. The script over the frame looked ancient.</p><p>“Harry told me about this years ago,” Hermione said, stepping closer. “When you look in, you’re supposed to see your greatest desire.” George watched as she gazed into it, biting her lips together.</p><p>The words chiseled into the top caught his attention.<em> The Mirror of Erised.</em></p><p>He whispered the phrase, brow furrowed. That couldn’t be right. The only thing staring back at him was their reflection—them, simply standing, shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>“But it’s just a regular—” he mumbled, lifting his hand to brace it on the frame. A flash of gold on his reflection’s hand caught his eye. A ring. “—mirror” The word faded and died on his lips as the Hermione in the glass leaned in, slipping her arm through his.</p><p>“What do you see, George?” Hermione asked, blinking up at him. Her look of intense concentration had faded, and a confused one had taken its place.</p><p>“Ah,” His mind blanked. The reflection taunted him, Hermione’s head tilting against his shoulder. It was cruel. A trick, and not a funny one. “Um.” Why couldn’t he think straight? He had to say something—anything.</p><p>George’s heart hammered as his reflection leaned down and Hermione’s went up on her tiptoes, nuzzling his cheek with her nose. Without thinking, he touched the spot.</p><p>“George?”</p><p>“It’s me—in the shop,” he stuttered, saying the first rubbish that came to mind. “I’m holding a large pile of galleons.” His insides lurched, and he tore his eyes from the traitorous mirror. Hermione was peering back at the glass now, a deep line between her brows.</p><p>He couldn’t help it. He glanced at the glass once more. The background had opened up, their families standing behind them. The Grangers nodded at him, grinning. Ginny, Mum, Dad. His brothers. Even Ron—smiling at them.</p><p>He shouldn’t have looked again.</p><p>“I thought it might be broken,” she said. “But I guess not.” The words came out in a huff.</p><p>George turned to her. She seemed unnerved, fidgeting with her sleeves, eyes darting over the mirror’s surface. “Why do you say that?” he asked.</p><p>Granger huffed, and her voice came out strained. “Well, it’s foggy for me,” she said, shrugging and shoving her hands in her pockets, stepping forwards and backwards like she wasn’t quite sure how to move. “I mean—why isn’t it working?” She leaned in once more, staring intently at it.</p><p>“I’m right here!” Her voice was louder, this time. George swallowed. Hermione blinked and turned abruptly, her jaw firm. “Sorry,” she muttered, exhaling through her nose and rolling her eyes. “It’s silly.”</p><p>George stepped between her and mirror, taking her shoulders in his hands. “It’s not silly,” he whispered. Dust particles swirled through the air, illuminated by the light flooding through the arched windows.</p><p>“That’s all well and good for you to say,” Hermione said. “You have everything sorted. I mean, shouldn’t I at the least be seeing the Ministry or Ron or something?”</p><p>George’s ribs tightened. This was dangerous territory. Merlin, how had they gotten here?</p><p>“I’ve always known what I wanted, and now—” her face contorted, and she ducked her head, pulling away from him. “Now the war is over, and I’m, well…even the legendary, enchanted mirror can’t tell me.”</p><p>“It’s alright to not know, Granger,” George said, crossing to hoist the overturned armchair upright. “Just because you don’t see Ron—I mean, that doesn’t mean that you don’t want him. It doesn’t mean anything, really. Just that you’re not sure what you want most.” He kept his hands busy while he talked. He didn’t feel comfortable advising her on Ron. He didn’t want to sway her opinion.</p><p>“I suppose you’re right,” Hermione murmured. There was a pause, and she continued. “I guess I was hoping it would show me what I want to do, because I don’t know.” She kicked at a stray piece of rubble, and it skittered over the floor.</p><p>Then, the words started pouring out of her. “Kingsley offered me a job at the Ministry, and I can see it—myself working there, alongside Ron and Harry. But, just when I think I’ve made up my mind, I can picture myself working at a bookshop or something similar, taking time for myself. Or, it’s stupid, really, but—” she halted, and George looked up at her, pausing in his effort to lift the sofa back into place.</p><p>“It’s not stupid,” George said. Hermione bit her lips together. “C’mon. Spit it out already.” He leaned over the sofa, making a show of waiting on her. Granger took a deep breath, glancing around the room.</p><p>“Well—part of me wants to come back.”</p><p>Of course. He should’ve guessed. Warmth flooded him as he watched her turn slowly, taking in the familiar space.</p><p>“Finish my NEWTS. Maybe study for a Mastery,” she said. Then, she stopped. “But, can I do that? Is it selfish?” Her words were clipped, and frustration coiled her shoulders tight.</p><p>“Godric, Hermione, no,” George said, tipping his head back. “You’ve spent the past seven years looking after Harry and fighting off a dark wizard.” He pushed off the sofa’s back and crossed to her. “It’s alright to take some time and consider your options. If you want to study—then study. If you want to take the Ministry job, you can do that, and you’ll do it brilliantly. Or you can buy a bookstore and help people find a good read.”</p><p>Hermione snorted and rubbed at her cheek with her palm. “And Harry? Ron? People will be fine with that?” Her voice caught on his brother’s name.</p><p>“I should think so,” he said, pressing his emotions into the crate at the back of his mind.</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione whispered, staring at the mirror. “It’s only—I worry that I’m not doing enough.”</p><p>“It’s better to do something you love whole heartedly than to run yourself ragged on a pursuit you don’t truly care about,” George said.</p><p>“That’s how you feel about what you saw, then? The shop?” Hermione asked, voice small.</p><p>George sighed. She hadn’t a clue, but that was alright. “Yes,” he said. “See, I found what I love, and I intend to see her thrive.”</p><p>Even if that meant with someone else.</p><p>“Her?” Hermione asked, wry smile coming over her face.</p><p>“Shop’s a fickle mistress,” George said, grinning through the pain in his chest. Hermione laughed.</p><p>There was a pause. “We should tell the others that we found the mirror. Professor McGonagall probably doesn’t want it in the common room.” George nodded, and they headed towards the portrait hole together.</p><p>She was about to step through the threshold when she stopped and peered around.</p><p>“It’s funny—” she said, voice faint.</p><p>“What?” George asked.</p><p>“This feels familiar somehow,” she murmured, studying the rubble. Then she blinked, shaking herself free. “Strange.” Hermione grinned at him and darted into the hall.</p><p>#</p><p>June 7, 1998</p><p>“Hermione and I have an announcement,” Ron said, standing at the dinner table. George stared at his goblet, memorizing the dents across the metallic surface.</p><p>“Ron—” Hermione started, but Ron cut her off.</p><p>“No, it’s time,” he said. “It’s not like it’s a surprise, is it?” George’s fists tightened under the table.</p><p>She stopped, quieted by his remark.</p><p>“We’ve finally done it,” Ron said, voice booming over the table. The scrape of knives against plates stopped. “Gotten together.”</p><p>The blow hit him like a reedy arm of the Whomping Willow—right to the stomach. George’s spoon hit the floor with a light tink. He dove after it, his eyes burning. No. No, not now.</p><p>A rushing filled George’s ears, and Ron’s next words sounded distant.</p><p>“We kissed during the final battle, but we decided today to make it official,” Ron said, grinning broadly. Mrs. Weasley’s chair squeaked as she leapt to her feet, reaching over to hug them.</p><p>That faint, fragile hope for the future shattered, pieces spiraling outwards. He hadn’t meant to have hope, but it had happened anyway. Accidentally. Fred’s hand found his shoulder under the table, and George blinked, rising back to his seat. His pudding rested before him, mocking him. He’d left the spoon on the floor. He exhaled.</p><p>His mother’s excited chattered on, but George couldn’t follow her words. He’d known. He’d known it was coming. Why did it hurt so badly?</p><p>This was not the way he’d intended to react. He’d meant to be happy for them.</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s brow furrowed as he looked at Hermione, then Ron, then—Merlin, straight at George. The air left his lungs, and he ducked his head, willing himself to look normal.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley had quieted.</p><p>“Well?” Ron asked, clearly awaiting a response from the rest of them.</p><p>He couldn’t breathe. Panic surged up his throat. She couldn’t find out. Neither of them could. He had to get a handle on himself, but his hands were clenched, nails biting into his palms.</p><p>He wouldn’t spoil this for her, not after how long she’d waited.</p><p>George leaned on instinct, all those years of tinkering and reading for the bloody Daydream charms coming to his aid. In two, rapid blinks, he filed the feelings away, occluding them one by one until</p><p>he</p><p>was</p><p>like</p><p>smooth</p><p>glass.</p><p>Under the table, his hands relaxed, the compression of his ribs eased.</p><p>“Congratulations,” George said, smiling.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley erupted back into questions, Percy and Fleur tossing comments in where they could.</p><p>In the chaos, George rose, crossing rapidly to the front door. He left the Burrow behind him, turning his face to the sky.</p><p>Fred stepped up to his side, silent. He’d followed him from the house.</p><p>“I’m alright,” George said. A lone goldcrest called from the thicket.</p><p>“I’m glad, really,” he continued. “They’ll be happy.” He hadn’t looked at her once after the announcement. He couldn’t bring himself to. He’d need time to get a handle on things, and then, maybe he could find a new normal. Be her friend, be truly happy for them.</p><p>But, for now, the summer wind was unnaturally cold on his skin.</p><p>“George—” Fred started.</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>He felt nothing at all. A great emptiness stretched out before him, and he welcomed it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Matchstick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oh boy.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HI!<br/>First off: Happy birthday Anna! I hope your day is lovely. &lt;3<br/>Next: I cannot thank you all enough for the love and encouragement you've given me. I worked really hard on this chapter, and every week, I get so nervous about things not being just right, but your comments, kudos, and even just taking the time to read it--it's all so appreciated, so THANK YOU.<br/>Please forgive me for any typos/errors. I've been writing and editing for hours, and it's highly likely that I missed something, but we're in one of those "It goes up now or not at all" places. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>This week, our songs are "The Wisp Sings" by Winter Aid and "Lay All Your Love On Me" by Abba.</p><p>Get yourself some chocolate for this (if you like chocolate), your warmest flannel, and a hot cup of tea. &lt;3 Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>Chapter Nineteen: Matchstick</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>March 2, 2003</p><p>All her life, words had guided Hermione along pages, onto higher planes of learning, and through danger. But now, when she needed them most, they abandoned her.</p><p>The only thing rocketing through her mind was a sense of shock—that someone could feel something so deeply, and about her.</p><p>She should’ve known.</p><p>She should’ve <em>known.</em></p><p>She exhaled a shaky cloud of white.</p><p>The cold bit at the edges first—her shoulders, hands, and face. Then, its claws crept inward, and the tremors started, rattling her chest, her throat, her chin, no matter how hard she tried to keep still.</p><p>George was slumped against the wall, staring at his hands.</p><p>It would be warmer at his side, but she couldn’t bring herself to shift closer. She was broken, and it was hurting him. So, she watched him, wishing she knew enough about love to understand how to respond. But, the gap stood between them. Five years may as well have been a lifetime, and the words “I’m sorry” were too paltry to offer.</p><p>George’s head lifted and his eyes, brown and dazed, flickered over her. “Have I frightened you?” he whispered, concern emanating from him.</p><p>“I-I—” she couldn’t string two words together. The dark river rushed inside her. She would drown in it. “I don’t know what to—” Hermione pressed her fingers to her forehead, searching the ground for answers that wouldn’t come.</p><p>“I know,” he said, gently.</p><p>“George—” she said, trying again. But still, nothing came.</p><p>“I know,” he repeated. She glanced up at him. That familiar, pained smile had come over his face.</p><p>“I wish I—” she sucked in a breath, afraid to say it. To acknowledge the brokenness between them.</p><p>“It’ll be alright.” He was looking at her with such tenderness that she couldn’t help but see it for what it was, now.</p><p>Love.</p><p>Then, he started, his eyes widening.</p><p>“Merlin, Granger, I’m freezing, and you’re not even wearing a coat. Please get over here,” George said. Hermione ribs constricted as she looked at him. “Come on, then,” he said, sighing. “I won’t bite.” He watched her, waiting for her to move, so she scooted across the metal floor, scrambling to reach him. Then, she lifted his arm, slipping under it and tucking herself against his side. George didn’t say anything. He only peeled the wool coat from his shoulders and draped it around them both like a blanket.</p><p>She could feel his unsteady breathing now—the weariness in it.</p><p>A few minutes passed, the heat building slowly between their bodies.</p><p>Finally, he spoke.</p><p>“About what happened,” he said, softly. “I appreciate it, but I—I don’t fancy you kissing me unless you truly feel like it.”</p><p>He was trying hard to sound casual, but as he adjusted the fabric to cover more of her shoulder, the slight shake in his hands gave him away.</p><p>“I understand,” she said. “I only meant to help,”</p><p>“I know,” George murmured. “Very Gryffindor of you.” The words were kind, but he sounded so tired. Why was she always making things so bloody difficult for him?</p><p>If only there were something she could say to comfort him, but the metal wall in her mind was impossibly high, and she was a dreadful replacement for the other Hermione.</p><p>So, she decided to search elsewhere, a well-travelled corner of her mind.</p><p>And the words came back.</p><p>“When I was a girl,” she said, speaking slowly and surely. “My mum told me that loving someone is like keeping a little candle in your heart. She said you have to tend to it very carefully, shield it from the wind, and stoke it with kindness.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Because it’s precious,” Hermione said. “And, looking at myself—at all of this, I can’t help but feel that most candles wouldn’t survive it.” Her voice caught. George’s arm came up around her, holding her shoulder. “And yet—” she was crying, now. “Here you are, George.”</p><p>“Oh, Hermione,” his voice was low and soft as he drew her close, and his hand began to move up and down her arm. The magic in her veins thrummed, flowing back and forth from the spot his hand lay to the ache in her chest. Slowly, the cold’s bite dissipated.</p><p>The snow fluttered down while they waited, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice how well they fit together, even in a place of shadows.</p><p>#</p><p>They slept, or tried to, for hours. It was impossible to relax, with the possibility of danger looming over them.</p><p>“George?”</p><p>“Mmf?” He was worn, his eyes growing more and more foggy. For the past hour or so, he’d been having trouble following her occasional questions. The magic must have been working over a great distance—draining magic and energy from him at a concerning rate.</p><p>“How long do you think it’s been?” she asked. George’s expression was blank.</p><p>“Okay,” he mumbled.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>“Stay with me, George,” she whispered, lacing their fingers together. George’s head tipped down, resting on hers.</p><p>“M’here.”</p><p>#</p><p>“I'm coming down,” A voice boomed through the hole in the ceiling, and a polished set of loafers kicked through. A wand was next, flicking in the direction of the shoes, and then the figure floated to the floor, dusting the snow from his coat and polishing the lenses of his glasses, which had become streaked with water from the blizzard outside.</p><p>“Percy?” Hermione asked, staring at the man like he was an apparition.</p><p>Percy whipped out a thick, muggle phone and began to dial a number, his eyes straying back and forth between George and the keypad with every note. As it rang, he propped the device between his face and shoulder. “I’ve got them,” he said, pulling his wand from his pocket. He rattled off a couple of numbers—latitude and longitude—then snapped the phone shut. Finally, he looked back at Hermione. “The others are on the way, but I was closest, being in Helsinki and all.”</p><p>George’s unsteady breathing rattled between them. Hermione blinked, uncertain if she was hallucinating.</p><p>Percy put his wand between his teeth, crouching to lift one of George’s eyelids. George didn’t respond, and Hermione’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. How long had he been unresponsive? No more than twenty minutes, but she should’ve been checking more often. Percy had gone pale, pulling the wand forward hurriedly. “He meant the message for Fred, but I’m rather glad it found me first. Not as far,” he murmured, moving his wand in a series of rapid spells. Diagnostic runes popped up, swirling through the air. Percy gave a low whistle.</p><p>“Really did it this time, George,” he said.</p><p>“Will he be alright?” she asked. Percy didn’t answer at first, absorbed as he was in checking George’s pulse, and casting a few more rapid spells. There were some she recognized—healing charms, warming charms—but a few she didn’t.</p><p>Finally, Percy spoke. “Let’s hope,” he muttered. Hermione swallowed, willing the panic down. Percy was here. He would help. George would be alright. He had to be. She almost didn’t hear Percy’s next question: “What the dickens are the two of you doing out here—and without your wand, Hermione, really?”</p><p>Her face heated. He wasn’t wrong. This was her fault.</p><p>There was a flash of gold. Hermione’s heart pounded. George hacked, lunging forward and gasping, the coat tumbling off of them and onto the ground.</p><p>“You never answered my question,” Percy said, snatching the fabric up and handing it to her. “Why did you take an unfamiliar portkey? That’s very unsafe.”</p><p>“Percy?” George groaned, holding his head in his hands. Percy didn’t answer. Instead, he took George’s wrist and caste another diagnostic spell.</p><p>“Merlin, Perce, you’re going to dislocate my arm,” George mumbled, trying to draw it back. Percy rolled his eyes, tugging George’s wrist back and continuing.</p><p>“I touched it without realizing,” Hermione whispered, twisting the wool in her hands. “I wasn’t thinking.”</p><p>“That’s unlike you,” Percy said, tone frank and a bit judgmental. He finished his wand movement, leaning back on his heels. George rubbed at his arm, blinking, his eyes clearing. Percy adjusted his glasses and turned to Hermione, looking her over. “Are you still—?” He gestured to her head.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “Yes. I’m still missing five years.” Percy nodded grimly.</p><p>“That’s what I figured. Sorry I haven’t come around, yet.” He paused, checking George’s pulse again. He seemed more satisfied with the findings this time. “Ministry’s got me on ambassadorial duty at present, and with the international rise in wizarding crime, not to mention the anti-werewolf sentiment—”</p><p>“I understand,” Hermione said, rubbing at her temples. She was so tired, and following the conversation was difficult. “It sounds like what you’ve been doing is important.”</p><p>“Not more than family,” Percy said, pausing and looking at her meaningfully. “It seems like I may be needed back home, if things have gotten this bad.”</p><p>“Things are fine,” George said, scrubbing his hands over his face. Percy rolled his eyes and pulled a metal thermos from his bag, dropping it into George’s hands.</p><p>“Clearly,” he said. Then, he rose, pacing around the room, inspecting the walls and floors. “Binns talked about these bunkers in our modern wizarding history course. They’re sprinkled across Europe—predate the great war. Most of them are rotted out by now, but there are a few left. This one’s a bit far east, though. I wonder if it’s been moved.”</p><p>At his musing, a faint memory returned—some reading she’d done sixth-year, back when she’d thought she’d be taking her NEWTS.</p><p>“Don’t the walls absorb magical traces and keep them from being tracked?” she asked. Percy nodded.</p><p>“Our kind used to use them for all sorts of nasty business that they didn’t want the government sticking its nose into.” He kicked at a metal seam in the wall. “Unforgiveables, mostly. It’s no accident that you were brought here.” He gazed up through the opening. “They probably figured if the fall didn’t do it, they could always stop by and finish the job.”</p><p>George stiffened at her side, and his arm tightened around her.  </p><p>“Lucky he was with you,” Percy whispered, deep in thought. He turned and paced across the chamber.</p><p>“Why didn’t they?” George asked.</p><p>Percy shrugged. “Maybe they haven’t gotten to it, yet. Doesn’t help their cause that Harry put a freeze on all of the Britain’s international portkeys the second he knew you’d been taken.”</p><p>“Harry can do that?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Percy barked out a laugh. “Harry’s the golden boy,” he said. “You’re probably the only person who’s publicly turned him down without ending your career.”</p><p>“I don’t remember that,” Hermione said, brow furrowing. George shot Percy a look.</p><p>“No, you wouldn’t,” Percy said. “It was, erm, after the war—some business about a job.”</p><p>“Oh.” Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.</p><p>“Ron might have a better idea of why they brought you, here, though,” Percy said. “Having done work in this area.”</p><p> “Where is here, anyway?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Siberia,” Percy murmured, absentmindedly running his finger over the etching on the wall. “Near the border.”</p><p>What? Hermione blinked. Surely, she’d heard wrong.</p><p>“Blimey,” George muttered, resting his head against the wall. “No wonder it feels like I got hit by a train.” Hermione’s chest twisted. They’d been dragged out to Siberia. Siberia. And George—George had sent a Patronus over how many thousands of kilometers? The tip of her nose began to ache. She’d hoped that danger from blood supremacists was a thing of the past. Evidently, she’d been wrong.</p><p>Percy snorted. “You look it, too.” A pause. “Fred and the others will be along shortly. They’re bringing the portkey.”</p><p>Percy gestured towards the shattered jar. “That it?” he asked. Hermione nodded. Percy levitated it into his shoulder bag. “Harry can take a look at it once we’re back to safety.”</p><p>He began to caste some protective wards.</p><p>George adjusted, leaning back against the wall, his eyes on his brother.</p><p>“Thanks, Percy,” he said, finally. Percy nodded, tracing his wand through the air.</p><p>George turned, looking down at her. He huffed at the sight of the coat, still tangled in her hands and tugged it around her shoulders.</p><p>“Put it on,” he murmured. “Can’t have you freezing.”</p><p>“But what about you?” she asked, trying to hand it back.</p><p>“I’ve got Percy’s warming charms,” George said. He was being silly. Warming charms didn’t work very well in place of a coat, and they both knew it. Hermione bit her lip and lifted his arm again, slipping under it like before. As easy as breathing, George looped his other arm around her shoulders, and they leaned back against the curved wall. He opened Percy’s thermos, holding it out to her.</p><p>It was chai tea, hot and wonderful down her throat. She handed it back, and George took a long drink.</p><p>The warmth built between them quickly, singing and pulsing. With her ear pressed close to his torso, she could hear the steady thrum of George’s heart in his chest. Something about it was incredibly comforting, and she took a deep breath, closing her eyes.</p><p>Suddenly, the tempo changed. It sped, picking up pace.</p><p>Perhaps he was worried that the danger hadn’t passed—that whoever sent the portkey would come.</p><p>“The others will be here soon,” she said. “Don’t worry.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. “I know.”</p><p>His heartbeat didn’t slow.</p><p>A pop rang through the air, and Harry, Ron, Bill, and Fred tumbled to the ground, clutching an old, leather boot. Harry stepped towards the carving on the wall, a familiar shadow coming over his eyes.</p><p>Then he turned to Percy. “Have everything we need?” he asked. Percy nodded. “Good,” Harry said. “Everyone hold on.”</p><p>They grabbed the boot and left the bunker behind them.</p><p>#</p><p>Early Morning, March 3, 2003</p><p>St. Mungo’s was packed in the morning. All the wizards and witches who’d had accidents during the night packed the reception area, and it was a large line to get directed to the right floor.</p><p>George had insisted that she be seen first, so they’d waited for Healer Marcus to have an opening, Fred providing a running commentary of Ginny and Angelina’s last quidditch match in the lobby while George paced. Finally, they were called in.</p><p>The healer took notes as she reviewed the events from the last day, his brow furrowing as she described the dizzy spell. George waited patiently, helping her fill in details that she hadn’t noticed.</p><p>“Well, the good news is that you haven’t seemed to sustain any damage from the fall,” Marcus said, drawing his wand through the air over her head.</p><p>“What about the other things?” Hermione asked, biting at her lip. Healer Marcus sat back on his swivel chair.</p><p>“That’s a bit more complicated,” he said, flipping through her chart. “Could be your brain, straining under the hard work of re-assembling your memories.”</p><p>“But—I haven’t had any memories come back yet,” she said.</p><p>“Yet,” Healer Marcus said firmly. “It sounds like you did come close, in your childhood bedroom?”</p><p>She looked at George. He paused, opened his mouth then shut it. “What do you think, George?” she asked, prompting him to fill in the gaps.</p><p>George swallowed. “It seemed like you were asking me if I did something that you wouldn’t remember me doing elsewise,” he said. He scrubbed his hands down his face. “But, I could be wrong. She sort of drifted after that.”</p><p>Healer Marcus made a note. “And you don’t remember asking this?” he said, his voice even and calm.</p><p>“No,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>Healer Marcus’s mouth thinned.</p><p>“That’s not a good sign, is it?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“As I said before, it could be your brain struggling under the load it’s been dealt,” he said. “Or—” he paused.</p><p>“Or?” Hermione said.</p><p>“It could be a sign of regression. Sometimes, particularly nasty obliviates create scar tissue, and that can cause damage to memory retention over time,” he said. Something clattered on the floor. George had fumbled, dropping his wand. Hermione’s head swam, and she turned back to Healer Marcus. “It’s rare, and I don’t think it’s a conclusion we should jump to yet,” he added hurriedly.</p><p>“But—I could be getting worse?” Hermione asked, blinking rapidly. Healer Marcus rolled his chair forward, taking her shoulders in his hands.</p><p>“Sometimes the mind struggles a bit, coming out of these things,” he said. “If that’s happening with you—which we don’t know that it is—we’ll adapt our approach. You are not alone, Hermione.”</p><p>Hermione breathed and counted to ten. Things were already hard enough. What if she woke up tomorrow and didn’t remember anything at all? What if everything she’d worked to build with George over the last few months suddenly vanished? How many times would he be willing to restart with her?</p><p>“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Healer Marcus said. “I think it’s more likely that we’re seeing something else, here. We don’t normally see signs of memory return preceding episodes from scar tissue. I’d like to do some reading and follow up with you soon.”</p><p>She nodded. “I’ll do the same.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Healer Marcus said. “For now, try to live your life as normally as you can. Will you do that for me?”</p><p>She blinked, looking at the defeated slope of George’s shoulders. Nothing was normal anymore.</p><p>“I can try,” she said.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione stretched in her seat on the ground floor. The Artefact Accidents ward was crowded, and they’d been waiting for over an hour. Convincing George to stay and be seen had been a hassle. Apparently, he was used to tending to himself at home.</p><p>“My leg feels fine, and all I need is some sleep, Granger,” he huffed, rubbing at his temples.</p><p>Hermione shook her head, looking down at her reading. It was rather ridiculous, coming from the man who’d practically dragged her into Healer Marcus’s office earlier.</p><p>At her side, George was slouched low in his chair, legs sprawled out before him. Dirt streaked his face, and the tear in his trouser leg reached just below his knee. The bone didn’t look like it needed re-setting, but it really was safer to have them check it.</p><p>“I mean, honestly, it’s nice that you care, but—” he sounded frustrated, peering around the room in jittery impatience.</p><p>“It’ll make me feel more at ease if you saw someone,” Hermione whispered, turning the page in her pamphlet. George sighed, staring at the ceiling.</p><p>“Mum used to give us a draught and send us to bed, and we always woke up alright,” he mumbled. Hermione rested her pamphlet on her lap.</p><p>“Are you scared of healers, George?” she asked. George shifted in his chair, rubbing at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Not scared. I just don’t fancy being poked at,” he said, the timbre of his voice growing rough. Hermione bit her lip and reached out, tentatively patting him on the arm. He raised his brows at her.</p><p>“Is this really important to you?” he asked. Hermione nodded. “Alright.” He sighed, slouching lower in his seat. Hermione snorted at his grumpiness. It was ridiculous, but sort of endearing.</p><p>His arms were crossed, his head tilted back. As the minutes dragged on, he kept nodding off, drooping lower and lower to the side, close to her shoulder, until he’d jerk himself upright, and the whole routine would start again. He hadn’t slept in days. She watched him, worry lancing through her. She should do something. Anything.</p><p>“George,” she whispered. “It’s alright. You can lean on my arm.” He blinked slowly, rubbing his eyes.</p><p>“What’s that?” he said, voice thick and groggy as he crossed his arms again.</p><p>Hermione exhaled, a soft smile stealing over her face. “Come here, George,” she said. Gently, she reached up, drawing his head down to rest on her arm and shoulder.</p><p>He was stiff against her, his shoulders a tense line.</p><p>“Just sleep,” she said. “I’ll listen for your name.”</p><p>“Alright,” he said. Slowly, he shifted, the side of his head tucking just under her cheek. She lifted the pamphlet, re-reading the information on Dragon Pox.</p><p>He began to breathe more deeply, relaxing against her. “How is it that you always smell like chamomile?” he mumbled. She paused, blinking down at him.</p><p>“It’s my favorite, I suppose,” she said. The paper cup on the corner table was empty. Fred had brought it from the fifth floor before heading back to the shop. “It calms me down when I’m anxious.”</p><p>George hummed, his shoulders rising and falling evenly. Hermione swallowed and briskly flipped open the next pamphlet.</p><p>Dragon Venom—a frightening, illegal substance responsible for an increasing number of trips to the magical creature ward. It burned purple when lit, and untreated contact could be fatal. But, it could be used as a cheaper replacement for a number of rare potions ingredients, so naturally, people were buying it up in droves, and the trade was booming.</p><p>George shifted, tensing in his sleep. Hermione adjusted so he wouldn’t slip off, checking to ensure that his neck was craned to an uncomfortable angle. Finally satisfied, she settled back in and continued to read.</p><p>She sighed. If only she’d brought something more useful, like<em> Magic of the Mind </em>or her files for the case.</p><p>They sat in the waiting room for several more hours. Clearly, Mungo’s was running behind. Maybe they could use some help with their filing system. There were a lot of innovations in the muggle world that they could probably use to implement.</p><p>Hermione made it all the way through the “O” section of the pamphlets and was reading a piece on treating potion burns from home when a harried looking nurse shouted “Weasley-Granger, George,” at the front of the room.</p><p>Heads swiveled. It was as though the other patrons hadn’t realized they were there. They probably had the dark corner to thank for that. Hermione tugged at George, and he jolted awake.</p><p>Hermione pointed at the nurse, and George rose to follow her, his lanky form unfolding from the chair. He paused at the door to the ward, staring back at her with his hands in his pockets, looking a bit lost.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He wanted her to come with. Of course.</p><p>She stuffed her pamphlet into her pocket and headed after them. George’s face relaxed as she reached his side.</p><p>“What brings you in today, Mr. Weasley-Granger?” The nurse had yet to look up from her stack of parchment.</p><p>“Fancied a bit of fun,” George said dryly.</p><p>The nurse snorted. “Hop on the scale, please,” she said, scrawling a note on her paperwork.</p><p>“No thanks,” George said, crossing his arms. “One of these days, you lot are going to tell me to start dieting, and I’d rather just die early.”</p><p>Hermione choked. The healer looked up from her parchment. “We generally don’t recommend dieting to anyone, sir,” she said. “It’s better to build a sustainable nutritional intake that supports your body and magic consistently.”</p><p>Hermione brightened. “That’s what my parents say,” she said. “They’re muggle dentists, and they’re always talking about the importance of—” she trailed off as she registered the attendant’s blank look. The woman cleared her throat, looking back down at the parchment and gesturing for them to follow.</p><p>“There’s still time,” George murmured. “We could leave right now.” Hermione rolled her eyes and tugged him along.</p><p>They had to wait a bit longer in the exam room, but the healer finally ducked her head through the door, grinning brightly. “Alright, Mr. Weasley-Granger,” she said, pulling the chair up to George, who had refused to sit on the table. “I’m Healer Murphy, and it says you’re here for a bit of fun.” She was an older woman with dark brown eyes and deep smile lines. “Would that fun have anything to do with your leg?” She nodded down at the tear in George’s trousers.</p><p>“Oh, a bit,” he replied, tipping his head back, voice tired. “You know how these things go.”</p><p>“Fell off a broom?” she asked, waving her wand over his shin.</p><p>“Never,” George sounded offended.</p><p>“Looks like a break from a fall,” she said, raising her brows at him.</p><p>George folded his arms. “Not from a broom.”</p><p>Why was he being so difficult? His leg jogged up and down, and he kept shifting in his chair. Hermione almost chimed in to provide the full story, but she stopped herself. This was his appointment. He should be the one talking. Healer Murphy seemed equipped, however, and the story spilled out in bits and pieces as the medic gradually charmed George into loosening up.</p><p>“Who set it?” Healer Murphy asked, studying the runes over his leg. George cleared his throat, tipping his towards her.</p><p>“My wife,” he said. Hermione started, the two words sending a jolt of something warm and exciting zipping up her sternum. She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, looking up at him.</p><p>Healer Murphy tilted her head, taking Hermione in. “You did an excellent job,” she said, strapping a cuff around George’s arm. “Can I ask how you managed it?”</p><p> “Oh, um,” Hermione stuttered. “Honestly, it was all a bit of a blur.” George’s cheeks had gone pink, and Hermione could feel the same flush spreading across her own.</p><p>The enchanted needles on the cuff’s dials swung back and forth, the one for magic levels wavering low on the scale.</p><p>“This normal for you?” Healer Murphy asked, tapping the dial.</p><p>“No,” George said, blinking down at the numbers and looking rather queasy. “I’ve had a long day, though.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Healer Murphy said. “I think you’ll bounce back, but you need to take it easy. Light on the magic for a few days. Give your body some time to recover.”</p><p>George nodded, watching the needle on the cuff, his jaw firm. Healer Murphy unpeeled it and packed it away. “If you’re not feeling back to normal after that, send us an owl, alright?” <strike></strike></p><p>She strode to the door, then turned back to Hermione. “It’s your job to take good care of him, now,” she said, winking. The door snicked shut behind her.</p><p>George rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t mind her,” he said softly, gathering his coat to himself. “I’m alright.”</p><p>She wanted to take care of him, though.</p><p>#</p><p>It was late when they got back from St. Mungo’s. All of the tests, paperwork, waiting periods, and George’s exam had taken quite some time. Now, he was finally hanging his coat on the hook. Save for the few, unsavory hours of fitful sleep in the bunker and a nap in the lobby, neither of them had truly rested in two days, and they looked it.</p><p> “Don’t touch any of the mail,” he said, giving her a tired grin. “Let’s save the next trip for tomorrow, alright?”</p><p>“If you say so,” she replied.</p><p>They slipped into their separate rooms.</p><p>And Hermione tossed and turned.</p><p>She should’ve been out once she crawled onto the mattress. She could feel how weary her body was, but her mind refused—jolting her with images of George, lying broken on the floor of the bunker. Healer Marcus, telling her that she may be regressing. Bellatrix, leaning over her, screaming. Confusing, nonsensical flashes of copper.</p><p>After an hour or so, she huffed and pulled herself from the bed, padding across the floor.</p><p>She would permit herself one look—just to ensure that he was settled alright. Then, she’d go to sleep. Healer Murphy had told her to, after all.</p><p>She slipped through her door, and gently eased the study’s open.</p><p>George lay on his side on the pull-out bed, overtop of the blankets. His eyes were closed, breath steady, hand cupped over something against his ear.</p><p>It was a muggle flip phone.</p><p>Confused, she reached down, and the phone slid from his fingers, the screen still illuminated on the timestamp of a message. Perhaps it was from Healer Marcus—maybe he’d found something in his research and called to leave a message. Maybe George had fallen asleep before hearing it, too exhausted to keep his eyes open.</p><p>She clicked the button, holding it to her ear, and the message began to play.</p><p>
  <em>“Hello, Love.” </em>
</p><p>Her voice poured from the speaker. What?</p><p><em>“My darling, I’ll be home in just a few minutes.”</em> Her tone was sing-song, silly. She blinked. What was this?</p><p><em>“You see, I saw ridiculous mannequin in the window at Madam Malkin’s? It reminded me of the time you swapped them out!”</em> The sound of her own laughter, strange and distant, bubbled through the earpiece. There was a pause. <em>“Work was—ugh,”</em> a rush of static as she sighed. <em>“But I’ll be home soon.”</em></p><p>This was a voicemail. A voicemail from her. To him. From—from before.</p><p>
  <em>“Tonight, why don’t we just lay on the sofa, and you can make me amazing food, and I can kiss you until you’re senseless.”</em>
</p><p>Her throat closed at the words.</p><p>
  <em> “Can’t wait.”</em>
</p><p>It was the other Hermione, speaking in her voice like a strange ghost.</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll be home soon, Georgie.”</em>
</p><p>Then it hit her.</p><p>He’d fallen asleep listening to this.</p><p>
  <em>“I love you.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob as it rose in her throat.</p><p>
  <em>“Mua.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Click.</em>
</p><p>The phone dropped from her hand, clattering on the wooden floor.</p><p>George shot upright, gasping at the sound. Hermione’s face went hot, and she wiped at her face hurriedly. She shouldn’t have done this—invaded his privacy. Especially not in this way.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought it might have been St. Mungo’s, so I—” her voice trailed off. George rubbed a palm across his eyes, staring at her in confusion. Then he saw the phone on the floor.</p><p>He froze, half-reclining on his elbows. “Oh,” he said faintly. He blinked slowly and sat forward, his shoulders hunching as he buried his face in his hands. “That’s not good for you to listen to, Hermione,” he said, his voice shaken. “The-the healers said—”</p><p>“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>He didn’t answer—wouldn’t look at her.</p><p>“George—” she said, choking on his name. He lowered his hands, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“No, Hermione, no,” he whispered, crawling from the bed. “It’s alright.” His arms stole around her shoulders, and the wave of warmth spilled from him, onto her.</p><p>“Do you miss her?” Hermione asked into the flannel fabric of his pajamas. George’s embrace tightened, as though that was his answer.</p><p>That night, she dreamed fitfully of dark fog. A cold and distant voice rang through her ears: <em>“She doesn’t care for you.”</em></p><p>It was a lie. She didn’t know how she knew, but it was.  </p><p>She tried to call through the dark, to say it wasn’t true, but her mouth refused to move. As the nightmare faded to wisps, she saw a glimpse of a man with red hair, his features obscured, bracing against the fury: <em>“I’ll be here anyway.”</em></p><p>#</p><p>March 4, 2003</p><p>She’d been afraid of what might happen the next morning. Of how they might proceed, after everything. But, he’d handed her a mug of tea and a plate of eggs.</p><p>“George, you’re supposed to be resting,” she said, laying the dishes on the coffee table.</p><p>“Chin up, Granger,” he replied, grinning. “I made it the muggle way.” He loped over to the bookshelf, plucking a few volumes out. He dropped the thicker one into her lap. “Now get to work,” he said. “The world isn’t going to save itself.”</p><p>It was <em>Magical Tradition</em>, the book he’d found to help her stringboard. She peered up at him as he settled into the armchair and picked up his own book, cracking it open and sipping at his tea.</p><p>She opened her book, summoning a quill to take notes in the margin.</p><p>The world turned on.</p><p>#</p><p>March 9, 2003</p><p>Hermione gulped down a final draught of coffee. The past week had flown by, a mess of owls between their flat and the auror office as they tried to sort who had sent the portkey.</p><p>The list of suspects was growing larger, not smaller. It wasn’t a comforting thought.</p><p>“Almost ready, Granger?” George called, walking from the bathroom to the study. His hair dripped  onto his button-down as he skated a comb through it. They were headed to the Burrow early today, so George could take a look at his father’s Anglia before dinner. Hermione tugged her jacket over her shoulders, but it caught on the bulky fabric of her jumper.</p><p>George emerged from the study, coat tossed over his arm, pulling a flat cap over his head. He stopped short at her struggle, a grin making its way over his mouth. “Doing alright there?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione tugged at the jacket, and it twisted too far, the collar not resting correctly on her shoulders. George chuckled and stepped forward, his hands reaching up to straighten it.</p><p>“Now, let’s see if we can puzzle this out,” he murmured. She watched him as he worked, his face a mask of serious intent as he made a show of lining up the jacket’s collar with the turtleneck of her jumper.</p><p>“No, still not quite right,” he said, gazing at it like it was a NEWT level arithmancy problem. Hermione snorted. “Maybe if we just—” he tugged the denim slightly to the left, then frowned. “No, that’s not perfect, either.”</p><p>“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, biting back a grin.</p><p>“Shush and let me tease you,” he replied, something merry making its way into his eyes. He made to help her pull her curls free from the jacket, and his fingers brushed against her neck. She stilled, the touch sending a warm shiver up her spine.</p><p>George stopped, a faint rose color making its way up his throat. “Right,” he said, turning suddenly to the floo. “Are we ready, then?”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>She’d hoped he might go on a bit.</p><p>Well, that was alright. Hermione shouldered her handbag and stepped up beside him. “As ever,” she said, looking up at him. Without waiting for his reply, she grasped his hand in hers and tugged him into the floo.</p><p>The green fire roared around them, and they stepped through.</p><p>She didn’t let go of his hand. Not as they leapt from the stone hearth onto the Burrow’s wood floors. Not when Bill shouted a greeting at them from his game of chess with Ron. Not even when George made to hang the coat on his arm onto the hooks near the door.</p><p>Each moment, it became more significant, the rogue sparks building in her ribcage. Holding his hand when she had no excuse to—it was exciting. Wonderful. She felt a bit brave, even.</p><p>He seemed to notice more the longer she held on. First, a sideways glance. Then, as he stepped away from the coat rack, his eyes flickered back to her, at their hands. A look of puzzlement came over him. He was—so cute. Hermione bit her lips together to keep from smiling.</p><p>Could she make him blush again?</p><p>The thought floored her. Where had that come from? Why would she want him to blush? Who did things like that on purpose?</p><p>“Alright, Granger?” he murmured, ducking low to whisper in her ear. Hermione swallowed. What was she thinking? She nodded, giving his hand a final squeeze before letting go.</p><p>Then, she turned hurriedly, meaning to leave her bag at bench next to the door. Instead, she bumped right into Ginny, who was grinning at her broadly, having witnessed the entire exchange.</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes and knelt to brush some soot from her trainers.</p><p>“So,” Ginny said, eyes sparking as she crouched beside her. “That was something.”</p><p>Hermione coughed and stood, following George out the door to the garage.</p><p>“We’re not done talking about this!” Ginny called after her.</p><p>#</p><p>The storage shed beside the Burrow’s main house hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d wandered in. Mr. Weasley’s assortment of muggle contraptions had grown, crowding out the shelves. Hermione grinned, fiddling with a broken rotary phone.</p><p>George ducked under a low-hanging beam and headed to the back, looking completely at home amongst the clutter.</p><p>This was where he got it all, wasn’t it?</p><p>He hoisted a large, tin box out from under a table. “Keep up, Granger,” he called. “Can’t be losing ourselves in the labyrinth, now.”</p><p>Hermione laughed, jogging over to him.</p><p>At the back of the space, near the set of double doors on the other end of the shed, a large white sheet covered the car. George pulled it back, revealing the light, blue Ford Anglia.</p><p>“I thought this was lost in the forbidden forest,” Hermione said, walking around it, tracing over the hood with a fingertip. Through the window, she could the interior. It seemed a bit large, really, and they’d fitted a more modern radio and tape player inside.</p><p>“Yeah, Ron and Harry did that one in, I’m afraid,” George said, rolling up his sleeves. “Dad wouldn’t say it in front of Mum, but he was heartbroken.” He cracked open the toolbox. “When things settled after the war, Fred and I found him another one.”</p><p>Hermione paused, resting her hands on the roof of the vehicle and watching George on the other side of it. “You bought this for your father?”</p><p>George rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, not technically. He wouldn’t accept it as a gift, so Fred and I told him it was for the whole family, but that we didn’t have room for it at our place, so—” he trailed off.</p><p>“So, naturally, you keep it here, in your father’s garage,” she said, smiling. George winked and reached around the top, popping the hood up.</p><p>“Every once in a while, he gets a bit carried away tinkering with it, so we come to set it right,” George said, crossing to the engine and leaning over it.</p><p>“What in Godric’s Hollow—” he muttered, ducking low. A moment later, he emerged, reaching behind him for a wrench and pliers. Hermione leaned back against the shed wall, watching him. The clanking noises echoed through the shed, punctuated every so often with muffled remarks, uttered under George’s breath.</p><p>Eventually, he drew out an old alarm clock, wires spilling out the back. It looked as though Mr. Weasley had magically fused some bolts to the surface—though how it’d been connected to the engine or what purpose it was meant to serve, Hermione couldn’t guess. George bugged his eyes out, turning it over in his hands, then rested it on the table behind him.</p><p>Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing. “Will it still run?” she asked.</p><p>“The clock or the car?” George asked, staring down into the engine.</p><p>“The car,” Hermione said, crossing to stand beside him. His arm was warm, just out of reach of her shoulder.</p><p>“There’s only one way to find out,” he said. Then he swooped to the side, pushing open the double doors. Sunlight poured into the shed, illuminating the flecks of dust in the air. “Come on, then.” He called, pressing the hood closed.</p><p>Hermione blinked. George was opening the driver’s side door, waving her over. She’d never driven a car before. It was one of those things that the other muggle children had learned to do while she was busy fighting a war.</p><p>Slowly, she stepped forward, the curiosity getting the better of her. George smiled down at her as she halted, then slipped into the driver’s seat.</p><p>“Let’s just see if it starts,” he said, something mischievous sparking in his eyes.</p><p>He leaned in, reaching in front of her to stick a key in the ignition. Before she had a moment to comprehend their position, he leapt back, shutting the door, and skirted over the hood to the passenger side.</p><p>He climbed into the seat beside her. “All you, Granger,” he said, nodding at the ignition. “Push on the clutch—the pedal on the far left.”</p><p>Hermione blinked at him, then reached forward, brushing her fingers along the key. Slowly, her foot came down on the pedal, and she turned the key a bit. Nothing happened. It didn’t work.</p><p>Disappointment lanced through her. It was probably just as well. This was impulsive, and not very safe. She’d never driven.</p><p>“You’ve got to give it a bit more,” George whispered, smiling at her.</p><p>“How do you mean?” she asked, hand frozen over the key.</p><p>“Would you like me to show you?” George asked, a picture of mirth.</p><p>Hermione nodded, breath held in suspension.</p><p>George ducked forward, brushing his hand against hers. Like a matchstick, poised along the side of its box.</p><p>His fingers closed around hers, gently turning the key against the mechanism’s resistance. Something caught, sparked. The engine roared to life.</p><p>“Oh,” she said.</p><p>George grinned at her, the warm light from the sun splashing across his brown eyes. “Brilliant,” he said. “Drive, Granger.”</p><p>“Are you joking?” she said, heart hammering. She could get them killed. A smile pulled at the corner of George’s mouth.</p><p>“Go slow,” he said. “Shift into first, then ease off the clutch.”</p><p>She chewed her lip. “But what if I crash it?”</p><p>“Planning on racing into any walls?” he asked, lifting his brows. Hermione shook her head. “Then I think we’ll manage.”</p><p>Hermione shifted into first, her foot wobbling off the clutch and onto the gas.</p><p>The car lurched forward, through the doors. She gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled, eyes wide.</p><p>“Excellent,” George said. “Now, let’s move to second.”</p><p>She repeated the process, and the engine hummed as the car picked up a bit of pace. She turned into the dirt road that stretched through the orchard.</p><p>George whistled lowly. “Look at you,” he whispered, and his grin sent a rush of tingles through her. He reached forward, hitting a nob on speaker system. It crackled, the tape player’s display flashing. Synth music poured out between them.</p><p><em>“I still don’t know what you’ve done with me,”</em> the familiar song filled the air. George laughed, pointing down the way at a side road that looped back around in front of the house.</p><p>“Love this song,” he said. The wheel turned easily in her hands.</p><p>
  <em>“A grown-up woman should never fall so easily.”</em>
</p><p>This wasn’t so hard. Hermione’s hands relaxed.</p><p>Without warning, he leaned back in his seat and pulled his cap down over his eyes. “Take us home, Granger,” he said.</p><p>“That’s not funny, George!” Hermione shouted, her hands becoming a vice on the wheel.  </p><p>“You can do it, golden girl,” he said, peeking at her from under his cap.</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t go wasting your emotion. Lay all your love on me.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. If he wanted to play it that way—well. There was a significant stretch of road before the turn, and she hit the clutch, shifting into third. Before he could say anything, she pressed her foot harder into the accelerator, and the car zoomed forward.</p><p>George lurched, whipping the cap off his face. “Merlin, Granger!” He cried, gripping the side wall. Hermione roared in laughter, releasing the accelerator and shifting back into second. The clutch sort of reminded her of the wand movements you had to do while looping spells together. It felt natural. She couldn’t help but smile as she turned the car down the road, rounding back towards the Burrow.</p><p>She was light as air. George stared at her like he couldn’t quite believe what she’d done. She grinned, leaning towards the wheel as the Abba song swelled.</p><p>“Loosen up, Georgie,” she said, laughing. “Live a little.”</p><p>George made a stuttering sound.</p><p>Finally, she rolled up to the shed, biting her lip in concentration as she hit the clutch, shifting again into first, then park. When she pulled her hands from the wheel and finally looked at him, he was staring at her, eyes wide.</p><p>#</p><p>Dinner was full of chatter and Percy’s rambling account of tensions in the Ministry at Helsinki. Normally, she would’ve found the insight into international wizarding relations fascinating, but tonight, she was a bit distracted.</p><p>George looked down at his dinner plate, pushing his fork around, distracted. At first, she’d been confused. But, then she looked at his food.</p><p>On the dish, he’d assembled a ridiculous portrait of mashed potatoes and peas, complete with Percy’s tell-tale spectacles. As discretely as possible, Hermione flicked her wand under the table, and her magic caught the peas she’d aimed at. With a quick swipe, the spectacles and left ear were cleared from the portrait. George blinked, leaning back.</p><p>She watched as he looked across the table at Fred, then Bill, then finally to his side, at her. She raised her brows and took a large bite of vegetables, chewing slowly. Surely, she was the picture of innocence.</p><p>George’s eyes flashed.</p><p>“Eat your food,” she whispered.</p><p>“Or what?” He leaned close, his breath brushing her ear. Hermione grinned and flicked her wand again. A spoonful of potatoes catapulted from his plate, against his face.</p><p>It hit him with a smack, right on the cheek. George gaped at her.</p><p>Percy was still prattling on.</p><p>George was very still for a moment, staring at her.</p><p>Then, he came to life. “Oh, that’s it,” he said, launching towards her, stumbling from his chair onto his knees. Hermione shrieked with laughter as his hands closed on her sides, holding her in place as he wiped the potatoes on his face across her nose. She gasped, trying to get him back, but he dodged, laughing loud and hard as she missed him.</p><p>“George, you are absolutely—” she started, her mouth open in disbelief at the way the situation had accelerated. But, then she blinked, looking down at him on his knees in front of her, grinning ridiculously, and the giggles bubbled up, opening a warm passage through her chest and throat.</p><p>Merlin, it felt brilliant.</p><p>Percy cleared his throat. Hermione turned. The rest of the table was watching them in rapt attention. Ginny was practically bouncing in her seat, and Fred wasn’t far behind her. Angelina propped her head in her hand knowingly and leaned over, whispering something in Ginny’s ear. Ginny turned to Harry, who looked about ready to shoot off a Patronus.</p><p>The only people who didn’t seem excited were Percy—who appeared rather put out that he’d been interrupted, and Ron, who was studying her with a thoughtful line between his brows.</p><p>“Well,” Mr. Weasley said, standing and dusting off his vest. “I’m going to help Molly with desert. Why don’t we take a break to clean up?” The older man’s step was light as he headed from the dining room, Mrs. Weasley at his side.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head, grabbing her plate to take to the sink, but Ginny pulled it out of her arms.</p><p>“I’ll get this,” Ginny said, looking pointedly between Hermione and George. “Mum put a pie on the garden bench to cool, earlier. Why don’t you two get it?”</p><p>It was blatantly transparent, but Hermione found that she didn’t mind Ginny’s mischief this time.</p><p>Rogue sparks of bravery danced through her as George opened the door and followed her outside. Hermione tipped her chin up, breathing in the cold expanse and letting it settle in her lungs. The stars blanketed the sky like freckles.</p><p>“I don’t see a pie—” George said, lighting his wand and searching around the garden bench.</p><p>She could hear the world turning around them—the quiet wind in the orchard branches. George’s footsteps crunched on the gravel as he neared her side.</p><p>He watched her quietly.</p><p>“George—” she said, turning suddenly. The matchstick struck against the box, and bravery sparked.  </p><p>Caught.</p><p>She leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. George went still, his breath hitching.</p><p>Embers of that wild courage lingered in her ribs, urging her forward.</p><p>“I’m ready,” she said.</p><p>He tilted his head, an expression of confusion coming over him. “For what?” he asked faintly.</p><p>“I said I would tell you when I was ready,” she said. “and I am now, for this, I mean.” She gestured between them, swallowing. “I mean, if it’s alright, we could take things slow?” she said, the words spilling out of her. “But, I was hoping, maybe, um, going on dates or something—”</p><p>“Are you sure?” George stepped forward, his brow furrowed. He was looking at her like he expected her to vanish.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Truly?” George stepped forward again, his gaze tracing the features of her face over and over.</p><p>“Yes,” she said, a bit breathless.</p><p>“Really?” George said, a slow grin building on his face.</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile. “Yes,” she said, bouncing on her toes. Inside the house, she could hear the sound of plates being stacked and warm laughter.</p><p>George lifted his brows. “I don’t know, Hermione, I’ve got a fair bit of practice when it comes to charming you,” he said, shrugging. “You might be in a bit over your head.”</p><p>“I can hold my own,” she said, lifting her chin.</p><p>George stepped closer. His hand lifted, and he took one of her curls between his fingers. “You have no idea how right you are, Hermione Jean,” he said, voice low as he tucked the strand behind her ear. Hermione swallowed, warmth flooding her face.</p><p>“I like it when you say my name like that,” she said.</p><p>George leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know,” he whispered. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, drawing her face up to press a kiss to the bridge of her nose. She breathed out a laugh, something hopeful and buoyant fluttering in her ribs. His hands dropped to her shoulders, warm and safe. “Hermione Jean,” he said again, a playful lilt in his voice as he smiled warmly at her.</p><p>Hermione wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight.</p><p>She hadn’t moved, and yet, her feet had left the ground.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Levicorpus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>To feel or not to feel--that is the question.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi lovelies!<br/>First off: Happy birthday to Madison, Sierra, and Elisabeth! (And you, if it happens to be your birthday. &lt;3)  I hope you all have a lovely day. </p><p>Next: This week's songs are "Separate Ways" by Journey, "Brother" by Kodaline, and "Leaves From the Vine" (specifically the rendition by AtinPiano on spotify/Apple Music). The third song fits especially well with the last chunk of the chapter. (If you're familiar with the song, you'll...know, when you come to it.) OH and Haley Reinhart's rendition of "Can't Help Falling in Love" is excellent for any of the Hermione/George interactions, but especially the last one, just before the end of the chapter. ANYWAY. Sorry for geeking out over music this week; this is just for those of you who like this sort of thing. &lt;3</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or story world. </p><p>Note: Small edit made to this chapter on 4/23.</p><p>Finally: I ugly cried writing this multiple times. That's not to say it will make you cry, but just that you, like me, might be a bit frayed. So, maybe get your most comforting blanket, some tea, a good candle. Biscuits would be good. Go with your instincts. Let them guide you, my snack warriors. (Sorry, I haven't slept in so long.) Please forgive any errors. &lt;3</p><p>And remember: This isn't where it ends.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty: Levicorpus</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>June 14, 1998</p><p>George hadn’t really left his room in a week, much less gone downstairs. How could he? Downstairs, people milled about, and he was bound to run into Hermione or Ron if he emerged. So, he stayed under the blanket, staring at the ceiling, watching the sun paint pictures over the walls, feeling nothing.</p><p>It was easier, this way.</p><p>He leaned heavy on occlumency, whittling his thoughts to nothingness every time the sound of her laugh flashed through his mind.</p><p>Merlin, he couldn’t.</p><p>He was such a fool.</p><p>A soft knock on the door.</p><p>He didn’t answer.</p><p>“Did you want dinner, Georgie?” It was his dad, waiting outside in the hall. George rolled over, pressing his palms to his eyes.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Still feeling poorly?” Mr. Weasley’s voice faltered through the wood paneling.</p><p>George grimaced. “Yeah,” he said, just loud enough for his father to hear.</p><p>The door cracked open, but Mr. Weasley didn’t enter. He leaned in a bit, speaking through the gap, not looking at him.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Georgie,” he whispered. Then: “I’ll leave the plate on your desk, in case you change your mind.”</p><p>The dish floated through the frame, clinking as it hit the table. Mr. Weasley shut the door and finally left him alone.</p><p>George turned, shoving his head under the pillow.</p><p>The nightmares of the battle followed him from waking into sleep.</p><p>#</p><p>June 15, 1998</p><p>In the middle hours of the morning, there was a knock on the door.</p><p>“Go away,” George groaned. He’d finally showered that morning, and the effort of it had drained the little reserves he’d built up over the past week. It was as though all of it—the war, the death, the guilt, the foolish heartbreak—it had all piled up, hitting him at once, and he had no choices other than suffering or numbing himself to the world.</p><p>It wasn’t pleasant.</p><p>The knock sounded again. George huffed, dragging himself from the bed and across the room.</p><p>“What—” he whipped it open, dragging a hand over his face.</p><p>Hermione blinked up at him.</p><p>“Oh,” he said. Internally, he scrambled, reaching to burrow the feelings away, but he couldn’t move fast enough, his feet tripping over outcroppings of rock in the tunnels that networked his brain together.</p><p>One breath.</p><p>Two breaths.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Hermione watched him all the while, something hard coming into her gaze. “Alright, George,” she said, shoving past him and heading into his room.</p><p>“What are you—” before he finished the thought, Hermione was pulling open drawers on his old dresser, rifling through clothes.</p><p>She tossed an old, striped shirt at him—one from before third year that certainly wouldn’t fit now.</p><p>“Staying up here alone isn’t good for you,” she said.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said softly, watching her as she searched for trousers. He looked down at himself. He was wearing the same pajamas that he’d been in all week. He winced.</p><p>“So today, we’re going to that shop of yours, alright?” she spoke with finality. “You’re my friend, and I know it’s all wearing on you. I can tell. But, we’ve got to move forward, George.” Her hand closed around a pair of trousers and she tossed them in his direction.</p><p>He meant to say something to assuage her. But, when she turned and looked at him, the midmorning light pouring over her curls, what came out of his mouth was different.</p><p>“But I’m tired, Hermione.”</p><p>She took a breath, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I know,” she said. “But, we’re going to make it through this. All of us.”</p><p>George traced his thumb over the collar of the shirt she’d given him.</p><p>“Are we?” He couldn’t meet her eyes.</p><p>“Yes. Together,” she said, crossing to the window and cracking it open. Fresh air filled the space. “I will always be your friend, George. Even if you insist on being a hermit.”</p><p>Goldcrests chattered in the thicket.</p><p>“Promise?” he asked, finally looking up at her. He let a small grin slip over him, because looking at her seriously would stack too much weight behind the question.</p><p>At his side, Hermione turned from the window, her eyes finding his. “I do.”</p><p>George ducked his head, her words ringing in his ears.</p><p>He cleared his throat, searching for a response. “Right, well, I’ll need to find something to wear that actually fits,” he said, gently pushing her towards the door. “Why don’t you get the others together, and we can see about the shop.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” she said. Her smile pierced through the layers of protection he’d wrapped around his heart, landing squarely where he hadn’t intended to let it.</p><p>#</p><p>They trudged through Diagon Alley, side by side. Construction crews worked in teams, levitating shingles and other supplies to repair damage to some of the rooftops. When had that happened?</p><p>Hermione prattled at his side, making conversation about the rebuilding plans. George thrust his hands in his pockets, breathing in the outdoor air and keeping pace with her. Fred, Ron, and Angelina were absorbed in a discussion about the Chudley Cannons behind them. It was a bit strange, but this would be the new normal, and it was best that he familiarize himself with it.</p><p>For now, he was occluding a bit much, reaching for it each time the emotions threatened to suffocate him. Fred seemed more and more worried every time he caught him at it, but George wouldn’t lose himself to it. He’d be careful. With time, he could ease off. Hopefully.</p><p>Hermione needed her friends just as much as he did.</p><p>They rounded the corner, and Hermione stopped talking.</p><p>A red-headed boy no older than ten stood in front of the shop windows, hands and face pressed to the glass.</p><p>Hermione tugged on his sleeve, pointing. “It seems your customers miss you,” she whispered.</p><p>Something light and warm fluttered in his ribs. He strode forward, the cobblestones moving quick under his feet.</p><p>“Oi!” he shouted. The child turned, and his face opened up into a broad smile.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley!” he yelled. Helga’s bloomers—it was Kian. Must’ve grown at least a foot since the last time he’d visited, but that had been before things got terrible.</p><p>“No loitering, Sir,” George said as he reached the shop front, crossing his arms and shaking his head playfully. Kian threw his head back and laughed. In the distance, Fred had pulled from Angelina and Ron, moving towards them.</p><p>“Mum said you might not be coming back,” Kian said, tilting his head and assessing him.</p><p>George lifted his brows. “Wishful thinking,” he said.</p><p>Fred stepped up to the doorframe, looking over the boards that covered it. “Give us a few days, we’ll be up and running,” he said, pulling a key from his pocket.</p><p>Kian grimaced, his eyes flickering towards the window. “You may need a bit longer,” he said.</p><p>George shrugged. “We’ll manage,” he said. Then, he stuck his hand out for Kian to take. “Thanks for looking out for us.” Kian shook it, then loped off towards Madame Malkin’s.</p><p>“Have you seen inside yet?” George asked, unable to bring himself to look.</p><p>Hermione, Ron, and Angelina approached. The entrance was still blocked, so George gripped the board, ripping it from the frame.</p><p>The cherry-red door had been bashed to pieces, single strips of wood hanging from the hinges.</p><p>“Oh,” George said, the airy feeling shuttering itself just as quickly as it had appeared.</p><p>The inside was dark, but as light filtered into the space around him, he could make out the shape of a crater in the staircase that ran from the middle of the floor up to the shop’s second display level.</p><p>“Lumos,” he whispered.</p><p>Beside him, Fred sucked in a breath. The wooden shelving on the walls had been bludgeoned out of place, wasted product spilled over the ground. The antique till that their father had bought them was missing.</p><p>Worst of all, the paint coating almost every surface. At least, he hoped it was paint.</p><p>Large, messy strokes, spelling out the same filth.</p><p>
  <em>“Mudblood.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Blood Traitor.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mudblood Lovers.”</em>
</p><p>George blinked at the violence in it. He’d known it would be bad, but this was—</p><p>“No,” Fred sounded pained. George lifted his wand, going through a series of detection spells. Nothing dangerous in the entryway.</p><p>“Take it slow,” he said. “They’ve probably rigged something up.”</p><p>Fred nodded, ducking through the door. George rubbed the back of his neck, finally turning to face the others. Ron looked rather queasy. Angelina huffed, looking over the damage. Hermione, however, was rolling up her sleeves in quick, certain movements.</p><p>“We’ll start with the unstable potions and products,” she said. “Those should be removed before we clear the rubbish out.”</p><p>“You don’t have to,” George said, scratching at his neck. “This is a bit more involved than Fred or I expected.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione said, stepping through the door beside him. “We’re here to help, and that’s what we’ll do.”</p><p>Her eyes were quick and calculating, moving over the space. “I say we start with the front, then once that’s clear, we can do the back room.”</p><p>“And the flat,” Fred said. “Not that I mind living with Angelina’s parents, but—”</p><p>Ron laughed, but George’s mind was already turning. He’d forgotten about that. Where would he live now? That was something to worry about, he supposed.</p><p>As they worked, people filtered in and out—Lee brought some sandwiches around lunch, and Verity stopped by with some tea around a quarter till five. With the many hands, the paint was lifted from the walls and floor, the broken wood removed, and the reactive potions properly disposed of.</p><p>As the moon crawled high in the sky, they had cleared out the main floor, and George took a moment to lean against the red window frame that looked over the rest of Diagon Alley.</p><p>“It’s coming along,” Fred said, stepping up to look out with him.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. They stood in silence for a few minutes. “Where am I going to live?” George asked.</p><p>Fred rubbed at his jaw. “Don’t worry about that just yet. You’re welcome to stay with us, obviously. Or we can always find a place, if you’d rather have the flat for yourself.”</p><p>“Or you could continue to stay at the Burrow,” Hermione called. George turned. She hoisted a large box higher on her hip, smiling at him.</p><p>“It’s a bit crowded, though,” Ron said, taking the box from her. George shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing down the sudden wave of panic. “At least, it will be through the first part of the school year. Who knows where we’ll be after that?” Ron’s face had taken on a brighter expression.</p><p>What was he on about?</p><p>“Kingsley said that sometimes they send the aurors internationally!” Ron said. George went still. He could feel Fred’s eyes, watching him.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “Ron—” she started, but Ron was already heading from the room.</p><p>She sighed. “He’s got it all planned out,” she said, looking at her hands.</p><p>“So, you’ve decided on the Ministry, then? Auror training?” George said. “Going abroad?” He said the last part with care, fighting to keep his voice even and light. If this was what she wanted, he wouldn’t get in the way.</p><p>Hermione stared at the door Ron had just walked through. “No,” she said. “I’m still thinking it over.” The breath filtered back into his lungs.</p><p>“Ron doesn’t seem to know that,” Fred cut in, stepping forward.</p><p>Granger shook her head, wincing. “I told him that I needed time to think it over, but I suppose he interpreted that answer as a yes.” Fred’s brows raised, and he glanced back at George. George ignored him, watching Granger. Her hands twisted back and forth. “I’m considering going back to school for my NEWTS, but Ron thinks that’s unnecessary.”</p><p>Fred’s face took on a thoughtful expression, and he opened his mouth, as though to say something, but stopped short when Ron re-entered the room, bouncing across the floor.</p><p>“Imagine,” Ron said, taking Hermione’s hands. The ugly shadow in George’s heart twisted, and he gripped the window frame, filing the feeling down until it disappeared. An elbow poked into his ribs, but he didn’t react.</p><p>Fred could sod off. He was doing the best he could. He turned, staring back out the window, but he could see the reflection of the couple in the glass.</p><p>“France, or maybe Bulgaria,” Ron said, a broad grin coming over his face.</p><p>“I haven’t agreed, yet, Ron,” Hermione said softly. Ron smiled.</p><p>“Yes, but you will,” he said, jogging her hands a little. “It’s our destiny, ‘Mione. Saving the world. Hunting down bad wizards.”</p><p>Hermione’s expression shuttered, and something irrepressible flared in George’s chest. He was opening his mouth to cut in when Fred’s hand shot out, gripping his arm.</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut. Fred was right. This wasn’t the time.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re excited about it, Ron, but I—” Granger tried again.</p><p>“You and me, Hermione,” Ron stepped closer, his eyes tracing over her face, that bright grin unphased. Hermione blinked. George’s knuckles were white on the window frame.</p><p>“I love you Ron, but—”</p><p>“Then it’s easy, innit?” Ron grinned. “Isn’t this what you’ve wanted? For years and years? You and me?”</p><p>“Well, yes, only—”</p><p>At her words, the old rushing filled his ears, and now he knew it for what it truly was. The warning sounds of a storm. He retreated inside himself, bracing.</p><p>It was as though water and wind ripped through the passageways of his mind, battering the stone walls, threatening to capsize the worn bulwarks with pain, regret, and hopelessness.</p><p>Hold fast. Hold fast.</p><p>He grappled against it, occluding a great wall of glass to stand between the rushing, painful water and the dry ground upon which he stood. Bit by bit, the magic took, increasing the pressure but whittling the tempest down until he’d bottled the hurricane.</p><p>Then, he vanished it, sending it to the deepest part of himself where no one would find it—especially not him.</p><p>He inhaled.</p><p>Exhaled.</p><p>Opened his eyes.</p><p>The window frame was cherry red under his white knuckles, and his grip eased.</p><p>“I still need more time.” Hermione’s distant voice was just another sound, the tug he normally felt barely perceivable. “I need you to respect that.”</p><p>George felt almost nothing.</p><p>What had he done?</p><p>Fred watched him, his brow furrowed. George turned, summoning a rag, pretending to be absorbed in wiping the grime from the windowpane.</p><p>In the glass, he could see Ron’s face. His brother’s chin jutted out as he stared over Granger’s shoulder.</p><p>“Yeah,” Ron said, dropping Hermione’s hands. “I figured you’d be thrilled, but I guess you’ve always needed to think things through.” He shrugged, but it was a bit stiff. “But, you’ll see. Shacklebolt asked me directly, y’know? This makes sense for us.”</p><p>George felt almost nothing.</p><p>Hermione didn’t answer, her hands twisting back and forth. Ron’s mouth thinned, and he turned on his heel.</p><p>“Ron, wait—” Hermione called, reaching out to take his elbow. They apparated with a pop.</p><p>George felt almost nothing.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>Something lurched in his ribs at the sound of her distress, but it was muted, buried so deep that he could barely feel it.</p><p>What had he done?</p><p>He was numb, careening through space when a dark thought took hold of him: Maybe he should’ve done this ages ago.</p><p>He didn’t have the strength to shake it free. So the thought settled, taking root in the smooth fabric of his conscience, and he became someone else.</p><p>Fred hadn’t moved from George’s side.</p><p>He waited for several minutes, then his hand came up on George’s shoulder. “I was only trying to help, Georgie,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to—” his voice dropped off. “I mean, it’s like you’re doing that all the time, now.” Fred sounded young and a little bit scared. “Every other time I look, you’re—” he gestured at George’s face, biting his lips together. George crossed his arms. Fred sighed.</p><p>“You’re going to hurt yourself if you carry on like that, Mate,” Fred said.</p><p>George turned, raising his brows. “Like what?” he asked. The numbness was almost warm, a welcome relief.</p><p>Fred swallowed. “Georgie—” he tried. “Come on. Talk to people; talk to <em>me</em>.” Fred leaned in, jogging George on the shoulder. “What you’re doing—it’s not healthy. You can’t just pack it away.”</p><p>Fred’s concern should’ve jarred him, but oddly, George couldn’t bring himself to care. Not with the pain gone. What did Fred know, really?</p><p>So instead, George pulled away and tucked the rag into his pocket. He re-crossed his arms, stepping back to admire the shining glass. Their reflection shone at them, just like they had before the war.</p><p>That was interesting. The thought of the war didn’t hurt like this.</p><p>“Looks good, doesn’t it? Rather, my side does, at least.” George asked, winking. The gesture felt empty and hollow, the usual spark behind it muted. Fred didn’t take the familiar joke’s bait.</p><p>Instead, Fred’s mouth opened, confusion lining his features. “Stop it,” he whispered.</p><p>George shrugged and turned towards the cleared sales floor, whistling an old Weird Sisters tune. He didn’t want to stop, didn’t know if he could. That was alright, though.</p><p>Fred snatched his arm, yanking him back. “Stop it!” he hissed. Fred’s eyes were wide, and he was looking at him like he had the night of Seven Potters, when George had laid flat on the sofa. The faint lurch twinged in his chest, but with it came the rest—Hermione, the battles, the dark.</p><p>Well, that was rubbish. He tamped it down.</p><p>George shook his head. “I’ve got it managed, Freddie. Calm down.”</p><p>Fred whipped his wand out, levelling it at George’s head. “I’ll do it, Mate, don’t make me.”</p><p>George laughed, and the noise felt borrowed in his throat. “Go on and try,” he said, lifting his hands. “I outstrip you in Occlumency, and we both know it.”</p><p>He didn’t sound like himself. But, then again, he didn’t feel like himself, he supposed. He’d only meant to call Fred’s bluff, but a reckless impulse bloomed in him. Fear couldn’t touch him.</p><p>Fred’s wand wavered.</p><p>“Go on, then,” George nodded, pulling his wand from his pocket. “Let’s see it.”</p><p>Fred’s face contorted, and he opened his mouth, but he didn’t speak.</p><p>“That’s what I thought, Mate,” George said, quirking his brows.</p><p>“Legilimens,” Fred whispered through gritted teeth.</p><p>The spell slammed against him, but George was ready, digging his feet into the shop floor, bracing himself. It was like their early days, experimenting with the Daydream charms, practicing on each other. But Fred had only learned the relevant basics.</p><p>George had years of practice.</p><p>He twisted Fred through a side tunnel, taking him past the sound of their young laughter, the zip of broomsticks in the orchard, Percy’s disgruntled yelp as they toppled his textbooks, nine pairs of shoes lined up by the door, the loud crack of their first whizbang, dodging and whirling around everything to do with Granger with nimble precision.</p><p>“I’m still here, Freddie,” George said, singing the words through the walls as they bypassed the castle, and opened up onto a quidditch pitch, where Charlie shouted and Quaffles smacked from hand to hand.</p><p>“Not all of you,” Fred’s shout thundered through the air, and George flinched as his grip on their direction slipped.</p><p>The world spun, and Fred yanked them up through the window on the seventh floor.</p><p>Ron kissing Hermione during the battle at Hogwarts, the ash raining down.</p><p>Fred recoiled, jerking them away from the image. Light, sound, and color coiled around them as Fred’s legilimency spell careened off the walls, around corners, the torchlight blinking in their wake.</p><p>No, <em>no.</em></p><p>George clawed for control, but he was shaken, flipped foot over head while Fred moved with reckless determination. The hall whipped by, the staircases rumbling as they headed down, down, deeper.</p><p>“Stop,” George shouted, struggling, but Fred’s hold was like a vice, and he couldn't catch his breath. The ground trembled as the massive doors groaned, swinging open, and then they reached it.</p><p>The deepest part of him.</p><p>Fred’s body was motionless on the cot, the bottled hurricane dormant in his hands.</p><p>“Here’s the rest,” Fred said, his voice quieter in George’s ears.</p><p>No. Not this place.</p><p>Hermione’s arms came around him, just as they had that day.</p><p>“Why?” George choked, kneeling over his brother. “Why would you bring me here?”</p><p>“Let it go,” Fred whispered. “Take the bottle, and let it go.”</p><p>“But, it’ll hurt,” George said.</p><p>“It’s a part of this life, Mate,” Fred said. “You can’t separate painful bits from the rest. It doesn’t work that way.”</p><p>The smell of chamomile hit him, and the faint, familiar melody from Granger’s Walkman hummed through the room.</p><p>
  <em>“If you change your mind, I’m the first in line—” </em>
</p><p>Shaking, George reached out and tapped the glass. It melted away, and the storm piled up into the air, mounting, building. He braced for the terror and the waves.</p><p>But, instead, it was rain, beating down on him, soaking his hair and skin, and everything—the regret, the pain, the ache rose up to meet it, washing over him.</p><p>
  <em>“If you need me, let me know—” </em>
</p><p>On the cot, Fred’s eyes opened.</p><p>The spell flashed, and reality snapped back into place, the shop floor solid under his feet.</p><p>A wave of nausea rocked him. “Are you alright?” George asked, wheezing.</p><p>Fred nodded, eyes wide.</p><p>The peril of Fred's actions hit him. One wrong move, and<em>—</em></p><p>One breath. </p><p>Two.</p><p>George broke apart.</p><p>“In that case—are you mental?” George shouted, anger cracking through him. “D’you want to fry the both of us?”</p><p>“You’re the one who told me to do it!” Fred cried.</p><p>“I wasn’t in my right mind!” George shouted, lifting his hands. “You can’t just pinball a legilimency spell through someone’s brain. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”</p><p>“I dunno, you made it seem easy when you were—” Fred was pale, stammering.</p><p>“That’s because I know what I’m bloody doing!” George’s voice climbed, breaking. “And you—you don’t.” He took a breath. “It’s a miracle the whole place didn’t topple down around us with the way you were moving through it. You can’t stomp through other people’s minds like that; it’s not safe. Honestly, Fred, what were you thinking?”  </p><p>Fred stepped back, his shoulders slumped. But, George kept talking. It was all coming up, now.</p><p>“You think you understand, needling me, trying to get me to do things your way,” George said, pressing his hands to his temples. “But I’m not you, Fred, and frankly, you can’t begin to comprehend what I’m going through.”</p><p>Fred was quiet. Then, he nodded, slowly. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“I didn’t know what else to do,” Fred said. “I mean, I didn’t know what you had inside the Great Hall, but once we got there—”</p><p>Fred paused. “Why is my death at your center, George?” his voice was odd, a bit strained.</p><p>George lowered his hands.</p><p>“It’s where I put the scariest bits, I guess,” George said. “The stuff I don’t like to talk about.” He shrugged. “The stuff I occlude.”</p><p>“And Hermione’s there,” Fred said.</p><p>The silence extended, but Fred waited.</p><p>George dragged in a breath, blinking at the ceiling. “She’s been there for a very long time,” he said, the confession raw as it slipped out. “Longer than I’d like to admit.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Fred said.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. He began to pace a familiar lap through the shop, weaving as though the absent shelves were still there. “And now, with everything, it’s gotten even harder. When I see them together, sometimes it feels like I’m drowning. Buts occluding helps. It makes it feel like I can breathe, for once.”</p><p>Fred was quiet.</p><p>The floor felt like an old friend under his trainers. “But I got in a bit deep today, I guess,” he said. “I thought I had it managed, but then I panicked and walled too much off, and suddenly I wasn’t myself.”</p><p>He stopped, looking at Fred.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” George said. “You were an idiot about it, but what you said was right. I can’t separate everything out like that.”</p><p>Fred rounded on him, pulling him into a hug.</p><p>#</p><p>June 21, 1998</p><p>Dinner had been alright, besides Mrs. Weasley’s continual questions about Fred and Angelina’s upcoming reception. But now, that topic of conversation had been exhausted, and everyone seemed a bit quiet. Angelina had gone to meet with a few Quidditch scouts, and she’d brought Ginny along, so the gaps in conversation were a bit longer than they might’ve otherwise been. Hermione had barely said two words all evening.</p><p>George kept sneaking glances at her, but he had yet to meet her eyes.</p><p>Was she tired? Had something happened?</p><p>Dinner wasn't nearly as fun without her sudden, impassioned lectures or her quick, singing remarks. The little comments she slipped into the fray made everything feel much more like home, and when she was quiet, he felt the absence. </p><p>“How’d the Malfoy raid go?” Bill asked, cutting into a bright, red steak with the side of his fork. They were doing the raids as safely as possible, one household at a time, steadily working their way down the list from the most dangerous to the least.</p><p>Two days before, they’d visited Malfoy manor.</p><p>At the mention of it, Hermione went pale. George swallowed. Bill had forgotten, obviously. He waited for Ron to change the subject.</p><p>Ron didn’t. George took a breath.</p><p>“Oh, you know,” George said. “Nothing to tell, really.”</p><p>Drop it. Merlin, please drop it.</p><p>“What d’you mean?” Ron asked. “Wasn’t there a fight?”</p><p>George sighed and pushed his plate back. “No. It was relatively uneventful. I was only there in case of a struggle, and there wasn’t much of one.”</p><p>Draco had been waiting for them in the entryway. He hadn’t said anything, only lifted his hands with his mother and nodded back toward the direction of his father’s study. They’d found Lucius half-drowned in a bottle of firewhiskey.</p><p>“I bet you found loads of stuff—” Ron continued, leaning forward.</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” Hermione cut in, rising from the table and hurrying from the room. George watched her, waiting for Ron to follow.</p><p>Ron didn’t.</p><p>Instead, he sat, waiting for details on the raid. Like that was the most important thing.</p><p>In George’s mind, the ground stirred, and he flinched, mouthing the spell out of reflex, but just before he let the magic free, he remembered. He stopped. Across the table, Fred watched him.  </p><p>It was Harry who finally rose, placing his napkin on his plate and handing Teddy off to Mrs. Weasley as he headed after Hermione.</p><p>“Well?” Ron asked, leaning forward. “Didn’t you?”</p><p>George shrugged, distracted, his eyes on the kitchen door. He hadn’t been part of the team that catalogued the evidence.  </p><p>“I bet you did,” Ron said, chewing his roast. “I hope the lot of them rot in Azkaban. They tortured her, y’know.” He nodded his head toward the kitchen. It was the first time Ron had looked in Hermione’s direction since she'd left. So, he had noticed.</p><p>Didn't he care?</p><p>George stiffened, the pressure mounting in his chest.</p><p>“Did they really?” Percy’s question was loud. “That’s barbaric!”</p><p>Fleur pressed a finger to her lips, nodding towards the kitchen. Percy’s cheeks flushed.</p><p>“Yes, Ron, and maybe you’d like to check on her, seeing how this topic clearly upsets her,” George said quietly, the tension making his voice tight.</p><p>Ron’s head lifted, his eyes flashing. He pushed up from the table, but as he did, the door swung open, and Harry and Hermione stepped back through. Hermione had a new cup of water.</p><p>“Sorry,” she said. “Please continue.”</p><p>No one spoke. Granger took a shaky breath, tucking back into her food. “I’m not made of glass,” she said, her chin jutting out. Then: “So, do we know when they’ll be going to trial, George?”</p><p>George blinked. “We don’t have to talk about this, Granger,” he said.</p><p>Hermione looked up from her plate and pinned him with an intense look. “I’m fine. Answer the question,” she said. Then, softer: “Please.”</p><p>He hesitated. If this was what she wanted, then alright.</p><p>“They’ll stand trial later next month, but I suspect Lucius isn’t holding his breath on the results,” George said, watching her carefully. “After helping Harry, Narcissa will probably get off on house arrest. Not sure about Draco.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Azkaban, let’s hope,” Ron said, lifting his glass. Hermione folded her arms.</p><p>“He didn’t identify me when he could’ve,” Harry said. “The court would probably like to know about that.”</p><p>“You’re not seriously going to testify on his behalf?” Ron asked, his face contorting. Harry sighed.</p><p>“He deserves a fair trial, at least,” Hermione said. Harry nodded, pointing at her.</p><p>“Exactly. I’m not going to candy-coat it. I’m only going to tell the truth,” Harry said. Ron’s gaze flicked between Hermione and Harry, a cross look coming over his face.</p><p>“And the truth is that he’s a bloody Death Eater,” Ron said, words hard.</p><p>“Language, Ronald,” Mrs. Weasley said, her tone a warning.</p><p>Mr. Weasley folded his hands. “I do not condone that boy’s actions,” he said, tilting his head. “But, with Lucius for a father…” he trailed off.</p><p>“So? Harry had the Dursleys, and he didn’t go off—” Ron started, but Bill interrupted.</p><p>“How much longer are you going to be working with Shacklebolt on this? I’ve heard most of the Auror Office will be cleared to return before August.” Bill said, smoothly changing the subject.</p><p>“Not much longer, I reckon,” Fred said. “Kingsley said he’ll only need us to fill in through July, but if we're needed, we'll be there regardless.”</p><p>“Don’t know why he didn’t ask me,” Ron said, jaw tight as he pushed his fork across his plate.</p><p>“We’ve been over this, Ronald,” Hermione said, biting her lips together. “Minister Shacklebolt’s asked us to serve in other capacities.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not very good at those other capacities, am I?” Ron snapped, looking up at her, his eyes narrowing.</p><p>At his tone, George tightened his grip on his fork, the realization settling over him. Ron and Hermione were in a fight, and his brother was taking it out on her at the dinner table.</p><p>In front of everyone.</p><p>He opened his mouth to redirect the conversation, but Granger was already speaking.</p><p>“You did brilliantly in <em>The Quibbler</em> interview yesterday,” Hermione said softly, putting a hand on Ron’s forearm.</p><p>“For what use? They didn’t print a word I said. It was all Harry and you,” Ron said, his expression darkening. “All I’m saying is that I could be doing more elsewhere, and I’d hoped Kingsley would recognize that, seeing as there are still Death Eaters running around.”</p><p>“He does, Ron,” Harry said, shoving his hands through his hair. Poor bloke was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and he had a spit up stain on his shoulder. “That’s why he’s asked you to do Auror training.”</p><p>Ron huffed. “Don’t see why I have to wait to train to help,” he said, glaring at Fred, then George. “It’s not like they had to.”</p><p>“We trained with Moody for the Order, Ron,” George said, frustration nipping through his tone.</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said. “And I trained Angelina after we eloped.”</p><p>“Oh, come off it,” Ron said, the words quick and cold. “I don’t see why I’m being cooped inside while you lot get to run around doing something that’s actually useful.”</p><p>“But Ron, the liaison work is useful,” Hermione tried, but Ron talked over her.</p><p>“We all fought in the war. Me just as much as them, if not more, right?” Ron said, looking back and forth between Hermione and George.</p><p>George tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling.</p><p>“It’s not a <em>bloody</em> <em>competition</em>.” The words came out louder and far more aggressive than he’d intended. He blinked. He’d gotten so used to the dulling effect of occlumency.</p><p>“George Fabian Weasley,” his name spilled from his Mum’s mouth rapidly, like it was all one word. “That’s enough from the both of you. We are at the supper table, and you will watch your language.”</p><p>George grimaced. “Sorry.”</p><p>“You could’ve volunteered,” Percy said, unbothered. “That’s what I did. Angelina as well.”</p><p>Ron balked. “You’re going along, now?”</p><p>Percy adjusted his glasses. “Only for the ones they expect to be peaceful surrenders,” he said. “Another set of eyes, you know, for record keeping purposes—cataloguing any dark artefacts, headcounts—that sort of thing. I have some relevant experience from my NEWTS, and Kingsley said they’d be happy to have me.”</p><p>George stared at his dinner plate. He wasn’t thrilled at having Percy along, but he didn’t have the heart to ask Kingsley to remove him from the team. Percy was a strong caster, but his reflexes weren’t as honed as Fred’s, Angelina’s, and his.</p><p>“So, your NEWTS have been helpful, then?” Hermione asked. She wasn’t looking at Percy. Rather, she was looking at Ron.</p><p>“Oh, Bugger,” Ron said. His cutlery clanked as he dropped it on his plate, and he stood. “I’m not hungry.” The back door slammed behind him.</p><p>“Cheery,” Fred said, plucking up his mug and taking a drink. Hermione's shoulders hunched, and she ducked her head. Even after the conversation moved forward, she didn't look up, no matter how many jokes he and Fred told. </p><p>#</p><p>Later that evening, most of the Weasleys had dissipated. He was tired, but he couldn't go to bed yet. Not until he knew Granger was alright. Instead, George read a copy of <em>The Quibbler</em> in front of the fire, his feet stretched out on the ottoman while Ron flipped through a deck of Exploding Snap cards. Hermione, however, had quietly ducked out right after supper. She had yet to return from the garden, where she'd gone with Harry to ask Ginny about her meeting with the Quidditch scouts.</p><p>In her absence, the silence grew more and more strained.</p><p>The cover story was on the Ministry’s new liaisons with different magical being groups, including Hermione and her advocacy work with House Elves. The article entreated anyone with relevant experience to step forward and help. Luna had done an excellent job on it, but there hadn’t been any owls yet.</p><p>They’d keep trying.</p><p>“She’s not going with us tomorrow, you know,” Ron said, flipping a card forcefully onto the coffee table. George didn’t look up from the paper. He couldn't do this with Ron. Not right now. “She’s decided she wants to go back to school.” Another card smacked into the table’s surface. Then another. “To get her NEWTS.”</p><p>“They’ll probably come in handy when she’s Minister of Magic,” George said, eyes trained on the paper.</p><p>Ron sputtered.</p><p>“Or whatever she decides to do, eventually,” George added, turning a page.</p><p>“Sod off. She could pass them tomorrow if she wanted to,” Ron said, flipping another card.</p><p>“Yes, but she wants to do it the proper way,” George said.</p><p>“Why are you defending her?” Ron asked, pausing in his movements. “You barely have two OWLs to rub together.”</p><p>“Because that’s what she wants, Ron,” George said. His patience wore thin, like a taunt cord.</p><p>Ron scoffed, narrowing his eyes.</p><p>The cord snapped.</p><p>“As her boyfriend, you should care about that,” George said, slapping the paper onto the ottoman.</p><p>Ron bolted to a stand. “I do care about what she wants.”</p><p>“Then act like it,” George’s words were loud and hard. He gripped the chair’s arms in his hands, the bitter pinch in the pit of his stomach becoming more and more unbearable. The wind ripped through his mind, howling in protest.</p><p>“I am!” Ron’s eyes went wide, and his tone dropping to a whisper. “I’m bloody bent out of shape about it right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”</p><p>George leaned forward, a dangerous jolt crawling over his spine. “Really?” he asked. His breath was coming fast, now. “Because it seems like you’re just angry that she didn’t pick what you envisioned.”</p><p>“Because it doesn’t make sense!” Ron’s lip curled, his whisper angry and short as he flung his hand towards the door.</p><p>George stepped forward, his words coming fast. “Are you honestly trying to tell me that it doesn’t make sense for Hermione to go back to school? The Hermione who carries books from room to room like they’re her air and water?” He thrust a hand towards Ron, continuing. “The Hermione whose boggart until the war was failing her classes? The Hermione who stays up past dawn, doing unnecessary studying—not because she needs it, but because it makes her happy?” His shoulders rose and fell as he stared down at Ron. “Do you honestly think it doesn’t make sense for her to go back to school?”</p><p>Ron’s face twisted.</p><p>“What do <em>you</em> know? You run a joke shop, George.”</p><p>The remark cracked through the space between them, and George blinked.</p><p>“I know that she—”</p><p>The door creaked open, and Hermione slipped through. George choked back the words. He’d been about to say that she deserved someone who cared. As though Ron didn’t. Merlin, what was wrong with him? He’d let this get so out of hand.</p><p>George’s heart hammered in his chest as he returned to the armchair.</p><p>Ron stared down at him, a hard edge in his gaze. Then, he abruptly turned, pacing to Hermione. “I’m going to bed,” he said. There was a pause, then Ron swooped in suddenly, kissing Hermione on the mouth. Hermione blinked as it happened, stepping back in surprise.</p><p>“I thought you were angry with me,” she said, her whisper just loud enough to reach George. Ron’s gaze flickered towards George, then back to Hermione.</p><p>What was Ron thinking?</p><p>Hermione was a person, not a pawn.</p><p>Cold, furious lighting zipped through George’s hands, and the paper silently blackened under his thumbs. He flinched and lifted it higher, his jaw working as he struggled to retain the words under the headline. Another update on those missing since the final battle. Umbridge unaccounted for, still. He was losing his grip, the river roaring through his head, water climbing to his neck.</p><p>“Are you alright, Ron?” Granger’s voice was soft and hesitant.</p><p>Something about a patient having disappeared from the ward at St. Mungo’s, but every time his eyes traveled over the name, the letters swam together into a useless mess.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“M’fine,” Ron said. Then, more softly: “We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?”</p><p>“Alright,” Hermione said.</p><p>George’s hands shook on the paper. He’d been about to do something incredibly stupid.</p><p>He had to finish clearing out the flat above the shop. It would be easier once they weren’t all at the Burrow.</p><p>#</p><p>July 5, 1998</p><p>Ron’s laughter boomed from across the tent. The music twisted around them, filling the empty space with something light and happy. Everyone had crowded onto the dance floor, Fred and Angelina turning in slow circles in the middle. On the left side of the tent, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sat with Angelina’s parents, laughing loudly at the photo album Mrs. Johnson had procured from her bag.</p><p>Hermione had hung her trademark bluebell flame jars around the space, and their light twinkled over the crowd. It was almost like Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Almost. Some things were different. Harry and Ginny danced raucously with Teddy, passing the baby back and forth between them. Teddy’s laughter almost outstripped Lee’s enchanted speakers, but the magic was good, and it seemed to pick up the peals of glee, weaving them into the song.</p><p>George took a pull from his butterbeer, watching the guests whirl back and forth. The table he sat at was empty, save for him. He stuck his feet up on the chair next to him. Only another hour, and he could gracefully leave.</p><p>Hermione turned, her eyes finding his.</p><p>“George!” she called, beckoning him over. Behind her, Ron stepped closer.</p><p>George shook his head, doing his best to keep his smile easy and bright. Each breath hurt.</p><p>“Come dance again, Mione,” Ron shouted, tugging on her hand. She resisted his pull for a moment, watching George. A line had appeared between her brows.</p><p>“I’m alright,” he mouthed. Hermione nodded and returned to Ron’s side. The world spun around him, his ribs contracting tighter and tighter like he’d been suspended by his ankles.</p><p>He was torturing himself with this.</p><p>George rose from the table, backing away from the crowd. Fred would understand.</p><p>He apparated to his room with a pop.</p><p>#</p><p>July 7, 1998</p><p>A stack of parchment dropped onto George’s desk with a heavy smack.</p><p>“He’s selling,” Fred said, pulling a sheath out and shoving it under George’s nose. “Zonko’s is finally selling, and if we want it, we’ve got to bite now.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Hold up, Fred,” he said, standing. His chair's legs scraped the floor of their workshop. “This is—” he turned through the pages, looking over the figures.</p><p>They had barely enough in the accounts to cover the down payment.</p><p>“I dunno, Fred,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>“Sure, it’s a risk, but, we’re opening later this month, and we’ve both seen the projected numbers for a Hogsmeade location,” Fred said, tapping the stack.</p><p>“We need that capital for manufacturing,” George muttered, flipping more rapidly through the contract. It wasn’t possible.</p><p>“What if I told you that we had an investor?” Fred said, crossing his arms.</p><p>“Don’t think we can afford another Bagman, Mate,” George said, half-distracted as he read.</p><p>“No, don’t be thick,” Fred said, crossing the floor. “I’m talking about Lee.”</p><p>George paused, looking up from the parchment.</p><p>“Lee?” he asked. That was something. “Does he really want to, or did you talk him into it?”</p><p>Fred laughed. “He asked me, actually. Wanted a place to put all those galleons to good use.”</p><p>“How much does he want?” George asked, turning back to the parchment with more interest.</p><p>“Ten percent,” Fred said. George huffed.</p><p>“That’s hardly fair,” George mumbled, his eyes working over the numbers again.</p><p>“So, I’ll tell him to make it twenty-five?” Fred asked, grinning.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. “Thirty, if you can persuade him.” He reached the bottom of the stack, finding Fred’s signature, the ink still wet.</p><p>“Glad we talked this through before moving forward,” George said dryly, pulling a quill from his desk stand. He stroked the letters of his name on the line below Fred’s, then initialed.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Fred said, taking the stack back. “You can get it started, then?”</p><p>George blinked. “Me?”</p><p>Fred nodded. “It works out perfectly—I’ll handle this location, and you can get the Hogsmeade branch up and running. We’ll connect the floos next week?”</p><p>George ran his hands over his face. This time of year, Hogsmeade was calm. It’d take a few months to get things started. A few months where he’d be busy, pre-occupied during the rest of the summer.</p><p>Far away from the Burrow.</p><p>“Alright,” he whispered, his chest caving in on itself.</p><p>It was for the best.</p><p>#</p><p>July 9, 1998</p><p>George raised his brows, leaning over the Ministry table. “And we’re supposed to believe he’ll come willingly? C’mon, Minister, that’s rubbish.”</p><p>Kingsley pushed the parchment across the table, and Sturgis Podmore swiped it up.</p><p>“Perhaps we wait next week, when the first wave of, erm, more experienced aurors are cleared to come back to duty?” Sturgis asked lightly, sneaking a glance at George, Percy, Fred, and Angelina. Angelina crossed her arms.</p><p>Kingsley shook his head. “He’s stated that he’s a victim of the Imperius curse, that he fears for his wellbeing, and that he seeks asylum. While I doubt the honesty of his claims, it’s our duty to respond in a manner befitting this office.”</p><p>George grimaced, staring up at the stone ceiling’s glossy, black surface. In its reflection, Kingsley raised his brows, tilting his head.</p><p>“Anything to say, Mr. Weasley?” he asked.</p><p>George tipped his chin down, a squirm of guilt working through him. Minister Shacklebolt was doing his best, and he hadn’t led them wrong yet.</p><p>“It’s only—” he stopped, shaking his head to clear it. “I don’t fancy Mr. Vane a rational man. Who knows what sort of trap we’re walking into?”</p><p>“I concur with my brother,” Percy said, cutting in. “Mr. Vane didn’t seem to be Imperiused in my interactions with him. He’s proven rather dangerous.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Kingsley said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s made a move to willingly surrender and subject himself to the justice system.”</p><p>“Likely to buy his way out,” Fred muttered.</p><p>“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Kingsley said. His purple robes swished as he walked to the floo. The older man sighed, adjusting the bronze quill on the mantle. “But even if that’s so. The man has more to lose by making a foolhardy last stand than he does by coming quietly.”</p><p>“I think we can handle it,” Angelina said. “We’ll go in with brooms, make it quick.” Kingsley turned, appraising her.</p><p>“No, really,” she said, more boldly now. “We’re all experienced casters, three of us fought with the Order. If things go south, we’ll send up a signal, and you lot can swoop in.” Angelina’s expression was set with determination. “I’d like to have one less Death Eater to worry about when I go to sleep tonight.”</p><p>Kingsley nodded, tapping a knuckle against the table. “I’ll contact the emergency team. Percy, I think it’s best you sit this one out, since it may be a bit more complicated. You can meet with us here and take an account after they bring him in.”</p><p>Percy shook his head. “Respectfully, Minister, I’d like to go with.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his shoulders settling into a firm line. Kingsley looked from Percy to Sturgis, who shrugged.</p><p>Percy shouldn’t be going.</p><p>He knew it, deep in his bones.</p><p>“If you think you can handle it,” Sturgis said.</p><p>Percy nodded.</p><p>George said nothing.</p><p>#</p><p>A heavy fog hung in the forest around them. In the distance, George could just make out the faint outline of the gates guarding the Vane estate. Soon, the sun would set over the tree line, and who knew what might come creeping out of the grounds. They had to hurry.</p><p>Sturgis checked his pocket watch and motioned for the group to move forward.</p><p>“I rather wish you weren’t here,” Fred whispered, his arm slung over his broom as he looked sidelong at Angelina. “One of these days, you’ll get bored of it, and then how would I impress you?” Angelina rolled her eyes and pushed at him.</p><p>“You say that every time,” Angelina replied. “But, someone’s got to keep you in line, Weasley.” She grinned and hoisted her broom higher on her shoulder.</p><p>Sturgis held a hand up, pointing towards a clearing through the trees. The older auror tolerated their joking, but was doubtlessly looking forward to having his old team back.</p><p>George’s ribs grew tighter as they approached the house.</p><p>It would be in and out, as quick as they could. They’d apprehend Vane and be back to the flat before dark. It should be easy.</p><p>But, that’s not how it felt, staring up at the estate’s stone ramparts.</p><p>Percy crossed to George’s side.</p><p>“I’m glad I’m here to help take him in,” Percy said, his voice quiet.</p><p>“Why’s that, Perce?” George asked, adjusting his grip on his wand.</p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” Percy asked. His older brother’s face had drawn together, a nervous jitter making its way through his shoulders.</p><p>Percy wasn’t built for combat.</p><p>Then again, none of them were, really.</p><p>“Not really,” George said. The old leaves were soft under their boots.</p><p>“The Ministry,” Percy said, his eyes on the purpling sky.</p><p>“Ah,” George said, thoughts fleeing him as phantom images from his time on the Wizengamot floor rose up in his mind. “That.”</p><p>Fred tripped over a tree root, and Angelina stooped to help him up. No one spoke for a few moments. George had never told Fred how truly terrible Umbridge’s interrogation had been, but he hadn’t needed to.</p><p>Percy shook his head, staring towards the estate. “I should’ve done more,” he said.</p><p>“Nonsense,” George said, trying to brush the conversation off.</p><p>“You didn’t see the way you looked, George,” Percy said. The lines under his eyes were deep in the light of the setting sun. George ran a hand through his hair, an uneasy tingling creeping up the back of his neck. All that was gone and forgiven. There was no need for Percy to feel poorly. Especially not as they headed into a Death Eater’s mansion. They needed to be focused. Ready.</p><p>“Don’t dwell on it,” George said, stepping onto the cobblestone. The wrought iron gate was ancient, crawling high over their heads. “Alohamora” he whispered. The gate swung open, as promised. For some reason, this made him feel even more on edge than he’d been before.</p><p>Their boots clicked across the stone drive as they approached, wands drawn. The mansion’s door was cracked open, but no light came from inside.</p><p>Sturgis and George began the complicated process of checking for traps, their wands dancing through the air. Angelina bounced on her toes, biting her lip as she switched her broom from one shoulder to the other, then back again.</p><p>“Forward,” Sturgis said. George took point, shouldering his way through the door.</p><p>A vast, empty room laid before him, a floo near the door on the left and twin staircases crawling up from the opposite side and splitting down two, separate halls. Despite the warm weather outside, the air was cold.</p><p>“So you’ve come,” a cold voice echoed over the marble floor, and a figure emerged from behind a pillar, his shape outlined in the dying sun’s light that poured through the arched windows at his back.</p><p>Vane.</p><p>George’s hand tightened on his wand.</p><p>“Three Weasleys, for little old me?” Vane looked over the group, an amused lilt in his tone.</p><p>“Four,” Angelina said, stepping forward, her eyes narrowed.</p><p>A dull thud echoed over their heads.</p><p>“You offered to turn yourself in, and we’re here to escort you to Azkaban, where you will await trial for your crimes as a Death Eater,” Sturgis said.</p><p>“Azkaban? I was under the impression that I would be taken to the Ministry,” Vane said softly, drawing a finger along his wand, which was pointed towards the group.</p><p>“You were told no such thing,” Sturgis said, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Perhaps you should reconsider,” Mr. Vane said. His smile was thin, his glance flickering to that spot over their heads. “You see, I have something to offer.” He paused. “Death Eaters. You can imagine my surprise, when the curse broke and I found them loitering in my house. I’ve gone to the trouble of locking them up. Surely that will earn me some favor with the Ministry.” He was smooth, cool, his gaze moving from George to Sturgis.  </p><p>“This Ministry can’t be bought,” George said, his chest tight. “Things are different, now.”</p><p>Vane tilted his head. “Everyone can be bought,” he said. “But, I should hardly need to, considering my innocence.”</p><p>“You didn’t seem Imperiused, when you dragged me through the Ministry,” George said, voice low.</p><p>“George—” Fred’s voice was a warning.</p><p>“When you helped Dolohov escape, during the battle,” He was growing in volume. Mr. Vane’s fingers tapped against his dragon leather suit sleeve.</p><p>“When you—”</p><p>A loud bang sounded, followed by the rattle of frenzied footsteps. A girl’s figure emerged from the hall, poised at the top of the staircase, shoulders heaving as she took in the scene. “No!” she shouted, rushing forward.</p><p>“Lay your wand on the floor,” Sturgis said.</p><p>“You can’t do this! He was Imperiused. He hasn’t done anything wrong!” she shouted, pushing herself in front of Vane. George’s heart lurched. She was young, her eyes wild with the sort of fear that only comes from having one’s world toppled.</p><p>How had they missed this? There was nothing about a child in Vane’s surrender note.</p><p>“Now, now, Romilda,” Vane said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure we can sort this out.” He looked toward the ceiling, where the racket was continuing. He used Romilda as a shield, keeping her body between theirs and his. Anger licked up George’s collar.</p><p>“Romilda—” he started, stepping forward, but Romilda lifted her wand, pointing it at him. George, tucked his wand in his back pocket and lifted his hands, trying to keep his voice calm. “Your father has offered to come willingly.”</p><p>“Not to Azkaban,” she said, her teeth gritted together. She stood in a fighter’s stance. “I won’t let you.”</p><p>A wild thrashing echoed in the distance, several floors above their heads.</p><p>“I’d hurry, if I were you,” Vane said, glancing at the ceiling, a small smile playing at his lips.</p><p>“Is that a threat, Vane?” Fred said, lifting his wand higher and shifting into a defensive position.</p><p>“No,” Vane said lightly. “Merely an observation.”</p><p>Percy broke from the group, heading towards the sound. “I’ll Patronus the minister,” he said.</p><p>“Keep a distance,” Sturgis said, nodding. Percy bobbed his head and ducked into the hall above the stairs. This wasn’t good. Someone should go with, but Romilda was shouting and he couldn’t bloody focus.</p><p>“—She said there was another way. She said they wouldn’t listen, and she was right,” Romilda said, her voice hiking in pitch.</p><p>“Who’s that?” George asked. Romilda ignored him.</p><p>“You need to trust us, Romilda,” Angelina said, tilting her head on the stairs. “We’re on the same side. We all want good to prevail, right?”</p><p>“You call this—” Romilda flung her wand, and a jet of red sparks flew out. “—good? My father’s made some poor choices, perhaps kept some questionable company, but he’s never done anything illegal, and I won’t let you take him.”</p><p>Mr. Vane’s expression was unchanged, watching the ceiling as though waiting for something. Angelina’s eyes followed the direction of his gaze, and she backpedaled. “I’m going to check on Percy,” she said, kicking a leg over her broom and zipping towards the hall.</p><p>“He’s got to stand trial, Romilda,” George said, stepping forward, his hands still up. Romilda’s wand was aimed square at his chest, but with less conviction, now. The firm line of her arm trembled. Her eyes flickered, and she stuttered, her gaze flicking to the side.</p><p>“That hardly seems necessary, Mr. Weasley,” Vane said, lifting his hands. “Especially when I plan to be of such help to your new Ministry.”</p><p>“He never meant to actually hurt anyone,” Romilda said, her voice shaking. “He told me. His friends dragged him into it, and then the talk became more violent, but when he tried to get out, they—” she blinked up at her father. “Tell them, Dad.”</p><p>“I was only following orders,” Mr. Vane said, lifting his shoulders. “Towards the end, I wasn’t in control, anymore. Do you all expect a single man to fight off the entirety of the Dark Lord’s following?” Vane punctuated the question with an incredulous scoff. Romilda swallowed, nodding in agreement.</p><p>Regret lanced through him. They should’ve come more prepared. Now, Romilda was in the middle of things, and she couldn’t be older than a sixth-year.</p><p>“That’s for the Wizengamot to decide,” Sturgis said.</p><p>“Don’t do this,” Romilda whispered, pressing back towards Mr. Vane, her arms outstretched.</p><p>Sturgis walked forward, reaching around her to take Vane’s wand.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” George said. Romilda broke into a sob, and George sucked in a breath.</p><p>Romilda’s voice was laced with terror. “If you take him, I’ll have no one.”</p><p>George gritted his teeth. “What if we take him to the Ministry for holding, Sturgis? Just for now,” he said, nodding to Romilda. “I know it’s not protocol, but—”</p><p>In the arched windows behind him, the moon crested over the tree line, and a high, piercing howl boomed through the hall.</p><p>George’s stomach dropped.</p><p>Fred was already bolting to the stairs, shouting Angelina’s name.</p><p>“Stay with the group!” Sturgis shouted, but George tore after his brother.</p><p>“Lumos Maxima!” George shouted, pointing his wand down the dark hall. Dust billowed out from a crater in the wall at the other end, and he dashed towards it. Fred was a flash of red, disappearing around the corner.</p><p>Angelina’s shout was cut short by another howl. As he neared the hole in the wall, black fog poured from a nearby bedroom, and that same primal fear from the last battle gripped him as he swerved, dodging it. The chaos boomed around George as he leapt through the crater.</p><p>The floor dropped out under him, and he landed at a roll in an outdoor courtyard, the fog filtering up and away, into the sky over his head.</p><p>There, pale and horrible in the moonlight, stood a werewolf.</p><p>Like a sickening photo loop, George saw it. Collin Creevey’s open throat. Emmaline’s tears. The pipe, hitting the creature’s head. And he froze.</p><p>Angelina circled it on her broom, hurling spells, but they seemed to glance off the creature’s skin. It was distracted, advancing on Fred, who was backing slowly towards the wall, fumbling for his wand on the ground. The creature lifted an arm, poised to strike.</p><p>George lifted his wand to shoot off a shield spell, but before he could, Percy’s cry rent the air.</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Percy’s wand flicked, and an explosion hurtled from it, blasting the werewolf away from Fred and back into the wall beside George. It roared, shaking its head, its fangs bared.</p><p>Then it charged.</p><p>But, not at George. No.</p><p>It unfolded, arms extended, moving over the space like lightning, and Percy stood, transfixed in its path. George was a statue, horror gripping him at the look on his brother’s face.</p><p>Its claws plunged into Percy’s side, knocking him to the stone, and its teeth came down.</p><p>
  <em>Percy.</em>
</p><p>Angelina screamed, diving low on her broom. Fred yanked a box from his pocket, hurling it into the air.</p><p>Fireworks exploded over them, and the werewolf stiffened, its sticky, red snout lifting into the air.</p><p>“Periculum!” George cried, and the flare twisted through the dark, narrowly missing the werewolf’s head. It ducked, howling, then landed on all fours, racing into the woods.</p><p>A moment of shocked silence, as though time might recoil itself, undoing what had happened.</p><p>But, it didn’t.</p><p>Percy blinked down at the gaping wound in his side. “Oh dear,” he said, faintly. The three of them lunged towards him, Angelina’s broomstick clattering on the ground.</p><p>“Dittany!” Angelina shouted, pressing her hands into the bloody mess. George ripped the vials from his robe pocket, his hands shaking as he unstoppered them. He dumped them both over the damage, but it didn’t seem to make a difference.</p><p>“Shacklebolt, get here now,” Fred shouted, and a blue Phoenix leapt into the air. Fred's eyes widened.</p><p>George didn't have time to comprehend it, really. The significance of the change was choked by—by—</p><p>There was so much red, everywhere, flowing under their knees, soaking into the stone. George stooped over Percy, his wand moving fast.</p><p>“Vulnera Sanentur,” Percy’s whisper was mostly air. “You’ve got to—” his hand moved, feebly attempting to replicate the spell’s wand movements.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” George gasped. “Vulnera Sanentur,” he said, moving his wand in the pattern Percy had shown. He didn’t do it quite right, and the healing magic was weak, only slowing the gush from Percy’s side. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” George couldn’t see through the tears. “Hold on—”</p><p>Angelina was already repeating the spell, more firmly, over and over. Half of her attempts seemed to be landing, but it wasn’t enough.</p><p>Percy’s breath came in a wheeze, his face contorting. “It’s alright,” he said, barely audible. “Don’t worry about it.” Percy’s eyelids fluttered.</p><p>“No-no, Percy, No!” George shouted, bracing Percy’s shoulder. “Don’t—”</p><p>Percy went limp.</p><p>“God, please,” George cried, whirling around. The broomstick.</p><p>He lifted his hand, and snapped, the wood zipping into his palm. “Hurry,” he said, pulling Percy onto the broom with him. Angelina climbed on in front, securing Percy’s body between them. Fred had already summoned his own broom, and the group lifted off, tearing through the Vane mansion, toward the floos.</p><p>Sturgis was alone, dashing up the stairs as they zipped by.</p><p>“I took them to the Ministry, but—” he stopped cold at the sight of Percy’s slumped form.</p><p>Angelina didn’t bother to dismount, gripping a handful of powder from the bowl and tossing it in. “St. Mungo’s!” she shouted. The green flame leapt at them, and George prayed that it was connected as the broom whistled through the hearth.</p><p>Sight and sound came apart, the broomstick disintegrating under them, and George stumbled, hoisting Percy upright.</p><p>They tripped out, into the entryway of the hospital, Fred and Sturgis following in their wake.</p><p>#</p><p>George watched, eyes wide and frantic as the healers rushed around Percy’s body. Fred hadn’t moved, ramrod still at his side. They’d followed the team into the ward, the chaos so thick that no one had had time to address them yet.</p><p>“He’s bleeding out,” someone shouted.</p><p>“Seal the wound, the venom’s already spread. Let it run its course. Do what it will,” a man near the head of the group directed, his voice loud and authoritative.</p><p>“No, you’ve got to-to—” George started, but no one near Percy listened. “You’ve got to try!” he said, more loudly.</p><p>There was no response, the green robes moving almost mechanically in the harsh light. No one was listening. Why was no one listening?</p><p>“Get the moon brand ready, Daniels,” the head healer said, pointing at an attendant. “We’ll need it once we’re through here.”</p><p>“Through?” George asked, stepping forward, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. One of the healers looked up at him, something like pity in their eyes.</p><p>They broke from the group, pulling the mask from their face.</p><p>“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait in the lobby,” he said. George didn’t acknowledge the comment.</p><p>“What are they on about?” George asked, nodding at the head healer. “Moon brand?”</p><p>The healer pulled him to the side, voice low. “It’s a Ministry-ordered safety precaution,” he said. “Like a-a magical stamp. If he’s brought in unresponsive in the future, our staff will know to take the proper precautions.” George watched, distracted as another green robe pushed a dark green, metallic contraption across the floor, towards Percy’s gurney.</p><p>Fury flooded him.</p><p>“George, they can’t really—” Fred spoke for the first time since they’d arrived, shock echoing in his tone.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” George said, brushing past healer.</p><p>“No,” George said, his voice growing louder. “Which Ministry?” More heads lifted, and the healer who’d given the orders stepped back. The wound in Percy’s side was knit together, his skin pale.</p><p>“Answer!” George shouted. “On the authority of which Ministry?”</p><p>“Get him out of here,” the head healer said.</p><p>“Sir, it’s a law that predates the war—” the attendant who’d explained it was attempting to draw him towards the lobby.</p><p>“Over my dead body,” George said, jerking his arm away. “—will you mark my brother like he’s some sort of—of animal.” Fred was at his side, arms crossed.</p><p>The head healer grimaced at the words. “It’s not like that,” he said.</p><p>“Then you’ll wait, and ask first,” George said, staring him down. “Or I’ll drag the bloody Minister of Magic into this.”</p><p>One of the attendants ducked forward, whispering in the head healer’s ear. The man took a slow breath, then lifted his hands.</p><p>“Fine. We’ll wait,” he said. “But you’re going to the lobby.”</p><p>George opened his mouth to protest.</p><p>“You have my word,” the man said, eyes flashing. “Now get out of my ward, or I’ll have you dragged out by force.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>His shoes left red prints on the floor as they left.</p><p>The swinging doors hissed around them, and the sounds from the lobby beyond came into focus.</p><p>Angelina was crying, kneeling against the wall beside the threshold.</p><p>“I sent a Patronus to your Mum,” she said, sobs breaking the words apart. “I’m so sorry.” Percy’s blood painted her robes.</p><p>Fred was at her side in moments, tugging her into his arms.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Fred whispered. “They stopped the bleeding, Angie. It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright.” He kept repeating the words, as though that would make it so.</p><p>George rounded the corner, sliding down the wall, onto the floor.</p><p>Numb.</p><p>Not from occluding, but something deeper and more horrible.</p><p>He’d frozen.</p><p>For the first time, he looked at himself. Red stained his hands, his arms, his chest.</p><p>Percy.</p><p>Bookish, skittish Percy.</p><p>Percy, a master of words and protocol, who should’ve stayed with the group while George checked the halls instead.</p><p>Percy, who never should’ve been on the raid, but had attended out of misplaced guilt.</p><p>Because of him.</p><p>And he’d frozen.</p><p>The lift doors whooshed open across the space, and a clamor echoed over the floor.</p><p>“Where’s my son?” Mr. Weasley’s voice boomed. Dazed, George watched as Fred nodded at the doors, and their parents bolted across the lobby, into the ward.</p><p>The floor was cold under him.</p><p>If he’d only</p><p>moved</p><p>faster.</p><p>He was untethered, alone in an upside-down world.</p><p>“George—” a familiar voice rang out. He blinked. Hermione stood by the lift, Ron and Ginny at her side. She stared at him, eyes widening. “Oh, George—”</p><p>She ran, stumbling onto her knees beside him, her arms coming up around his shoulders.</p><p>“We’re here,” she said. “We’re here.”</p><p>Chamomile filled his nose, and the feeling—all of it—rushed back into his chest, the breath leaving his lungs at the force of it. It was his undoing.</p><p>He grappled, instinctively reaching for the spell, but it wouldn’t come. He couldn’t occlude, not after everything. Not with her close like this. The magic slipped through the eroded passages of his mind, leaving him drowning in images of Percy’s broken body, the faded sound of his brother’s voice, and the echoes of George’s failure.</p><p>“It’s my faul—” his throat closed around the word, and he heaved, twisting in the opposite direction, his hands smacking into the tile floor.</p><p>She didn’t leave his side, one hand an anchor on his shoulder, the other working steadily to vanish the sick all over the ground. Gradually, the convulsions stopped, and he gasped, collapsing back into the wall.</p><p>“It’s not, George, it’s not,” she said.</p><p>“You don’t know what happened,” he said, eyes closed. He could feel her wand tip, close to his face.</p><p>“Scourgify,” she whispered. The magic sparked over his skin in warm, reassuring tingles. Then, she took his hand in hers, pointing her wand, and the caked red began to disintegrate. Her hold was gentle, and something confusing yet calming thrummed beneath the surface of her touch. He watched her, dazed as she started on the other hand. The line between her brows was deep as she mouthed the charms, her plait coming loose.</p><p>A whole different sort of pain hit him.</p><p>Someone cleared their throat, and George started, lifting his head.</p><p>Ron and Ginny stood over them, faces pale.</p><p>“Mione?” Ron asked, nudging her shoulder. Hermione didn’t answer, only continued working, busying herself with the shallow spider work of scrapes over his knuckles. The magic fluttered over George’s fingers as he swallowed, lost for words. She turned his arm over, and his scar peeked out of his robe sleeve. George jolted, tugging the fabric down.</p><p>She darted forward, leaning in. “Is that from tonight?” Her inflection was high and frantic. “Did it claw you?”</p><p>George pulled his hand back, shaking his head.</p><p>“George—” she tried to take his arm back, but he tucked it behind himself.</p><p>“It’s alright; he’s fine,” Ron said, stooping beside her. “He’s not stupid. He’d say if it scratched him.”</p><p>The image of the werewolf’s claws sinking into Percy’s side flashed through his head, and he dug his nails into his palms.</p><p>Inhale.</p><p>Exhale.</p><p>Fred pushed between Ron and Ginny, holding a cup. “Here,” he said, thrusting it under George’s nose. Hermione settled at his side, her arm warm against his. “C’mon, Mate,” Fred said, nudging him with the container as his gaze drifted over to Angelina, who waited in a seat across the lobby. George took the cup.</p><p>As he drank, Mrs. Weasley bustled from the ward, hurrying to Angelina, who stood, halting. Mrs. Weasley pulled her into a hug, rocking her back and forth. Fred watched until George had drained all the water, then nodded.</p><p>He could faintly make out the sound of his mum’s words: “You did so well, Sweetheart, so well.” Angelina’s reply was muffled. Mrs. Weasley didn’t say anything about Percy.</p><p>He’d give all the galleons in his vault to undo the last several hours.</p><p>George stared down into the empty cup.</p><p>The doors swished.</p><p>“What’s this?” Mr. Weasley asked, coming upon the group. George couldn’t lift his face to see his father’s expression. Surely, there would be something haunted in it. Some question he couldn’t answer.</p><p>Their family’s world, flipped on its head, and George had only watched.</p><p>“George got sick all over the floor,” Ginny whispered.</p><p>“Ginny,” Ron snapped, a rebuke in his tone.</p><p>“Well he did,” Ginny said.</p><p>“C’mon you lot, help me peel Mum off Angelina,” Fred said, and Hermione’s warm arm receded, taken away with the group’s squeaking trainers.</p><p>“Georgie?” Mr. Weasley asked, kneeling on his other side. George stared down at the cup. “Look at me, George,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>George shook his head.</p><p>“Dad, I—” a sob worked his way up his throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t fast enough—I didn’t—and then—”</p><p>Tears fell onto his hands.</p><p>Then, he was crushed in his father’s embrace, pulled from the cold floor, the paper cup rattling as it dropped to the tile.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Icarus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It is time.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! This chapter is quite large, so please forgive me. We needed to cover a lot of ground, though. </p><p>First: Thank you so much for the continued encouragement! I really enjoyed reading your comments this last week. Please throw shoes at me whenever you like. &lt;3 I really do appreciate you even taking the time to read this fic, because life is busy. My warmest wishes to you all. &lt;3 </p><p>Next: Please forgive any mistakes. I've been editing all day, and I'm hoping I didn't miss anything. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or to the storyworld.</p><p>Also: The songs for this week are numerous. First, we've got "I'll Be Seeing You" by Billie Holiday (suggested a while back by one of the lovely commenters--thank you so much), "Take Care of Yourself" by Maisie Peters, "Actually" by Valerie Broussard, "Perfectly Imperfect" by Declan J Donovan OR "In Your Arms" by Illenium &amp; X Ambassadors (during the hillside scene--you'll know the one) (also, I believe this song was suggested by a commenter a while back as well? Thank you!), "Roar" by Katy Perry (for the suit scene), The opening/first part of "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC (for the Quidditch match), and then, after you finish it, (if you want) listen to "In Your Arms" by Illenium &amp; X Ambassadors. </p><p>Grab your snack (something sweet would be good for this week--like chocolate covered pretzels), your drink (big surprise here, I'm drinking coffee again), and your coziest jean jacket. </p><p>OKAY. This chapter is a ride, but remember: This isn't the end. </p><p>Let's jump in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>Chapter 21: Icarus</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>12:21 a.m., March 10, 2003</p><p>It was warm, despite the cold glass pressed against her side. Hermione crouched over her book in the Hogwarts library, tucked into her favorite window seat. Outside, snow fell in thick flakes. She really should put the book down.</p><p>She had something due. She just knew it.</p><p>If only she could remember.</p><p>Had it been something for her OWLs?</p><p>A warm, hearty laugh boomed through the room, and Hermione lifted her head. It was a familiar sound, and one that she wanted to get closer to. Like a moth to flame, she slipped from the window bench.</p><p>“Granger!”</p><p>It was George’s shout, full of mirth.</p><p>
  <em>George.</em>
</p><p>Her feet sped, and she nearly tripped as she hurtled around the corner. A metal wall stretched from the ground, up into the mist. It quaked, a small sliver cracking across its surface. Warm light spilled out, just a fingertip’s width. The metal surface swirled, groaning, and the crack began to disappear.</p><p>In the distance, she could hear rushing. Like a river, coming to carry the light away.</p><p>No. Not yet.</p><p>She pressed her eye to the fissure.</p><p>A flash.</p><p>Suddenly, she was seated before a campfire, the sky open above her. A couple of tents squatted to the side, near the edge of the clearing. The front flap on one of them flipped, and George ducked through it, a stack of books in his arms.</p><p>“Right, so I’ve—” he started, adjusting his hold as he crossed to her. His voice turned muffled, and Hermione’s face heated as she watched him.</p><p>“Granger?” George blinked at her, resting the books on the ground. He crouched beside her. “Are you alright?” His eyes had gone round.</p><p>“Sorry, I must be a bit tired,” she heard herself say.</p><p>George smiled, and she knew. She knew it meant something more when he smiled at her like this—sincere and warm and the slightest bit pained.</p><p>She tried to open her mouth, to say something. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t in control.</p><p>The image flickered.</p><p>Black fog funneled through the trees, but she didn’t react. She didn’t move as it crept closer and closer, like a wall of darkness.</p><p>And George was looking at her.</p><p>No. He had to—to move. To run. To leave.</p><p>But he didn’t. “Hermione Jean, you’ll be my undoing,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to his hands. She choked, struggling, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t warn him.</p><p>The tendrils snaked out, taking him around the arms. His expression shifted, and he looked at her in disbelief as it dragged him into the black oblivion.</p><p>It would consume him.</p><p>“No!” The scream was raw as it forced its way through her lips. She couldn’t see him through the dark. Her voice went high. “George!”</p><p>The fog hit her like water. It rushed up her nose, into her mouth, pulling her under its current in a swift yank. She couldn’t breathe—couldn’t breathe. The assault scorched her lungs, the pressure building.</p><p> “George!” The fog reached down her throat as she cried.</p><p>She had to—had to—</p><p>She was drowning, sobbing as her hands ripping through cold nothingness.</p><p>Why hadn’t she warned him?</p><p>A thud.</p><p>“Hermione!” He sounded distant.</p><p>“Geor—” Her scream choked as she sucked in another lungful of the fog.</p><p>A crash.</p><p>“Hermione!” He was closer now, but distorted. Something warm came around her arms, and the world tipped, spinning.</p><p>Gravity seemed to flip, and suddenly she was flat on her back, gasping.</p><p>She blinked, and her vision began to clear. George knelt over her, bracing her shoulders in his hands. Behind him, the door to the hall swung slightly on its hinges.</p><p>She sucked in a gulp of air, pushing up on her elbows. The bedclothes twisted around her arms, the blankets hopelessly tangled.</p><p>“It’s alright, it’s alright—” George’s voice was shaken, like he was slightly out of breath. His eyes were wide, his hair sticking up at an odd angle in the back, and his flannel pajamas were askew on his shoulders.</p><p>But he wasn’t dead.</p><p>She darted up, throwing her arms about his shoulders. George lurched, catching himself on the edge of the bed.</p><p>“Oh,” he breathed, going still. “That bad?” She didn’t answer. He shifted, and his hands came up to press warm and steady on her shoulder blades, through the damp fabric of her t-shirt. The familiar, comforting pulse was back, singing between them.</p><p>They breathed together for a few moments.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?” George asked softly. She couldn’t speak as she dragged the smell of him in. The cinnamon, the parchment, the fields.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She ought to let him go. But she couldn’t. Not yet.</p><p>George pulled back a fraction, watching her. “I think I can fix this,” he said. “Come with me.” He eased off the bed, and she let him go, swallowing. He stopped, peering back at her, his hand extended. His ring glinted in the moonlight.</p><p>As easy as breathing, she took it.</p><p>He led her through the flat. First to the sofa, where he took the blanket and tucked it around her shoulders. Then, he tugged her into the kitchen, where he tucked his wand behind his ear and put the kettle on, working nimbly with one hand.</p><p>His palm was larger than hers, his thumb working little circles over her knuckles.</p><p>“You died, I think,” she said, her voice catching on the words. He squeezed her hand just a bit before reaching up to take two mugs from the cabinet. “I tried to warn you, but I couldn’t speak, and—” she shut her eyes. He didn’t let go, didn’t prompt her to continue. Only waited, as though he knew. “You didn’t see it coming.” A ghost of the dread she’d felt crept over her, and she exhaled.</p><p>“Ah,” he said. “Rotten luck.” He busied himself with the tea tin, prying the lid off. She didn’t speak.</p><p>“So, what didn’t I see coming?” George asked, his tone casual as he pulled a scoop from the drawer.</p><p>“The darkness,” she whispered.</p><p>George nodded, working the scoop through the tea tin. It made a scraping noise that was grounding, somehow. Hermione breathed.</p><p>He didn’t let go of her hand. Not when the kettle whistled, not when he poured the hot water into each mug. He picked his up and nodded for her to take her own. It was warm in hand, but the ceramic didn’t burn too hot.</p><p>It must’ve been enchanted.</p><p>He pulled her to the flat door, and without questioning, she followed him down the spiral stairs, through the hall, and into the workshop.</p><p>“Right,” George said, flicking the light on and casting the room in a warm glow. “Give me just a moment.”</p><p>His hand slipped from hers, and he rested his mug on his workstation. But instead of sitting there, he proceeded back into the shelves behind it, disappearing around the corner.</p><p>“It’s here somewhere,” he called. Something thudded. Hermione raised her mug, watching the steam waft into the workshop air. The room carried a bit of a chill at this time of night.</p><p>George appeared from around the corner, a large box hoisted in his arms.</p><p>“Got it,” he said, grinning.</p><p>“What is it?” Hermione crossed to him, leaning towards the box.</p><p>“An old prototype,” George said. He unfolded the lid and pulled back a quilt that laid over the top. Underneath, an old television set rested, packed tightly in blankets.</p><p>“That’s the prototype?” she asked, raising her brows. George grinned.</p><p>“No, Hermione, that’s a telly,” he said. He plucked it out and paced over to the corner, laying it on the floor. She watched him, incredulous. George turned, extending his hand and snapping. The box zipped across the floor, stopping short at his feet.</p><p>“This is the prototype,” he said, grinning, a bit breathless.</p><p>“A box of blankets?” Hermione asked, resting her tea on the desk. George placed his hand on his chest.</p><p>“Have some faith, Granger,” he said, pulling several large cushions from the box. He nudged them against the wall, adding several more. Finally, he kicked one to the side, in the corner just a bit away from the group he’d arranged. He dropped into this one and looked at her expectantly. “Have a seat,” he said, nodding towards the open spot.</p><p>Hermione stared at him.</p><p>“It’s really better to watch it happen around you,” George said. “Otherwise the charms might make the ceiling too high or low.”</p><p>That sparked her curiosity. She plucked their mugs from the desk and shuffled over. Their fingers brushed as he took the tea from her, the magic stirring. His eyes followed her as she knelt, carefully seating herself on the cushions. It was more comfortable than she expected.</p><p>“Ready?” George asked. Hermione nodded. He pulled his wand from behind his ear, swiping it towards the box. The blankets spilled out and drifted upwards, affixing themselves to the walls and ceiling over them, several stretching over the floor until a cozy makeshift fort took shape around them. Its canopy swooped low, almost brushing their heads.</p><p>George stuck his wand in his mouth and scrambled forward, flipping up a hidden panel on the floor and snaking the television’s cord down into it.</p><p>The screen buzzed to life.</p><p>“Nox,” George whispered, and the lights in the room went low, the television’s glow flickering over the blankets.</p><p>Then, George crawled over, kneeling before her, his hands steady as he adjusted the blanket from their flat snug around her shoulders, and one from the box over her legs. Hermione watched him, speechless.</p><p>“It’s got to be proper cozy, or it’s not the same,” he murmured, giving the blanket one, final tug. Then, he released her, backing onto his separate cushion.</p><p>“<em>My sisters and I remember that winter as the coldest of our childhood</em>,” the speakers crackled. On the screen, a group of women trudged through the snow.</p><p>Hermione swallowed, peeking to the side. George leaned against the wall, his arms folded, eyes fixed on the film.</p><p>
  <em>“But necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Somehow, in that dark time, our family, the March family, seemed to create its own light.” </em>
</p><p>He’d done all this. Simply because she’d had a nightmare. She rested her cup on the floor.</p><p><em>Marmee! Marmee’s home!”</em> a girl on the screen called.</p><p>“George?” she asked.</p><p>He turned, his face open and brows raised. “Hm?”</p><p>Hermione took a deep breath, then shifted. She slipped off the cushions and pushed them, sliding them over to rest against his.</p><p>“Granger?” His voice was soft. Wordlessly, she lifted her mug and crawled up beside him, shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>He swallowed, his eyes tracing her features.</p><p>“There,” she said, tugging the blankets back into place, dragging the quilt over both of their legs. “Now it’s proper cozy.”</p><p>On the television screen, four girls traipsed down the stairs. The tea was warm, and the magic paced up and down where her arm touched his in lazy circles.</p><p>As the film progressed, her head dropped, closer and closer, until it fell on his shoulder.</p><p>This time, when she slept, she didn’t have any bad dreams.</p><p>#</p><p>Someone shouted outside, and Hermione groaned, dragging the quilt to her chin. It was still too early. Her face was pressed against something warm.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes flew open. The telly’s screen was dark, but light pierced through the blankets.</p><p>She’d fallen asleep, her head on George’s shoulder. Her breath hitched, and she began to ease away. At her side, George shifted, turning, his arm coming around her ribs as he tugged her closer. “Not yet,” George mumbled, his nose brushing her temple. Her face heated.</p><p>George’s arm was warm around her, and he was lost to the world, looking as though the heaviness had melted off of him overnight. The dark circles under his eyes had cleared.</p><p>Something whooshed.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“George—” she said, trying to gently extract herself from his embrace. He stirred, grimacing. “We’ve got to get up.” He shook his head, his face contorting slowly.</p><p>Footsteps echoed, then stopped, a clank ringing through the room. George blinked, his face flooding with color as he took her in.</p><p>“I’m sorry—” he started, but a low whistle interrupted him.</p><p>Fred crouched at the edge of the fort, hands braced on his knees, a metal cannister forgotten on the floor beside him. Oh dear.</p><p>“And here I was, worried she might’ve put you out,” Fred said, eyes crinkling with his grin.</p><p>George winced, dragging a sleeve over his eyes.</p><p>“But this—” Fred’s voice was merry as it rang through the fort. “Excellent work, Granger,” he said, winking at her.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” George sounded grumpy, a bit disoriented.</p><p>“Work, Mate,” Fred said. “But I can vanish myself, if you’d prefer.”</p><p>Hermione’s face burned. “What time is it?” she asked. Fred made a show of pulling his pocket watch from his jacket.</p><p>“Quarter-past eight,” he sang, grinning.</p><p>George started. “It isn’t—” he said, lurching forward. “My shift.”</p><p>Fred waved him off, laughing. “Verity’s got it.”</p><p>George buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Granger, I must’ve drifted off.”</p><p>Fred ducked out from the fort.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Hermione whispered, nudging him. George lowered his hands. “Honestly, I had a lovely time.”</p><p>George’s cheeks went pink. “Me too,” he said, studying her.</p><p>Fred still hadn’t stopped grinning as she walked out the door.</p><p>#</p><p>March 12, 2003</p><p>Hermione scooped a bite of cereal into her mouth, flicking through the stack of mail on the table. The newest bill from the landlord rested on top of the lot, taunting her.</p><p>“Luna’s managed to track Winky down, and Winky’s finally owled me back,” George said, scanning a parchment across the table. The house-elf representative was notoriously difficult to locate, moving around constantly. “She said she won’t be able to make it here until April.”</p><p>“That late?” Hermione asked, blinking up.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. “She’s deep in negotiations with the goblins in Scotland, and she fears leaving early will upset any progress they’ve made.”</p><p>Hermione sighed and unfolded the paper. “Alright.”</p><p>There, just below the fold, was a photo of Harry and Ron, giving a press conference the day before. <em>“Aurors warn of continued hike in crime—rogue portkey sent to muggleborne. Caution advised in opening parcels.”</em></p><p>They didn’t.</p><p>“George—” her voice hiked.</p><p>“What?” George leaned forward, dropping his parchment.</p><p>“Harry and Ron spoke to the press about what happened,” she said.</p><p>“And?” George’s brow furrowed.</p><p>“And they didn’t talk to me about it first. They didn’t—didn’t even mention my name.” It smarted, being bypassed in the investigation, like she was an outside party. They’d promised to tell her about any developments, and yet, here they were, speaking on her behalf.</p><p>“They didn’t owl?” George sounded confused.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said, looking over the stack of envelops. Not a single one bore Harry’s script.</p><p>George went quiet. Hermione blinked rapidly, turning the page.</p><p>Another.</p><p>Another.</p><p>Flipping swiftly through the paper, just looking for something to distract her. She reached the social section, and that’s when she saw it.</p><p>Her and George at Mungo’s—sitting in the waiting room. In the photograph, George tipped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. But there hadn’t been any photographers that day? She watched as her hand lifted a pamphlet, and the camera focused. The caption beneath the photo was printed in large letters.</p><p>
  <em>More trouble? Hermione Weasley-Granger spotted in the hospital without her ring.</em>
</p><p>The ring. Merlin, she was stupid. They’d forgotten about the ring.</p><p>Her throat closed.</p><p>“Hermione?” George asked.</p><p>What to do now? Her hands gripped the pages as her anxiety blossomed, rocketing through her chest, making everything go tight. She was ruining everything—all of the other Hermione’s hard work. First the case, then Harry and Ron, and now this. There were too many moving pieces, and she couldn’t keep them all aloft.</p><p>She shoved the paper across the table, hands trembling. George went still as he stared down at it.</p><p>“Oh,” he whispered. “I should’ve—but I put it away, after.” He was stumbling over his words. “I didn’t want to pressure you.”</p><p>She was breathing fast, now. This was all her fault.</p><p>“It’s like they’re looking for an opportunity to hurt us,” she whispered. “And you don’t deserve this.”</p><p>“It’ll work out,” George’s voice was soft.</p><p>“Not if they have anything to say about it,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.</p><p>“Who?” George asked.</p><p>“Them. The papers. The Wizengamot. Everyone,” she said, frustration biting through her tone. Her heart hammered in her throat, the words prattling out of her. “I mean, I was hoping that Winky’s witness would help get things moving, but now it’ll be a whole month, and there’s no way the Wizengamot will accept my case again with this in the paper, and Harry and Ron have made their position clear—” Her breath hitched. The stringboard on the closet wall seemed so stupid, now.</p><p>George stood, rounding the table. He crouched beside her. “Hermione,” he said.</p><p>“Everything’s going to be ruined,” she said, blinking at the envelops before her. “Years of work.” Why hadn’t she thought of the ring and worn gloves or a replacement of some sort? Why hadn’t she anticipated this? This wasn’t in <em>The Resonant</em>, this was in <em>The Prophet</em>. Everyone read the <em>The Prophet</em>.</p><p>“Deep breath,” George said. Hermione looked at him, frozen. He nodded. She inhaled. “Hold it,” he said. She did. “Now exhale.”</p><p>It whooshed out of her.</p><p>“Again,” he said. “And this time, look around the room. Find me three things that you can see.”</p><p>She sucked the air in. “I see you, I suppose,” she said. She turned. “There’s the floo. And the fridge.”</p><p>“Yeah?” George asked. “What else?”</p><p>“The plates on the drying rack,” she whispered. “And the pan on the stove.”</p><p>The air filtered in and out of her lungs.</p><p>“What do you hear?” he asked.</p><p>“I don’t hear anything besides you,” she said. George shook his head.</p><p>“Listen harder,” he whispered.</p><p>She did.</p><p>“The clock’s ticking,” she said. “And the fan is squeaking a bit in the other room.”</p><p>She blinked.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she asked.</p><p>“Nothing, really,” George said, eyes tracing over her face.</p><p>But it wasn’t nothing. The tension coiled in her ribs had eased a bit. It was still there, but she could breathe, just slightly better than she could before.</p><p>“How’d you do that?” she asked.</p><p>“Muggle magic,” George said. He smiled a bit and tucked a curl behind her ear. “I’m here for it all.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. He was wonderful. How did he care for her so much?</p><p>“What next?” George asked, searching her face.</p><p>Her mind slowly cleared.</p><p>“We go to the Ministry,” Hermione said, jaw setting. George nodded.  </p><p>“There she is,” he whispered. “My lion.”</p><p>#</p><p>This time, Hermione didn’t bother sitting in the waiting room. No. She strode through the hall, past the fake, potted plants, past the young witch calling to her from the reception desk, straight up to Harry Bloody Potter’s office door, and she banged on it with her fist.</p><p>She could hear his chair creaking inside, footsteps trudging towards her.</p><p>George leaned against the wall. “D’you want me in there, or?”</p><p>“I can handle it, but thank you,” Hermione said, staring at the door.</p><p>Harry opened the door. At the sight of her face, he winced.</p><p>“I’ll be out here,” George said, nodding toward the chairs around the corner.</p><p>“Where’s Ron?” Hermione asked, her voice ringing through the office.</p><p>Harry rubbed at the back of his neck. “Why?”</p><p>“I think it’s easiest if I yell at you both at once,” Hermione said. Harry pushed his glasses up his nose.</p><p>“Should’ve owled, I suppose,” he said. Hermione crossed her arms. Harry sighed. “Ron’s this way.” He stepped from the office, closing the door behind him. Eyes from the cubicles followed them as they crossed the floor in silence, down the hall, to another door.</p><p>George sat in the chairs, his mouth a grim line.</p><p>Harry rapped a knuckle against Ron’s door, and after a few moments, it creaked open.</p><p>“Good, you’re—” Ron stopped, looking up from the file he had open in his hands.</p><p>“So,” Hermione said, the vowel crisp on her tongue.</p><p>Ron crossed his arms, a shadow coming over his face.</p><p>Hermione pulled sheet from <em>The Prophet</em> out of her pocket. “Care to explain this?” She shoved it into his hands. Ron unfolded it, his expression unchanging as he read over the contents.</p><p>“Looks like they’re predicting a rainy spring,” he said.</p><p>Hermione squeaked. “Not that,” she said. “That.” She thrust her finger towards the article on their press release.</p><p>Ron shrugged. “Looks like a decent photo,” he said. He refused to meet her eyes. Anger sparked in her chest, licking up her throat.</p><p>“So it was all a lie, then? About owling me? Keeping me informed?”</p><p>Harry shifted uneasily beside her.</p><p>“Maybe we ought to go inside,” he said, nodding towards Ron’s office.</p><p>Ron huffed, opening the door wider. The space was much like Harry’s, save for the Chudly Canons merchandise rather than the Gryffindor banner. A single photo hung on the wall—Ron, laughing with his arms wrapped around a willowy blonde. Her face was obscured by her curtain of hair. An open carry-out bag laid on the desk, sandwich spilling out.</p><p>“I was on lunch, y’know,” he said, his tone more than a little grumpy as he headed towards the desk.</p><p>“Pardon me for interrupting,” Hermione said, her hands balling into fists. “It’s just a bit concerning to open up the paper and read an article on yourself that you didn’t approve of.”</p><p>Ron rolled his eyes. “Get used to it, Mione,” he muttered. “The sooner the better. They love writing about you.”</p><p>“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Hermione snapped.</p><p>“Would you have told us to say any different?” Ron asked, swinging his feet up on the desk. Harry put his head in his hands.</p><p>“Well, I would’ve owled first and mentioned my name, for starters,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Harry and Ron spoke in unison. Hermione blinked.</p><p>“I don’t get to know about these things?” she asked. Harry dropped into one of the two visitors’ seats before Ron’s desk.</p><p>“No—you’re right, we should’ve owled,” Harry said. “But we’re not releasing your name. Not at this time.”</p><p>Hermione crossed her arms. “Why not? The public deserves to know the facts. I was targeted, and clearly for a reason.”</p><p>Harry rubbed at his temples. “Yes, but we don’t want to inspire even more crime from sympathizers.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. “Harry, when was the last time you touched a rogue portkey?”</p><p>Harry went still.</p><p>Quiet descended, and even Ron stared at his hands.</p><p>“How did it feel to you, Harry, when the Ministry tried to keep what really happened under wraps?”</p><p>Harry sucked in a breath. “It’s not the same, Mione,” he whispered. “We’re not trying to cover it up. We’re trying to keep you safe.”</p><p>“In what way does this keep me safer?” she asked. A memo swooped through the mail slot, sliding onto Ron’s desk with a soft rustle.</p><p>“We receive countless death threats about all of us, every month,” Harry said, his voice going low. “It’s been that way since the war. And Hermione—your name comes up the most often, by far.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“I’m not trying to frighten you. They’re mostly nonsense, but every once in a while, there’s a real one. Sometimes, things slip through, and—and—” Harry had gone pale.</p><p>“And I get laid out on the floor of the Wizengamot,” Hermione whispered. Harry looked up, his face pained.</p><p>“Or ripped from your home in the dead of night, yes,” he said. Hermione swallowed. “The publicity that followed that initial attack—there was a spike in those letters and tips. We’re not sure if it propelled more people to action, so—”</p><p>“So you made the decision for me,” Hermione said, staring at him.</p><p>“C’mon, Mione, let us look after you,” Ron said, swinging his legs off the desk. “Just while things are—”</p><p>“No,” she said, raising her voice. “Honestly, I’m not a child!” The rattle in her chest grew louder, sucking all the air away.</p><p>Ron tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “But you sort of are,” he said, sounding more than a bit put out.</p><p>Hermione stopped cold.</p><p>“Oh no,” Harry whispered.</p><p>Ron turned to Harry, gesturing at Hermione. “Well, isn’t she?” he asked. Harry seemed to have malfunctioned, turning back and forth between them.</p><p>So, this was what they thought.</p><p>She’d been stupid to assume that they saw her as an equal. That had been too much to hope for. Not when she was like this.</p><p>She spun on her heel and stormed from the room. To her horror, as she walked, tears pricked at her eyes, blurring the hallway.</p><p>She swiped at them with her palm, rushing past the lobby.</p><p>“Granger?” George’s voice called out, but she couldn’t slow down. “What’s happened?” Her throat was too tight to respond. Not with all these people listening. His footsteps followed her, rapid, and his hand caught her elbow. She turned, blinking up at him, and his face paled. “Hermione, you’re—”</p><p>The change in his expression was instantaneous.</p><p>“Hold on,” he said, and before she could respond, he was gone, slipped around the corner towards Ron and Harry.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head and hurried after him. It was sweet of him, but George couldn’t fix this.</p><p>She could hear them speaking she approached the door, but the sound of Ron’s reply stopped her in her tracks: “You don’t understand.”</p><p>She wasn’t ready to face him yet. She squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the wall.</p><p>“What did you say?” George asked, his voice like thunder, low and dangerous.</p><p>No one answered.</p><p>“Harry?” George tried again.</p><p>A sigh. “Ron chose his words poorly,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“I’d say. My wife is crying.”</p><p>“Bloody—” Ron started.</p><p>“What did you say to her, you git?” George snapped.</p><p>“George, really, I don’t think this is the time,” Harry said.</p><p>“I’ll make it the time,” George said. “She came here to talk to you both as a friend, and it looks like you didn’t listen.”</p><p>There was no reply.</p><p>“I’ll go over your heads,” George said. “You think I won’t, Harry? Don’t try me on this.”</p><p>“What, you’ll owl Kingsley?” Ron snorted. “He’s behind us on this one. He thinks Hermione needs to keep her name out of the papers as best she can.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>George laughed, but the sound was bitter. “I wasn’t talking about the Minister, Mate,” he said. “I meant Mum.”</p><p>Something banged on the desk, and Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Hermione’s not an auror, and she’s ill, besides!” Ron said, his voice growing louder.</p><p>“I’m not asking you to swear her in—unless that’s what she wants,” George said. “I’m only saying that you should’ve been more honest with her. She’s your friend.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“And now? I think you both owe her an apology,” George said. She could hear his steps, nearing the doorframe. “If she doesn’t get one, I’ll floo to the Burrow. Don’t think I won’t.”</p><p>He ducked through the door, closing it behind him. He turned, starting at her proximity.</p><p>“Oh,” George said. “I thought you were waiting in the lobby.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed, the lump in her throat almost painful. Uncertainty flickered through his eyes, and he stepped forward, reaching out to touch her arm.</p><p>“I know you can fight your own battles, but—”</p><p>Hermione cut him off, pulling him down by the collar, pressing a kiss to his cheek. At the lurch, George stumbled, catching himself against the door frame.</p><p>Hermione backed away. George’s brow was furrowed, his mouth open.</p><p>“Wasn’t expecting that,” he said, clearing his throat, looking from her to his jacket cuffs.</p><p>“I know,” Hermione said, her voice a bit wobbly. “But I wanted to.”</p><p>George’s face flushed. “Oh,” he said. “Shall we, then?” He nodded towards the lobby and began to walk down the hall. Hermione followed him, confusion filling her. He hadn’t really responded in the way she’d anticipated.</p><p>“Was that alright?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George turned back to face her, something playful sparking in his eyes. “By all means, Granger, have at it whenever you like,” he said. “Actually—” he turned in a circle, scratching at his head. “I think there’s a broom cupboard somewhere around here.”</p><p>Hermione snorted, breezing past him. His laugh filled the lobby, and they walked to the lifts together.</p><p>His presence at her side felt like a shield.</p><p>#</p><p>That night, she bent over <em>Magic of the Minde </em>on the sofa, picking apart the elements of the Obliviate spell for the hundredth time. She bit her lip, frustration mounting. There was nothing—no reason for her recovery to look the way it did.</p><p>George hunched over a blueprint at the dining table, quiet.</p><p>She turned to healer’s guide on the opposite sofa cushion, reviewing the common prognosis guidelines once more.</p><p>
  <em>“Like brush growing back after a fire, the memories return at their own pace, guided by the gentle rains of life and encountering the familiar. Interrupting or meddling in this process is dangerous to the stability of the ecosystem, and thus should be avoided.” </em>
</p><p>There was nothing on cases where the ground remained scorched.</p><p>Her symptoms didn’t add up. Most patients had memories return in chunks by now. And she had nothing. Spells of dizziness. Bad dreams.</p><p>She huffed, tossing the book aside. “What was it like for my parents?” she asked, folding her arms.. George rested the blueprints on the table and tapped the wooden surface with his quill.</p><p>“Well, after the spell was lifted, they got most of the context back. They knew you were their daughter, but they couldn’t remember specific events at first. Those sort of filtered back to them gradually,” he said, tilting his head.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. George leaned forward, reading her like a book.</p><p>“It’s different for everyone, Hermione,” George said.</p><p>“This different, though?” Hermione asked. He opened his mouth to reply, but the whoosh of the floo interrupted him.</p><p>It was Harry, auror suit wrinkled, hands in his pockets. George paused, shooting the other man a wary glance. Harry swallowed.</p><p>“Right,” George said. Without another word, he gathered his blueprint, rolling it up and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll be in the study.” He ducked from the room, laying a warm hand on her head as he left.</p><p>The touch was like a strobe of light, but then it was gone, and she was alone.</p><p>Hermione closed the books hurriedly. Harry didn’t need to know what she’d been studying. The last thing she wanted was to remind him of her brokenness. It was too vulnerable.</p><p>“Mione,” Harry whispered.</p><p>Hermione blinked rapidly, stacking the volumes onto each other. Harry crossed around the coffee table, his grey slacks brushing its corner.</p><p>“You’re not a child,” he said. “And I’m sorry that we treated you like one.” She could feel him, looking down at her, waiting for her to respond. But, what could she say? How could she explain to him how much his actions had hurt?</p><p>Hermione straightened, hoisting the books against her chest. She’d better return them to their shelves. Harry’s footsteps followed her.</p><p>“Say something,” he said.</p><p>Hermione slid the books into the wrong place, not bothering with the organizational system. She could fix it later.</p><p>“I’m doing everything I can, Hermione,” Harry said quietly. Hermione stopped, the words bringing a not-so-distant memory to her mind. It was one of the ones she hadn’t lost.</p><p>Without speaking, she took his arm, pulling him towards her room. She creaked open the door, then headed to the closet. Harry’s boots thudded slowly on the floor. She flicked the light on. Harry approached her, stopping as he saw the tapestry of string and notes on the wall.</p><p>“So am I,” she said. Finally, she looked up at his face. His mouth was open, that line of worry deep between his brows as he took it all in.</p><p> “Once, when we were hunting horcruxes, you were angry with me,” she said. “I said I was doing everything I could and you said—”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Harry said, strained, turning to look at her. She could see it, the defenses raising. But he still didn’t get it.</p><p>Hermione inhaled, shaking her head. “You said I wasn’t doing enough.”</p><p>Harry exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>“I remember,” he said. “I was so stupid, Mione, please—”</p><p>“Well, this is me, saying that you’re doing too much,” Hermione said, firming her jaw. “I know I’m shattered right now. I’m know I’m not the woman you’ve known for the last five years. But you should still know better. We didn’t make it through all of that by doing our best individually.”</p><p>Harry swallowed.</p><p>“We were always best, all of us, when we worked together,” she said.</p><p>Harry rubbed a hand over his mouth, his eyes flickering over the stringboard. There was a long silence. Then, finally, he crouched.</p><p>“Where are your pins?” he said, reaching to the stack of parchment slips. Eyes wide, Hermione handed him the tin.</p><p>As she watched, he began to add items to the board, scrawling in more notes, fleshing the case out.</p><p>#</p><p>March 15, 2003</p><p>Hermione turned the page of <em>Magical Tradition</em>, flicking her wand. Above her head, her notepad swooped low, and she reached for her quill. The last chapter hadn’t had anything useful, but maybe this one on spatial theory would.</p><p>The volume quoted liberally from ancient records, and the old English normally would’ve been easier to follow, but she kept growing distracted, thinking about the shop downstairs.</p><p>Or rather, who was in the shop.</p><p>It was too quiet in the flat today. Hermione huffed, redirecting herself to the book’s contents. On the page, a faded photograph was printed under the heading. A large group, standing in front of a set of iron gates. A tall man with pale, white hair stood in the front. In the background, a lighthouse peeked over a cliff.</p><p>The caption was unhelpful, as usual. <em>“United in purpose.”</em></p><p>The whole bloody book was just supremacy rhetoric—nasty letters from the dead, espousing views that made her stomach turn. Nothing helpful about the dark magic haunting magical Britain or any of the other secrets that likely laid in the hands of the oldest wizarding families. They wouldn’t print that. From what little had been mentioned, she’d realized that such things were likely to be closely guarded—handed down, over generations. After all, knowledge was power, and blood supremacists didn’t share power.</p><p>But, still. It was a photo, and that was something new. Some of the subjects may still be alive and worth tracking down. She took her quill, pressing the nib to her notes.</p><p>In her eagerness, it snapped.</p><p>“Honestly,” Hermione huffed, scrambling as ink spilled. “Evanesco.” She vanished it, then paused at the quill.</p><p>The clock ticked.</p><p>Really, she ought to use a different one. She could fix this one eventually, maybe, but a different one would be better at present.</p><p>After all, there was a rather impressive quill section in the shop downstairs. She could stretch her legs, get her ideas flowing. Excitement zipped through her at the idea, and she pushed away from the coffee table, barely pausing to shove her feet into her wellies as she hurried out the door.</p><p>The spiral stairs clanged as she hurried down, and she slipped through the entrance, peering around.</p><p>The shop appeared empty in the late afternoon, but then the till chimed. Hermione hurried over, biting back the grin.</p><p>“Hi!” she called, rounding the corner, bouncing on her toes.</p><p>It wasn’t George at the till. It was Fred, orange apron smeared with black powder, counting out Sickles. Her face fell. The customer, a child, exited through the front doors.</p><p>Fred glanced up at her, taking in her expression.</p><p>“Expecting someone else?” he asked, grinning. Hermione shrugged, pretending to inspect a tin of goo that promised to turn hair green for a week.</p><p>“Where’s George?” she asked lightly, turning the packaging over to read the back.</p><p>“Trying to distract him, are we?” Fred asked, drumming the countertop.</p><p>“I’m not distracting him!” she said, the tin smacked against the shelf as she set it down with a bit too much force.</p><p>Fred raised his brows, smiling.</p><p>“I was only—” she stuttered, her mind blanking. “Well—”</p><p>“Only what?” he asked, leaning back against the counter.</p><p>“I’m only here for a quill,” she said, hurriedly. “I mean, mine’s broken and I thought I remembered you both having some down here.”</p><p>Fred studied her. “Right,” he drawled. “Well, take your pick.” He nodded towards the shelves on the right side of the shop. “On the house.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “Thanks,” she said, heading over.</p><p>“Only stock them because of you,” Fred called. “Bloody waste of Galleons in my opinion.”</p><p>Hermione grinned.</p><p>He was obviously joking. The display was half half-empty, having been picked over by customers. She traced a hand over the cups, enjoying the rattle of the writing instruments inside. Finally, her eyes settled on a silver one. She lifted it, and its weight was solid and even in her fingers.</p><p>Perfect.</p><p>She tucked it into her pocket and rounded back towards the till.</p><p>At least she’d found a decent replacement. “Thanks, Fred,” she said, passing the counter. He nodded.</p><p>The door to the workshop swung open and shut, and George strolled through, wiping his hands on a rag.</p><p>She swallowed, stopping. Fred’s eyes lit up.</p><p>“Oi, George!” he shouted for the whole shop to hear. “Your girl’s nicking product!”</p><p>Hermione turned, her mouth dropping open. “Fred, you—” she gasped.</p><p>George strode forward, his head tilted. “Can’t have that,” he said. He approached her, crossing his arms. “Turn out your pockets, Miss.”</p><p>“Fred said that I could!” she said, whirling back to Fred.</p><p>“I said no such thing,” Fred called, shaking his head. The git.</p><p>She turned back to George. He was grinning at her, that playful spark dancing in his eyes. “You know,” he said. “We prosecute shoplifters to the furthest extent of the law.”</p><p>As if.</p><p>Something rogue danced in her ribs, and she took to the instinct, biting back a grin.</p><p>“You’d have to catch me, first,” Hermione whispered. George blinked. Then she laughed, pivoting and sprinting out of his reach, toward the back hall. George’s shout of surprise rang through the store as he took off after her.</p><p>She’d just made it through the door and was nearing the staircase when George careened through the threshold. She shrieked, dodging, but she was laughing too hard, and her balance was thrown off. His arms snagged her around the waist, and he spun, hoisting her backwards into the air, against his chest.  </p><p>It felt like dancing.</p><p>“Can’t believe you,” he gasped, faking outrage, but her peals of laughter seemed to sink through his skin, and suddenly he was laughing too, slowly lowering her to her feet. “What a terrible example for the children.”</p><p>She turned to face him, sucking in a breath. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, and a hiccup shook her frame.</p><p>George grinned, and stepped closer. “You have no idea,” he said. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth. The laughter died in her throat.</p><p>She should step away, retreat up the stairs with her quill.</p><p>But she didn’t.</p><p>George didn’t move, his breath hitching.</p><p>She hiccuped again, and the spell seemed to break. George, exhaled, ducking his head and chuckling.</p><p>Disappointment lanced through her.</p><p>“At least show me which one you picked,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “I’ll keep it stocked for you.”</p><p>Sheepishly, she pulled the quill from her pocket. George nodded, his eyes bright.</p><p>“Why am I not surprised,” he said, grinning. “Most expensive one of the lot.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. “I can put it back—”</p><p>“You joking?” George asked. “I only ordered them in the first place to get you around more often.”</p><p>Hermione flushed. “Don’t tease,” she said.</p><p>George leaned in. “They sold so well at Hogsmeade,” he said, bracing his hand on the wall over her head. “But that’s not why we carried them.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened.</p><p>His laughter followed her up the stairs.</p><p>#</p><p>March 16, 2003</p><p>Dinner at the Burrow was full of laughter. Percy and Ron were away—something about an appointment with a Potions master, but the rest of the family’s seemed to spill over, covering their absence.</p><p>Arthur was in rare form, conjuring flowers into everyone’s drinking glasses, despite Molly’s protests. It was strange, but his eyes seemed to follow the two of them. Every time she looked over, Mr. Weasley was smiling at her or George, like he knew something they didn’t. His laughter guided the table like a gentle compass, and Fred and George were lit with it, pushing their jokes farther and farther, until Angelina had butterbeer spurting out of her nose.</p><p>They were deep in shepherd’s pie when the fight came up.</p><p>“I heard you got a bit of a dressing down, Harry,” Fred said cheerily, lobbing a roll at George, who snatched it out of the air.</p><p>“Well, it was for good reason,” Harry said, good natured as he leaned down to help Teddy wipe his face. “Merlin, boy, always so sticky.”</p><p>Teddy cackled.</p><p>“What are you on about?” Mr. Weasley asked, his fork pausing.</p><p>“Only that Harry and Ron were gits, and George had to set them straight,” Fred said.</p><p>“That’s not what I said, Mate—” George started, hand outstretched as he interjected.</p><p>“It was Hermione, actually,” Harry said, shooting her a look. “George sort of helped things along, but Hermione spoke for herself.”</p><p>George pointed his spoon at Harry and nodded.</p><p>“And what did Harry and Ronald do to deserve this?” Mrs. Weasley asked, sitting up in her chair. Oh dear.</p><p>“It’s nothing, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said, passing the green beans.</p><p>“It wasn’t nothing,” Harry said, raising a brow at her. Hermione shook her head, but he continued, casually looking over the table. “I mean, when I opened my office door and saw her—I haven’t seen that look on her face since George enchanted the convertible.”</p><p>George’s spoon clanked onto his plate.</p><p>“What convertible?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Harry’s eyes widened.</p><p>“I’ll tell you later,” George whispered, ducking low to meet her ear. He sounded nervous. Ginny’s laugh rang over the table.</p><p>“That bad?” Ginny called. “I wish I had seen it.”</p><p>Harry winced. “No, it was remarkably less funny this time.”</p><p>Hermione gulped down her water.</p><p>“But it’s been sorted?” Arthur asked, looking between the two of them. Hermione nodded. “Excellent.” Arthur nodded. “Now, Ginny and Angelina—I hear you’ve got a big match coming up in April—”</p><p>Hermione froze, the conversation fading in her ears.</p><p>April.</p><p>Merlin, she’d almost forgotten.</p><p>April first was coming around the corner.</p><p>#</p><p>March 23, 2003</p><p>She was desperate, cramming her hands into her mittens. She had to hurry if she was going to slip out without him. “I’m leaving a bit early, George!” she called. His chair in the study creaked as he leaned back to look at her through the open door.</p><p>“You sure? I can finish up in here,” he said.</p><p>“No, Ginny wants to have a chat,” she said, jitters working up and down her spine. Surely, he’d see right through the farce.</p><p>“Alright,” George said. “Well, I’ll be along shortly.” He sounded tense and a bit distracted. He was pouring over the shop books again, trying to stretch profits farther to meet the rent hike. She exhaled shakily.</p><p>A whole week of wracking her brain, and she hadn’t been able to think of a single good idea.</p><p>It was hard to clear her mind enough to think properly in between worrying over the blood supremacy crime spree, watching for Winky’s owl, and studying published back records on Obliviate patients from St. Mungo’s. Each day seemed to pass faster than the one before, the stress ratcheting up all the while.</p><p>But she had to do something—it was his birthday, and George deserved a wonderful birthday. In a final act of desperation, she’d arranged a meeting with the others to ask for advice.</p><p>If they didn’t have any good ideas, she was done for.</p><p>She stepped into the floo, and the green fire roared around her.</p><p>The Burrow’s hearth thudded under her wellies, and she hoisted her bag onto the floor. In the living room, several sets of eyes landed on her.</p><p>“Right,” she said, panicked. “We’ve only got a few minutes, so we’ve got to be quick.”</p><p>Angelo, Fred, Angelina, and Ginny stared up at her from the sofa, and Mr. Weasley was perched with a paper in the armchair.</p><p>She faltered. “No one else?” she asked.</p><p>“The others were busy and couldn’t come early,” Ginny said, grimacing. “Getting together once a week is tricky enough as is.”</p><p>Hermione began to pace, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Right. Okay, well, it’s not ideal, but we’ll make do.”</p><p>“So, what is this urgent meeting?” Arthur asked, turning the page in his paper.</p><p>Hermione let out her breath, stopping in the middle of the floor. “George’s birthday.”</p><p>Fred broke into a grin.</p><p>“No!” she cried. “It’s not good, I mean, I can’t think of anything. I’m terrible!” She wrung her hands. “It’s hard enough when I don’t know what I’ve gotten him in the past, and he’s been so bloody wonderful—”</p><p>She was a powder keg, and the impending date the fuse.</p><p>“I mean, things have been going rather well,” she said, waving her hands through the air. “And now, I’m trying to figure out what to do, because there isn’t anything I can think of that says, ‘Hey, <em>Mate,’” </em>the “t” was crisp and sarcastic on her tongue. “‘I really enjoy you. I’m glad you’re in my life, and I mean that sincerely.’ While also saying—” she flailed. “The rest.”</p><p>“The rest?” Angelina asked, tilting her head.</p><p>“Oh, you know.” Hermione huffed. “‘Happy birthday. I think you’re very cute, and I suppose I’m quite excited to see where this goes,’ you know?”</p><p>She could hear Arthur’s soft laugh from behind the paper.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley, please,” she said, grimacing.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, turning the paper’s corner down to look at her. “There’s an opinion piece on the new Weird Sisters record. Riveting stuff.”</p><p>Hermione collapsed onto the bench in front of the staircase. “They don’t make gifts for this sort of situation,” she said.</p><p>“Has he dropped any hints?” Ginny asked.</p><p>Hermione put her head in her hands. “No, that’s the worst part. When I asked him about the day, he told me not to mind it.” She looked at them through her fingers. “He said he was planning on picking up another shift at the shop.”</p><p>Fred scoffed. “As if,” he said. “Well, don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to Verity.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “What do you usually do?”</p><p>Fred grinned. “Well, when we were younger, we’d plan out all these elaborate pranks. We still usually do a little something, but, each year has been different. We usually meet for dinner here, though.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Alright, that’s a start.” She paused. “But, what about a gift?”</p><p>Fred leaned forward, mischief snapping in his eyes. “You could always snog him,” he said. Angelina snorted, and Ginny rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Gross, but he’s got a point,” Ginny said, pointing at Fred. Hermione groaned, plunking her face into her hands.</p><p>“Please be serious,” she said. “That’s not something we’ve done yet, and, well—”</p><p>She stopped, face flushing.</p><p>“I mean, haven’t you got any other suggestions?” she asked. The energy in the room seemed to slump.</p><p>Then, from behind the crinkle of the paper, Arthur said, “I may be old fashioned, but my son has always enjoyed spending time with you. Carve some out on his birthday. Be intentional.”</p><p>Fred bounced forwards. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he said. “Do that.”</p><p>Hermione lifted her face. “But it’s not special enough,” she said.</p><p>Arthur lowered the paper and looked at her pointedly. “It will be to him,” he said. Hermione swallowed, Mr. Weasley’s meaning hitting her.</p><p>Alright. So, she’d carve out some time.</p><p>She pulled a notepad and pencil from her bag, scrawling some initial ideas down, ignoring the chatter around her. If she was going to be intentional about it, it should be fitting of the person. What did she know about George?</p><p>She grabbed her journal, flipping to George’s column. It was rather cluttered, now. The initial notes were hard to read, crammed with extra bits she’d penned in. She’d have to start a new page, soon, but it was still terribly incomplete.</p><p>George was loud and quiet. Brave. Silly. Incredibly caring. A maker of both fireworks and knitted socks. Teasing, but warm. Alight with magic. A bit dangerous, but in the safest sort of way. Mischief, but managed.</p><p>She needed a way to inject that into a day together.</p><p>It came to her, then.</p><p>“I’ll kidnap him,” she said, grinning down at the words.</p><p>Fred stopped mid-sentence. “Excuse me, what?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione flipped to a new page. “I’ll need help,” she said. “Can you get the boys to drag him out of work that day?”</p><p>“You’d like help kidnapping George?” Fred asked slowly.</p><p>“Yes, Fred, do keep up,” Hermione said, grinning up at him. Fred paused, then dashed around the couch.</p><p>“Alright, there are numerous ways to go about this, but—”</p><p>As he began to proceed through suggestions, Angelina and Ginny grouped around, pointing out flaws or potential catches in the plan. From time to time, Arthur chimed in.</p><p>They’d only just managed to clear everything away when George came through the floo. Hermione grinned at Fred.</p><p>“Oh, and Granger?” Fred whispered as the group headed into the kitchen. “Wear that old jean jacket. You know the one?”</p><p>“Why?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Fred ducked lower, passing her on his way to his seat. “He likes it.”</p><p>#</p><p>April 1, 2003</p><p>Today, there would be no crying over her memories. No agonizing over the case. No worrying about the rent. Today, she would follow the plan to perfection, and George would have an excellent birthday, and that was that.</p><p>Hermione repeated the mantra to herself in the mirror, fiddling with the plait in her hair. She’d opted for a breezy, purple sundress that reached her knees, with the jean jacket over top.</p><p>“Be brave,” she whispered, blinking at herself.</p><p>“I’m headed down to work!” George called. He had to be wondering why she hadn’t come out of her room, yet. But he’d know soon enough. She bit back a grin.</p><p>“Have a good day!” she shouted back.</p><p>There was a pause, as though he was waiting on her to appear. Finally, his footsteps shuffled out, slow. She waited for the telltale clank of the second door before pulling the basket from under the bed and packing everything into place. Knitting supplies, a Quaffle, some books, and a quilt.</p><p>Then, she crossed into the living room. There, she waited for the shout that would mark the initiation of Harry and Fred’s part of the plan.</p><p>They were going to wait until he was busy at the till, then swoop in, nicking his wand and blindfolding him. Verity would take over, and they’d drag him away for the next phase.</p><p>A loud cry rang under her feet.</p><p>Excellent.</p><p>Hermione tossed the green powder in.</p><p>The Burrow was unnaturally quiet, but then Mrs. Weasley crept into the kitchen, whispering, “I’ve got the meal for you, dear. And the broomsticks are in the shed, just as you asked.” Her voice danced with excitement.</p><p>“Thank you!” Hermione said, tucking the wrapped food into the basket. “Remember—”</p><p>“All quiet,” Mrs. Weasley nodded. George would probably know the location he’d been floo-ed to, but they were going to try their hardest to throw him off.</p><p> Hermione grinned and dashed out the door, apparating with a pop onto the hillside.</p><p>Winter had melted away, and the breeze carried the scent of new growth.</p><p>Perfect.</p><p>Hermione made quick work of it, spreading the old quilt along the ground, setting up the food.</p><p>She couldn’t say exactly why she’d chosen this hillside. Perhaps because it seemed the most friendly. It was where they’d all chatted, once, before horcrux hunt, and that was one of the last times things had felt mostly normal, really.</p><p>She took a deep breath, straightening her sundress. Now to wait.</p><p>Her watch chimed on her wrist.</p><p>They were a bit late. But that was alright.</p><p>Five minutes passed.</p><p>Hermione rummaged through the basket, ensuring everything was there.</p><p>Ten minutes passed.</p><p>She rearranged the food and dishes, then stopped, putting them back exactly as she’d had them.</p><p>Fifteen minutes.</p><p>Just as she’d started considering all of the ways in which things might’ve gone wrong, she heard them. A pop rang out, followed by an immediate explosion of noise.</p><p>“That’s my foot!” George shouted. Hermione stood, clasping her hands behind her back, then in front of her. The group appeared over the hill: Fred, Bill, and Harry all dragging George, who pulled against them quite fiercely.</p><p>“You can’t just take a bloke in the middle of the workday—we have a business to run, you sods!” he shouted, and Bill stumbled, struggling to maintain his grip. “And it’s Fred’s birthday too, why me? Drag him around and see how he likes it.”</p><p>“Would you shut it,” Fred grumbled, hoisting him forward. “We’ve been asked to bring you here, now wait, or you’ll spoil everything.”</p><p>George huffed, and she could hear the frustration in his voice. “I’d really rather not do this bit, Fred,” he said. “Not this year.” He sounded tired.</p><p>Hermione’s heart pounded. Fred shot her a look and mouthed, “It’s alright.”</p><p>“You’ll get over it,” Fred said briskly. Then, the trio released him, stepping back and apparating before George had a chance to grab hold.</p><p>“Oi!” George said, whirling at the sound of their disappearance, turning his back to her. “Brilliant,” he muttered, reaching up to the blindfold with his now free hands. His shoulders slumped. “Got to trek all the way back to—” he grumbled, his hands tangling with the tie. They’d made it a bit tight. Hermione bit her lip.</p><p>“Georgie?” she called.</p><p>George’s hands froze. He pivoted towards the sound of her voice in a slow movement, his head tilted.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked softly.</p><p>“You’ll have to forgive your brothers for the theatrics,” Hermione said. “It was my idea.” George scrambled, yanking at the tie. It came free, fluttering to the ground.</p><p>At the sight of her, he went still, his eyes going round.</p><p>Hermione shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Happy birthday, George.”</p><p>Shock registered across his features as he took in the picnic blanket, the hillside, his eyes flickering up and resting on the jean jacket, then her face.</p><p>Fred hadn’t been wrong. George liked the jacket. She couldn’t imagine why. It’d been dragged through more than a few battles and was looking rather worn. George lifted his hands to his head, turning, his brow furrowed.</p><p>“But, I thought, I mean—I said I had a shift, and you—” he said, voice faint.</p><p>“Yes, well, that was rubbish,” Hermione said, grinning. “Because I wanted to spend time with you instead, so,” she stepped forward, light on her toes, “I’ve taken you hostage.”</p><p>Something warm flashed through his eyes, but before she could identify precisely what it was, he exhaled, blinking rapidly and tipping his chin up. Hermione twisted her hands, waiting for him to respond.</p><p>Finally, he spoke. “You are—” Here, George paused. Then, he stumbled towards her, catching her around the waist and dragging her up into his arms. “Wonderful,” the last word was mumbled into the crook of her neck.</p><p>A pleasant shiver flitted up her spine.</p><p>Laughter shook his frame, and he lowered her to her feet, giving her plait a gentle tug. “Merlin’s beard, Granger, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”</p><p>“Only a minor one,” she said. George laughed, and the sound went through her like lightning. “Excellent,” she said, bouncing over to the blanket. “So, I’ve got some food and activities. I packed extra, so you’d have plenty of options.”</p><p>He watched her, his look warm as she prattled. Hermione pointed for him to sit, and he did, easing onto the quilt, his eyes never leaving hers. “And Fred was so excited to help, you should’ve seen,” she said, grinning. “He even told me to wear this jacket. He said you like it.”</p><p>George stilled, and Hermione paused, watching the color flood his cheeks.</p><p>“I don’t get it,” she said, laughing. “I mean, honestly, what is it with you and this old thing?”</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, something like concern filling his eyes. “I need to tell you something.”</p><p>“What?” she asked, breath hitching in her throat at the tone of his voice. George’s hands came up, faltering over the denim covering her shoulders. He looked nervous. Hermione leaned in. “You can tell me, George,” she said.</p><p>George shook his head, a nervous breath spilling out of him. “It’s just, I don’t want to frighten you,” he said.</p><p>Hermione nudged him. “I can take it,” she said.</p><p>He fidgeted, straightening the material.</p><p>“He said that because it’s mine,” he said, sounding odd and a bit stilted. “Or it used to be.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head. “What’s yours?”</p><p>His hand faltered on her lapel. “This.”</p><p>Whatever did he mean?</p><p>George sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re wearing my old jean jacket, Hermione,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes went wide, and her brain short circuited.</p><p>“This—it’s yours?” she asked, looking back and forth between him and the article in question.</p><p>George nodded, the line deep between his brows.</p><p> “But, that’s impossible. Surely, you mean a different one? I’ve had this since fifth year, and—”</p><p>George looked down.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>“You’d fallen asleep in the common room,” he said, staring at his hands. Hermione’s heart pounded. “You looked a bit cold, so I just—” his voice dropped off.</p><p>The reality dawned on her. “It was you? You put it over me?” she asked. He wouldn’t look at her. “But why didn’t you ask for it back?”</p><p>“I didn’t think much of it at the time,” George said. “Then, after a while, I saw you wearing it, and I, well,” He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t bring myself to.”</p><p>George shrugged and lifted his head, that familiar, pained look in his eyes.</p><p>“You know how it was—the world crashing around us, the three of you always in danger, and I could do so little.” His voice hitched on the last two words. He pulled up a fistful of grass, then released it, watching it flutter away. “When you wore it, it was like you were carrying a piece of me with you. The part that wanted you safe. Silly, really.”</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said.</p><p>“I never would’ve admitted to myself, but I think I fancied you a bit, even then,” he whispered.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Her mind hurtled at unknown speeds, grappling with the information.</p><p>George had been popular, loud. Daring in ways that she’d been diametrically opposed to. After all, she’d been his little brother’s uptight friend. A prefect, no less. They’d fought so much that year, and she’d scolded him in front of the whole house. Surely, he’d only tolerated her, then. Hadn’t he?</p><p>The records in her mind unspooled, and she searched for a place to slot this new information.</p><p>It was so much to take in, and George was watching her, his mouth a thin line.</p><p>She blinked, swallowing. What would he say, if the situation were reversed?</p><p>The answer came to her, then, in the form of a joke. “Must have driven you mad, watching me moon over Ron,” she said, wincing dramatically.</p><p>George cried out in protest, flopping onto his back, and Hermione laughed.</p><p>“You have no bloody idea,” he said, voice rough. Then the laughter poured out of him. “Oh, Merlin, if you knew.”</p><p>Hermione tucked her hands into the familiar, deep pockets. All those times she’d reached for it, never knowing.</p><p>“That’s a lot to process,” she said. “But I also think it’s sort of wonderful.”</p><p>George lifted his head, peering at her. “That I was an idiot?”</p><p>“No,” Hermione smiled. “That you were kind.” She breathed in the spring air, letting it fill her lungs. “I mean, George,” She shook her head, her throat suddenly closing up.</p><p>George propped himself up on his elbows, his expression guarded. “Now, don’t go getting soft on me, Granger,” he said.</p><p>Hermione shook herself free, laughing. “Honestly, I never thought you found me very interesting, especially back then.”</p><p>George shot upwards. “Believe me, Granger, I’ve always found you <em>very</em> interesting. How could I not?”</p><p>He was only being silly, but it was sweet of him to say. Something light and airy thrummed through her, and she found herself smiling, sorting through the food.</p><p>“Enough teasing,” she said, grinning and tucking into her sandwich. “Now, what do you think? We’ve got books, knitting, brooms—it’s your day.”</p><p>George looked at her, incredulous. “Teasing?” he asked. He took a breath, shaking his head. “Wait a minute, Granger. We can get to all of that, but, if it’s alright, I’d like to clear this up first.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, waiting for him to proceed.</p><p>He was quiet for a while, his eyes intently tracing over her face.</p><p>“I’ve been playing with fire for over a decade.” He leaned in, bracing a hand on his knee. “It’s a decent living, but I’ve never managed to even come close—” he swallowed.  “—to making anything that shines in the manner that you do.”</p><p>Hermione snorted, shaking her head. “That’s a very good line,” she said. She stuck her tongue out playfully, expecting a teasing retort. But George wasn’t laughing.</p><p>The sun beamed down on him, illuminating the gold flecks in his eyes. He turned, shifting to his knees, facing her fully.</p><p>“No, really,” he said, clearing his throat. “The way you see others. The way you remind me so constantly of hope. That relentless quest for good that you’ve taken up.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes, but he kept going, tapping an index finger against her nose.</p><p>“That smile, there.” He exhaled, and it was shaky. “There were times, during the war, when I felt so lost, like I was adrift in this sea of darkness. But then I’d see you, holding steadfast, beating back against the tides.”</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>She’d thought he’d become interested after the war. After the other Hermione had gathered up some mysterious secret to confidence. After she’d become someone better, more impressive.</p><p>“I’d never seen anything so beautiful in all my life,” he said, blinking up at the sky. “The way you care about the people around you—” He rubbed his hands over his face before pausing and chuckling dryly. “And to top it all off, you’ve got those eyes. It’s not fair.” At this, he turned back to her, leaning in and staring intently.</p><p>“They just—” he bit his lips together, lifting his hand as he flexed the fingers in a pantomimed explosion. “Kaboom!” he whispered, a smile lighting his face.</p><p>The ground was firm under her knees, and yet, her insides reeled, teetering over a cliffside.</p><p>“George,” she whispered.</p><p>“You know? I mean, you look at me, and it’s like—” His eyes fluttered shut, and he pressed his fist against his chest as he began to speak slowly, enunciating each syllable. “‘Oh, <em>Heaven</em>, help me.’” His ring glinted in the sunlight.</p><p>The heat flooded her face. Surely, there was a Whiz-bang waltzing through her sternum.</p><p>“Alright, now you’re being ridiculous,” she whispered.</p><p>“I’m not teasing.” He crept closer, hesitating. “You’ve got no idea, Granger, how smitten I am for you.” George leaned in, his fingers brushing little sparks into her neck.</p><p><em>Thrum, Thrum, Thrum</em> went her heart.</p><p>“I'm trying to be careful, Hermione Jean,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But you’re so very bright, and I’m feeling a bit Icarus.” With that, he tilted his head, fixing a soft kiss to her temple.</p><p>Hermione blinked, her sandwich slipping from her hands and thudding to the plate. George’s breath hitched, concern flickering through his eyes.</p><p>“Just thought you should know,” he said faintly, backing away. “I wasn’t teasing.”</p><p>Not again. Not this time. She shook her head, willing him to continue, but he misunderstood.</p><p>“Granger—” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to—” She lurched forward, taking his shoulders in her hands.</p><p>“I wish you would,” she breathed, her heart racing unchecked in her ribs.</p><p>George’s eyes flew open, wildly searching hers. Then, slowly, the confusion in his features lifted.</p><p>“Oh, Merlin,” he whispered.</p><p>The moment unfolded, a fragile sort of wonder swirling between them.</p><p>“Say the word, and I’m yours,” he said, halting. Birdsong rang over the hillside, and the sound seemed to carry the faint echo of the Sorting Hat’s words, all those years ago.</p><p>
  <em>“Ah, but you’ll grow best in Gryffindor, learning to be brave.”</em>
</p><p>She’d always thought courage was about heading into battles, keeping up the fight when things got difficult. But here, courage was different. It was a simple choice. To retreat back, returning to the simple, or to step forward, into the unknown.</p><p>It wasn’t something to be done lightly.</p><p>Hermione took a breath.</p><p>And she jumped into the beyond.</p><p>“Show me,” she said.</p><p>George swallowed, and his hands came up, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks as he cradled her head.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” George’s whisper was reverent, his touch featherlight as he leaned in. He pressed slow kisses to her face—first to her brow, then her cheeks. Each one left her a bit more breathless than the last. He retreated slightly, his eyes searching her features. “You are—” His nose grazed against hers as he moved closer, suspended over her. “Remarkable.”</p><p>The word rolled through her like thunder, and she tightened her hands around his apron straps.</p><p>Slowly, he tipped her chin up, his thumb following the line of her jaw.</p><p>“Now, let’s do this proper,” he murmured, his eyes dropping closed in time with her own.</p><p>His mouth met hers, moving slow and kind and gentle as his breath ghosted over her cheek.</p><p>Warmth flooded her chest, her magic singing through her ribs. It wasn’t lightning. It wasn’t danger. It was the heat from a fire in the hearth, the sound of a distant storm uncoiling over the sky while being kept safe inside.</p><p>She hadn’t known kissing could be like this.</p><p>The thought floored her.</p><p>“George,” she whispered, shock running through her.</p><p>She felt him smile against her lips, and he shifted, wrapping an arm around her torso, drawing her closer. His hand splayed across her shoulder blades, the other cradling her head, and Hermione’s mind blanked, stupefied at the love in it.</p><p>Then it was over.</p><p>He broke the kiss, exhaling a shaky laugh.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>George sat back on his heels, watching her. “Well?”</p><p>Hermione cupped her hands around her mouth, stunned. She hadn’t know what to expect, but this—</p><p>“C’mon, Granger, how’d I do?” he asked, grinning.</p><p>“Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione whispered. “You’ve been holding out on me, you git.”</p><p>George threw his head back and laughed, the noise like sunshine on the hillside.</p><p>#</p><p>April 4, 2003</p><p>Fleur sashayed into her closet, rummaging. “It can get very cold in the stands, so I would recommend layering,” she said, her French accent peeking through as she flicked through the hangers.</p><p>Hermione watched on the bed. “I’m still not positive this is a good idea,” she said. “All those people will be there.” She twisted her hands together. She hadn’t spent as much time with Fleur as the other Weasley women, and the accomplished, confident air that the other woman moved with unnerved her a bit. But Ginny and Angelina were busy warming up with the team, and Fleur had volunteered to help her get ready.</p><p>Hermione wasn’t about to say no. Not with Fleur’s public relations experience at the agency. They had to be careful about public appearances, and if this game wasn’t such a big deal, she wouldn’t bother.</p><p>Fleur emerged, tossing her a dark, red pant suit. “What do they call you in the papers, Hermione?”</p><p>Hermione sighed. “A menace?”</p><p>Fleur grinned. “I was going to say ‘golden girl,’ but that is just as good,” she said, raising her perfectly manicured brows. “You are the brightest witch of your age, little Gryffindor, and when you open your mouth to roar, the world stops to listen.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“If it helps, remember that you are a highly decorated war hero, and so is everyone else attending in our group today.” Fleur said. “They wouldn’t dare.” She turned as Hermione pulled the suit on.</p><p>“I don’t feel like a decorated war hero,” Hermione said, wriggling out of her denims and shoving her legs through the trousers. Her hands shook on the jacket buttons, Ron’s voice echoing through her mind. “I feel more like a child—”</p><p>Her voice stuck in her throat as she saw her reflection. She spun, assessing the suit’s appearance in the mirror. It was more fitted than what she was used to.</p><p>“You do not look like a child,” Fleur said, turning to her with a knowing smile. She reached up, freeing Hermione’s plait. Her curls tumbled out, and Fleur began to whisper charms into them, building the volume and sheen.  </p><p>Someone rapped on the door.</p><p>“About ready?” George’s voice filtered through the wood. Hermione flushed.</p><p>“Yes! Just a moment!” she called. Fleur smirked but said nothing.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip, fiddling with her jacket sleeve. “Are we sure about this? It’s not the Harpies’ colors.”</p><p>Fleur smiled. “We are going for fire, Hermione.”</p><p>“Yes, but—”</p><p>Fleur shook her head. “Shoulders back,” she said, circling her. “You conquered a dark lord. Act like it.”</p><p>Hermione stiffened, trying to copy Fleur’s stance.</p><p>Fleur sighed, reaching up to adjust Hermione’s posture. “So much work to redo,” she muttered. “Not that I mind. Victoire never lets me dress her up.”</p><p>Hermione laughed.</p><p>“My work is done,” Fleur announced, throwing open the door.</p><p>They headed into the living room, meeting Bill and George. George paused, his mouth dropping open. The piece of chocolate he’d been enchanting to dance above Victoire’s head tumbled to the floor-boards.</p><p>“That’s bold,” Bill said, eyeing Hermione’s outfit. “She’ll stick out in the sea of green.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Fleur said.</p><p>#</p><p>The crowd pressed around them, and Hermione gripped George’s elbow. It wasn’t as large as the World Cup, but the atmosphere carried its echo.</p><p>“Alright?” George murmured, stooping to her ear.</p><p>“Yes, um. Fine, thanks,” she said, stuttering over the words. She’d been nothing but clumsy around him all week, and it was wearing on her.</p><p>To her side, Fred whooped, shoving into Harry. “They’re going to smoke them, Mate,” he shouted.</p><p>“Oh, I know,” Harry said, bounding up the stairs towards their seats. “I mean, Ginny’s going to wipe the floor with them.”</p><p>“The Harriers haven’t the slightest chance,” Fred shouted. “I mean, Davins thinks his arm is good, my word, what a joke.”</p><p>“It’ll be a blood bath!” Harry yelled back, and he sounded disarmingly happy at the prospect.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows. The two were kitted out in green, sporting their respective wives’ jerseys.</p><p>“Really, Hermione,” Harry said, whirling to face her. “This is different than the Quidditch you’re accustomed to.”</p><p>He’d said it five times already.</p><p>“Really?” she said dryly. Harry nodded.</p><p>“This is a whole different league,” he said. “I mean, we were good.” He pointed between Ron, George, Fred, and himself. “But this? It’s a different game.”</p><p>She ducked her head, avoiding Ron’s eyes. They still hadn’t spoken after the fight at the Ministry, and she’d found that it was easiest to let conversation flow around her when he was involved.</p><p>He didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he didn’t know what to say. She sighed as they filtered into the box. It was open to the air, a glass railing standing between them and the arena. Everyone moved light on their feet, George rivaling his brothers in their excitement.</p><p>It really was sweet how much they all supported each other, and with two of their own on the team, she could understand the enthusiasm. She really was proud of Angelina and Ginny, even if she didn’t follow the stats with the same rigor that the boys did.</p><p>She sank into a seat on the far side of the box, pulling a book from her bag.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” George said. He plucked it out of her hands.</p><p>“George!” she said, her jaw dropping. He shook his head, peeling off his hunter green jacket and rolling up his white oxford sleeves.</p><p>“No,” he said, dropping into the chair beside her. “I formally request that you give the match at least thirty minutes before you lose yourself in—” he paused, glancing down at the spine. “<em>Theoretical Approaches to Elvish Welfare</em>.” He stopped. “Hermione, you co-authored this.”</p><p>“So?” she asked, tugging it back from him. “It’s not like I can remember the process, and it’s got a lot of great information I’d like to review.”</p><p>George’s mouth quirked. “Right, sorry,” he said. “Still.” He lifted his brows. “Half an hour?”</p><p>Hermione turned the book over in her hands and sighed. “Alright.”</p><p>“Goody,” George said, bouncing in his chair. His arm stretched up, over her shoulders, and he leaned in, pointing across the pitch.</p><p>“Watch that opening,” he said. “That’s where they’ll come out in a few moments.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Hermione asked, amusement lancing through her at his intensity.</p><p>“Oi,” he whispered. “Pay attention. There’ll be a quiz at the end.”</p><p>She perked up. “For a grade?”</p><p>George paused, blinking slowly.</p><p>“Would you like there to be a grade?” he asked. Hermione propped her chin in her hand.</p><p>“Yes,” she said. “It feels more worthwhile that way.”</p><p>“Alright, there’s an exam, then, and it’s bloody brutal,” George said, shaking his head. Hermione reached into her bag. “What now?” he cried, trying to swipe it away from her.</p><p>“I’ve got to take notes, obviously,” Hermione said, contorting her brow. George stared at her, deadpan.</p><p>She poised her quill over the notepad, waiting expectantly. “Whenever you’re ready, Professor,” she said, grinning.</p><p>“Ten points from Gryffindor, for cheek,” he said, crossing his arms.</p><p>The roar from the crowd outside intensified, rumbling around them, and his head swiveled towards the noise.</p><p>The Harpies burst into the arena, emerald green and flashing through the pitch like lightning. As they zipped by the booth, a high-pitched screech rang through the air.</p><p>“Fred and I did that,” George said, leaning in. “We rigged up head of the broomsticks, you see, to whistle like a Harpie when they fly at high speeds.”</p><p>Hermione grinned. “That’s brilliant,” she said.</p><p>“Thanks,” George said, his cheeks going pink.</p><p>In the center of the field, she spotted a flash of red. It was Ginny, plastered against her firebolt, flirting with the sound barrier.</p><p>The commentator’s voice filled the arena.</p><p>
  <em>“There goes Ginny Potter, fastest chaser in the league, in quite good form today, as it looks.”</em>
</p><p>Harry went wild, launching out of his seat, shouting, Fred jumping at his side.</p><p>A second commentator’s voice rang through the stands: <em>“Right on her heels, it’s Angelina Johnson warming up with the Quaffle—”</em> Hermione strained, leaning forward. Angelina’s arm was a blur, and then the Quaffle was at the other end of the pitch, in Ginny’s arms. <em>“Have mercy! The arm on her. I wouldn’t want to be Rudolf Davins’s shoes right now.”</em></p><p>“Is that Lee?” Hermione asked, ducking towards George.</p><p>He nodded, grinning. “When he’s not on tour, he does some of the home matches, as a favor,” George said.</p><p>Lee’s excited shout boomed again: <em>“I’ll tell you what, they had trouble before Potter joined the team. No one could get far enough in front of Johnson’s arm, but this girl is made of something else—”</em></p><p>She could barely hear the commentators over the roar from their box.</p><p>The other commentator played off of Lee’s energy, feeding the crowd’s frenzy. <em>“The two met on the Hogwarts pitch, if you can believe it! Playing on a team with Harry Potter!”</em></p><p>Lee’s voice rumbled back, <em>“Right you are, and I was lucky enough to see it! And would you look at that, it appears the Weasley clan is here in support today.”</em> Something flashed, and Hermione blinked as the large screen on the opposite side of the arena lit with Harry and Ron’s faces.</p><p>“Lift your chin, Gryffindor,” Fleur’s voice was steady behind her. “No fear. Only fire.”</p><p>Hermione shot to her feet, folding her arms and crossing to Harry and Ron’s side. They parted seamlessly, letting her between them.</p><p>The camera shook, widening to pan over them.</p><p>Something prodded into her spine, and she reached for it. It was the book. She pulled it front of her, the title on the cover visible. It was now or never. She shifted her shoulders back and sucked in a deep breath.</p><p>Then, Hermione stared straight into the camera.</p><p>She wouldn’t be intimidated. If the blood supremacists saw it, they’d know that she wasn’t giving up.</p><p>The crowd roared.</p><p><em>“An intimidating sight for the Harriers</em>,” the first commentator shouted. <em>“Imagine staring that down.”</em></p><p>On the screen, Ron’s gaze flickered to her, surprise lighting his features. Fleur smiled in the background.</p><p>The camera blinked, and the screen returned to the players, tracking the yellow and green robes across the pitch.</p><p>Hermione crossed back to her seat, dropping into it and pulling her quill and paper back onto her lap.</p><p>“You were saying?” she said.</p><p>“Fifty points to Gryffindor,” George said, a trace of awe in his tone.</p><p>“That’s too many points,” she said, scratching a heading into her notepad.</p><p>“Respectfully, I disagree,” George said. His arm came back around her shoulders. “I’d very much like to kiss you right now.” This last part was mumbled.</p><p>“Don’t distract me while I’m studying,” Hermione said, a smile toying at the corner of her mouth.</p><p>#</p><p>The game was chaos, the Harriers taking a beating. Harry hadn’t been wrong. It was a different sort of Quidditch—far more complicated and at speeds that made her stomach twist.</p><p>Through the whole thing, George leant in whenever she asked, explaining various plays and providing helpful context. After a while, she started chiming in with her own opinions, purely for the joy of watching George’s face light every time she tugged on his sleeve.</p><p>Four hours and seventeen minutes into the match, the Harpies caught the snitch, and the game was over. The booth exploded into cheers, Harry and Fred loudest of all. With the win, the team had secured their entrance into the tournament at a higher bracket.</p><p>Hermione grinned, stretching. Her arms were extended over her head when she felt it. A cold rattle, right up her sternum.</p><p>She walked to the railing, peering out onto the pitch.</p><p>“You alright?” George asked, stepping up to her side.</p><p>A high whistle pierced the air. George’s eyes lifted from her, his expression contorting.</p><p>Something small and dark streaked past, narrowly missing her face.</p><p>Bedlam erupted.</p><p>George’s arm shot in front of her, dragging her behind him. Hermione pulled her wand out, but before she could cast, it hurtled towards them again, faster than her eyes could follow. George lunged, his beater’s reflexes taking control as he reached out to block it.</p><p>It collided with his arm like a clap of thunder.</p><p>Hermione’s heart stopped beating.</p><p>“Immobulus!” she screamed, and it clattered to the box’s floor. A dark, metallic dagger with runes etched into the blade rattled on the cobblestones.</p><p>George stumbled, turning back to face her, a look of shock etched into his features. Red blossomed through the white sleeve of his oxford.</p><p>Harry’s voice was distant as he shouted off shield charms. There was so much yelling, the world tilting.</p><p>“George—” Hermione said, stomach turning at the crimson on his sleeve. His face had gone pale, his breaths coming fast. Were there more? She whirled, looking around.</p><p>“Everyone back up!” Ron shouted as Harry knelt, moving his wand through the air, pulling the dagger off the ground with a handkerchief.</p><p>Hermione turned back to George.</p><p>He still stood, frozen, staring down at his fingers.</p><p>The veins in his hand were turning purple.</p><p>Panic jolted through her.</p><p>No.</p><p>“George,” she said, louder this time, reaching for him.</p><p>George’s head lifted, and he blinked at her in disbelief, swaying. His body pitched backwards, his torso slipping through her fingers and over the railing.</p><p>Then, George fell.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Evanesco</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>According to Professor McGonagall, when things are vanished with the "Evanesco" spell, they are put "into non-being, which is to say, everything" (DH).</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone.<br/>First: I am so sorry. &lt;3 I did not anticipate the cliff hanger being as brutal as it was, and I do have a bit of regret. I'm posting this chapter a bit early, and I'm trying to get a head start on the next one so you all don't have to wait as long. </p><p>I'm a bit social-ed out at present, so I hope it's alright if I sneak off without responding individually to comments from last week.<br/>&lt;3 Please know that I read them all, and I'm sending everyone many internet hugs. &lt;3 &lt;3 I also want to say thank you so much for taking the time to read and/or comment. You all are very kind and encouraging. &lt;3  Please do your best to stay safe and warm. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>Next: Please forgive any mistakes! I've been editing all day, and but there's quite a lot of content, and I always miss things. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or this storyworld. </p><p>Songs for this week include "Dancing Queen" by Abba (you'll know the part), "Brother" by Kodaline (Yes, again), "All I Want" by Kodaline (specifically starting at the mention of a folded jumper), and "Yellow" by Coldplay (especially at the very end).</p><p>I'm off to start the next chapter, but for now:<br/>Grab your drink (I highly suggest apple cider for this week), your snack (I've got granola), and a cozy blanket. Let's dive in. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>Chapter Twenty-Two: "Evanesco"</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>July 14, 1998</p><p>George bent over the caldron, grinding his palms into his eyes. The stench of burning Wolfsbane soaked his clothes. He swore.</p><p>Why was it so bloody impossible?</p><p>They didn’t have much time—less than a month to perfect it, and then Percy would face the full moon, with or without the potion. Percy, who preferred paperwork to broom sticks. Percy, who wore mostly greys because the other colors were too bright. Percy, who complained about noise above a whisper. Percy, who clung to rules and regulations like a security blanket.</p><p>It would tear him apart.</p><p>George gripped the desk.</p><p>He vanished the attempt, shaking himself. Then, he flipped back in the potions book, straining at the text’s vague instructions. Belby’s recipe seemed impossible to follow—the measurements were imprecise, as the necessary amounts would fluctuate depending on the time of brewing. It relied too much on the assumption that the brewer would have the sort of intuition that came with decades’ time and a Mastery in the art.</p><p>George had neither.</p><p>The workshop was quiet, punctuated by the sound of Fred’s snores in the corner. He’d fallen asleep at his own station, and George didn’t have the heart to wake him.</p><p>Morning’s light pierced the windowpanes, and they were no closer.</p><p>He jumped, shaking himself. Percy was counting on him.</p><p>Hands steady, George ladled out two measures of water and started again.</p><p>#</p><p>July 15, 1998</p><p>Bodies packed the courtroom, crammed along the walls and around the stands, and George felt sick. The chamber hadn’t changed a bit since the last time he’d been here, save for the number of those present. Camera flashes strobed, and he blinked, grimacing. It was as though the whole wizarding world wanted to see what would become of the Malfoy legacy. Blood in the water sold papers.</p><p>Lucius wouldn’t be walking free, and that was what mattered, he supposed. As for Narcissa, he had nothing to add. He believed what Harry said about Narcissa’s actions during the final battle. As for Draco, he deserved a fair trial. George didn’t know all the wrongs that Draco would be asked to account for, but he also knew that Draco had made a few right decisions.</p><p>One of which concerned him.</p><p>It was this event that had brought him before the Wizengamot today. Exhaustion sat heavy on his shoulders, and the court’s lights were brutal on his eyes. The migraine throbbing behind his temples made it difficult to follow the barrister’s questions as they led him to the center of the floor.</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>Looking at the floor had been a mistake. The patterned stone brought a wave of nausea from his stomach, and he stared upwards.</p><p>Another mistake. He could almost see the ghosts of the Dementors, swirling around the ceiling. Alright. He’d best not look at the walls, either.</p><p>Hopefully, this would be over quickly.</p><p> “Do you, George Weasley, come to speak on behalf of the accused of your own free will?” the barrister asked.</p><p>“Yes,” George said.</p><p>A camera flashed, and George winced as the pinch behind his temples intensified. Brilliant. More piercing light.</p><p>His head spun.</p><p>“And what relevant information do you have to present?” Shacklebolt asked, looking down at the records.</p><p>“After the Ministry fell, Mr. Malfoy had an opportunity to gain valuable intelligence from my brother and I,” George said. “He was with a team who employed Veritaserum, and had they asked more questions, they could’ve found information about the resistance’s plans.”</p><p>He wouldn’t look back at Malfoy. The sight of the git still turned his stomach. So, instead, he looked to the side. A smattering of Weasleys filled out the row—Bill, Fred, Ron, Harry, and Hermione. Hermione and Harry had already testified to Draco’s refusal to identify Harry and to Narcissa’s aid during the final battle. Ron was there on Hermione’s request, but he had declined to speak.</p><p>Further down the stands, Mrs. Malfoy sat, handkerchief twisted in her gloved hands.</p><p>“Please elaborate?” Minister Shacklebolt’s voice pulled him from the trio. As George turned back towards the court, he caught a glimpse of the paneling upon which he’d leaned with his father, when the Dementors had swooped down. He blinked hard, twisting away.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley?” Minister Shacklebolt leaned forward in his seat, a look of concern coming over him.</p><p>George huffed, grinding his palms into his eyes. Bugger. He could feel Hermione’s eyes on him. She couldn’t know. The memory crushed down on him, and he struggled, trying to remember the words he’d practiced.</p><p>Shacklebolt cleared his throat.</p><p>“Right, well—” George said, hesitating. “After I answered two questions, Malfoy stopped the interrogation prematurely. For the amount they dosed me with, I figure they could’ve found a lot more. Didn’t make much sense for him to knock me out when he did.” That was it. That was all he had to say. George sighed, thrusting his hands through his hair. “The git’s a bully and a sod, but he made a terrible Death Eater.”</p><p>The court murmured, and George dragged his hands over his face. He was tired. He’d already debriefed Shacklebolt privately today on the events at the Vane house—the werewolf, Mr. Vane’s actions, and the black fog’s re-appearance. Kingsley had promised to keep the details concerning Percy private. At the workshop, the incomplete potion rested, demanding his attention.</p><p>When would this be over?</p><p>“Would you be willing to submit your memory to a Pensieve?” Shacklebolt asked.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>George’s pulse jumped. He should’ve expected that question. Why hadn’t he anticipated it? He looked at Fred, wide eyed. Fred blinked back at him. Refusing would look strange. After all, he shouldn’t have anything to hide. His ribs constricted, and the black, marble stone in the room seemed to sway inward.</p><p>Testifying had been a terrible idea. He should’ve stayed back in the shop, where he belonged.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley?” Shacklebolt prompted.</p><p>“Will it be confidential?” George asked, instinctually glancing towards the trio. Hermione’s brow wrinkled, and George looked away. He had to get out of here.</p><p>“Yes, if that’s your wish,” Shacklebolt said. “Along with myself, I can have a few members of the Wizengamot review the material and verify its contents for the rest of the court.”</p><p>George swallowed. It wasn’t ideal, but Shacklebolt would have common sense.</p><p>“Fine,” he said, the word hard on his tongue. “I’d like to leave, now?”</p><p>Minister Shacklebolt tilted his head, but nodded, and George bolted, his stomach squeezing in on itself as he shoved through the throng of onlookers near the doors. In the distance, he could hear Shacklebolt calling Fred to the stand, but he’d had enough. If he never saw the Wizengamot court room again, he’d be happy.</p><p>Finally, he pushed into the hall, where the air didn’t seem any lighter despite the large gulps of it that he sucked down his throat.</p><p>What was wrong with him?</p><p>His head pounded. He need to get back to the shop—to the brewing station. Percy was counting on him.</p><p>A smooth voice echoed over the glossy floor, and George’s blood ran cold.</p><p>Mr. Vane faced away from him, standing just outside the court doors, speaking with his representation team. His hands were loosely bound in glowing cuffs, but the crisp, dragon-leather robes on his shoulders were unwrinkled.</p><p>George couldn’t breathe.</p><p>“George?” Hermione’s voice pulled at George from behind, but the sound carried further. Vane turned, his gaze narrowing as it landed on Granger.</p><p>George snapped.</p><p>“You did it on purpose!” he shouted, lunging at the man. His hands closed on Vane’s shoulders, and the other man shouted as they hit the floor. The sharp impact from the stone didn’t phase him, and he hauled off, attempting to lay a blow against the other man’s jaw. Vane twisted out of the way just in time, and George’s knuckles cracked on the marble.</p><p>He could hear Hermione calling to him, begging him to stop, but something had taken him over—the thought of Percy, falling to the courtyard. The memory of Vane’s eyes, returning again and again to the upper floor, like he was checking a trap. He reached back again, but something caught his arm, hoisting him up into the air.</p><p>The world was flashing, a terrible weight grappling him and dragging him back as he kicked and struggled.</p><p>“He did it on purpose!” he shouted, seething, pulling as hard as he could, but he couldn’t reach the other man, who now stood, dusting off his robes and staring at him with amusement.</p><p>He wasn’t himself.</p><p>“Mate, mate!” Harry’s voice didn’t reach him. He was fury, cold and lost, tearing against the hands that held him.</p><p>“Let me go!” he shouted, but they didn’t.</p><p>Instead, they dragged him away, his feet catching on the floor as he stumbled. His mind crashed and whirled, and he panicked.</p><p>“Don’t—” he cried, lunging. “Let me go, let me go!”</p><p>“Stop it! All of you!” Granger’s voice filtered through the storm, and George opened his eyes. Hermione stood toe to toe with Harry, her eyes wide and hands balled into fists. “He’s not well!” She whirled, prying Harry, Ron, and Bill off of him. “This way—” she said, voice tight as she nodded towards a lift.</p><p>George swallowed, brushing off his sleeves.</p><p>The flashes followed them as they stepped through the lift’s grate. No one spoke as the lift dinged, and George closed his eyes, focusing on the hint of chamomile, rather than the Ministry’s metallic sting.</p><p>“I hate this place,” he whispered.</p><p>A hand brushed his shoulder, a smattering of sparks in the touch.</p><p>The lift dinged, and the group stepped out, proceeding to the floos. No one spoke until Hermione tossed a handful of powder into the nearest grate and shouted “The Burrow.” They thrust him through, even though he’d been intending to return to the shop alone.</p><p>He stumbled across the hearth, then stilled, frozen at the scene before him.</p><p>Percy laid on the sofa, pale and wrapped in a quilt.</p><p>“It’s about time,” Percy said, quiet.</p><p>George grimaced. He still didn’t have the Wolfsbane done, and Percy would surely ask. If only he’d stayed home.</p><p>Something collided with his back and George tripped into the living room.</p><p>“You’ve got to move out of the way,” Ron mumbled, pushing past him as the rest of the group shortly followed.</p><p>“That went well,” Harry said, brushing soot from his jacket. Bill dropped into the armchair, his eyes trained on George with an intense focus.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” George’s words were strained and quiet. His head throbbed. He’d made such a mess of things.</p><p>“We’ve got to be above board,” Harry muttered. “Vane’s case is already murky enough.”</p><p>George hung his head.</p><p>“Dunno what came over me,” he whispered. “Something about that room just—” he stopped. He shouldn’t talk about that day.</p><p>“What happened?” Percy asked.</p><p>No one answered.</p><p>“What room?” Percy tried again.</p><p>“He’s right; it’s ghastly,” Hermione said, straightening her plait in the mirror over the table. “The way the space is laid out—it’s just like the last time I was there. I was polyjuiced, and Umbridge was interrogating mugglebornes.”</p><p>George’s eyes widened. He hadn’t known that she’d been in the chamber when they snuck in.</p><p>Percy struggled, rising onto his elbows. “You were at the Wizengamot?” he asked, eyes wide.</p><p>“Yes,” Bill answered, propping his chin in his hands.</p><p>“What happened?” Percy asked. The room was quiet, the clank of the kettle ringing from the kitchen. George stared at the ceiling. Maybe he could apparate.</p><p>“We were there for the Malfoy trials,” Harry said. “And George sort of—” he paused.</p><p>Maybe the floor would open up and swallow him. His hand ached. He’d have to fix it later.</p><p>“He lost it,” Ron said, folding his arms. “He seemed pretty rattled during his testimony, pulling at his hair, but then, after, he saw Vane in the hall, and—”</p><p>George shook his head, striding to the floo.</p><p>“I’ve got to work,” he said.</p><p>“George—” Hermione’s voice called from the kitchen. He stopped, blinking hard.</p><p>“Sorry about the tea,” he said. The floo powder crunched in his fist, and he threw it in.</p><p>#</p><p>July 16, 1998</p><p>The potion splashed from the caldron, singing his sleeve.</p><p>His head was light and foggy, pounding, pounding, pounding.</p><p>The wolfsbane wasn’t the right color. He’d failed. Again.</p><p>His hands shook on his wand, his shoulders coiled so tight, the line of tension working up his neck and into his head.</p><p>He hadn’t slept in days.</p><p>“Evanesco,” he murmured, and the attempt vanished. Trembling, he measured out the water, then the willow extract. Maybe a bit extra, this time. But, hadn’t he already tried that? He swept his hand over the stack of parchment, listing notes from each attempt. There was so much ink to look through.</p><p>He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Where was the Aconite? He yanked open the drawer, but the familiar root was absent. He hadn’t used it all. Where had he put it?</p><p>He pressed his palms into his eyes.</p><p>Everything was going wrong.</p><p>The water began to boil.</p><p>“No!” George shouted, turning the burner down. He’d have to start again.</p><p>“Evanesco,” he said, but the magic sputtered in his hand, not even reaching his wand. The botched attempt remained.</p><p>The room spun, and George gripped his workstation, shoulders heaving.</p><p>He couldn’t do it.</p><p>Something in him cracked, and he threw the ladle across the room. It clanked uselessly against the wall.</p><p>The door squeaked, and George whirled.</p><p>Granger stood in the threshold, box in hand. She took a quick, appraising glance at him, the ladle, the workstation in upheaval. Her expression remained unphased.</p><p>“Right,” she said.</p><p>“Now’s not a good time, Hermione,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>“So it seems,” she said. “You don’t look like you’re having a very good time.” She crossed to the window, cracking it open. “You’ve got to have proper ventilation while you brew.”</p><p>“I know,” George said, his mouth dry. He’d forgotten. A small detail, slipping through the cracks of sleep deprivation.</p><p>Her footsteps were rapid, and her hand tingled as she nudged him towards the chair. “Sit down, Weasley.”</p><p>“You’re calling me Weasley, now?” he asked, raising his brows. As he sat, the world swayed. Merlin, he was tired.</p><p>“Well, aren’t you?” she asked, grinning. “More than most, I’d say, seeing as you’re stuck at the center of the bunch.”</p><p>“That’s Fred,” George said. “He’s the middlest.” Something warm was lodged in his chest, pulling at him to close his eyes.</p><p>“Well, I suppose you’re right,” Granger said, scrawling a note down as she looked through the recipe. “But you bring quite a lot of heart to the group.” She flashed him a quick smile. “You’re a good brother to them, George.”</p><p>Oh. Oh, oh, oh.</p><p>His fragile heart began to beat.</p><p>“Flattery will get you nowhere, Granger,” he said.</p><p>“It’s the truth,” she said, measuring out the water. His blinks were getting longer, the smell of chamomile and the early morning breeze mixing. His head dropped against the chair.</p><p>“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his vision blurring.</p><p>“Rest awhile, George,” Hermione said.</p><p>He did.</p><p>#</p><p>When he came to, the mid-afternoon sun spilled through the workshop, warming his skin. He started in the chair. Granger stood over his workstation, her plait frayed and a quill tucked between her teeth. She went up on her tip-toes, reaching into a box of bicorn horns on the middle shelf. Two caldrons simmered in front of her, and nothing smelled burned.</p><p>“Made you some Pepper-Up,” she said, pointing at a steaming mug on the desk. George lurched to a stand and shuffled over. She’d mixed it into tea. The thoughtful gesture wasn’t lost on him, and he watched her quietly as he drank it down. The pounding in his head had gone, and the heaviness in his chest dissipated as the drink made its way into his stomach.</p><p>Hermione leaned back against the desk, watching. “Better?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“I think I’ve got it, finally,” Hermione said, peering into the caldron. George smacked the mug on the desk.</p><p>“You’re joking,” he said. “How?” Hermione jumped a little, but then her eyes found his, and she began to laugh.</p><p>“You were almost there,” she said, shrugging. “Truly.” Her brows furrowed in concentration as she counted the stirs with her wand. She placed a stasis charm over it, then stepped back. “I think the fumes in the room were throwing things off.”</p><p>He couldn’t speak for a moment, thinking of Percy on the sofa at the Burrow.</p><p>“It’ll work?” he asked.</p><p>“I think so,” she said, peering into the caldron again. “It’s not likely to be as shelf stable as it should be, but it’ll work for a few months, according to the book.”</p><p>The load of rocks on his back tumbled off, and he threw his arms around her. She squeaked in surprise, but then her hands came up, and she hugged him back. “Thank you,” he breathed, burying his face in her hair. “Granger, you have no idea—”</p><p>Sparks surged, rushing through him in a wave that stole the words from his mouth. He dropped her, face burning. He’d gotten carried away. Lavender and chamomile lingered on his arms.</p><p>She seemed unphased, prattling. “Honestly, I just put the finishing touches on it. Your notes were excellent, and—”</p><p>George’s mouth opened. Closed. What had just happened?</p><p>“—only a matter of eliminating the means that hadn’t worked.” She tidied the workspace as she spoke. Her hands tucked the supplies into the right drawers, like she was moving on instinct. Like she belonged there.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said, leaning back against the desk. The world had gone unsteady, but in a not-altogether unpleasant sort of way. It made no sense. It was some sort of magic, tugging at him. But only when Granger was nearby.</p><p>“—so would you mind terribly?” she asked, and his attention snapped back to her.</p><p>“Pardon?” he asked.</p><p>“I’ve got to get some textbooks, and this has to simmer for a few hours before it can be bottled. Would you go with me? I hate going in public alone these days. It’s…” she trailed off.</p><p>“Like being ravaged by a pack of wild animals?” he supplied, lifting his brows.</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, something like that.”</p><p>“It’s the least I can do,” he said, nodding at the caldron. Hermione’s face flushed.</p><p>“It was nothing, really,” she said.</p><p>“It wasn’t nothing,” he said, staring at her. Hermione pushed the chair under the desk before looking up at him.</p><p>“Flattery will get you nowhere, Weasley,” she said, crossing her arms.</p><p>“Bugger,” he grinned, then headed towards the workshop door. “After you, then.”</p><p>#</p><p>Flourish and Blotts was quiet, and they’d been lucky enough to slip in unnoticed. Hermione pulled books from the stacks, referencing her list. She’d been talkative today, more so than she’d been in weeks. George watched her, question poised on his tongue.</p><p>It wasn’t his place. He didn’t mean to pry. But he was a bit worried.</p><p>“How have you been?” he asked. Hermione blinked up at him.</p><p>“Alright, I suppose,” she said. George tapped the shelving with his index finger, pretending to examine the volume on Runic Tradition before him.</p><p>“I was only wondering. You’ve seemed a bit quiet,” he said.</p><p>Granger paused, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Well, it’s been strange. It seems like things are back to normal, but then something will happen, and—” her eyes darkened, and she reached for another book.</p><p>George nodded, waiting.</p><p>“My parents are still in Australia,” she said, the words so quiet and small that he almost didn’t catch them.</p><p>George’s hand dropped, his insides twisting at her words. Suddenly, her extended silences at the Weasley table made sense. The way her eyes seemed to gloss over as the whole family joked. He should’ve known, but he thought it had already been sorted.</p><p>“You miss them,” he said, poking a book’s spine, pushing it deeper into the shelf. Hermione nodded, a miserable expression coming over her. Merlin. He’d been so caught up in his own head that he hadn’t realized.</p><p>“At first, I wanted to wait until things had settled. Bringing them back with all those Death Eaters loose didn’t seem logical,” she said. “But, as the weeks went by, I came to understand that things may never be tidy, you know?” She turned a page in the volume she held, not meeting his eyes.</p><p>He turned to face her, waiting. After a few moments, she kept speaking.</p><p>“The healers at Mungo’s contacted me last week. They said they’d have time to go with me soon, now that the patients from the war are being discharged. I should’ve been happy.”</p><p>Oh, Granger.</p><p>“I suppose I’m afraid of reversing the spell,” she said, blinking at the text. “Something could go wrong. Or, even if it doesn’t—” her voice caught.</p><p>“Hermione,” he tried, stepping forward.</p><p>“What will they say?” she swallowed, snapping the book shut. Her eyes were raw, unbridled with fear.</p><p>Worst of all, he didn’t have anything to say that would fix it. So, he nodded. Hermione watched him a moment, and he could see it—the vulnerability and confusion whirling under the surface of her skin.</p><p>“Do you remember when I asked for your help?” she asked. George nodded. Hermione took a breath. “You said that journeys leave marks, and that eventually, even if the spell was irreversible, those marks would help my family and I fit together again.” She rubbed at her arm, brow furrowed. “But I’ve changed so much since then,” she whispered. George reached forward, taking the book from her.</p><p>“You’ve survived so much since then,” he said. Hermione shook her head. “Look at me, Granger.” She raised her face, and her eyes were red. “This is just another journey.”</p><p>Hermione took the book back.</p><p>“You weren’t alone then, and you’re not alone now,” George said. Hermione didn’t respond, so he leaned in. “And, I know it’s not the same, but the Weasleys are with you.” He dropped his voice to a jovial whisper. “You can’t be rid of us.”</p><p>At this, she looked down. “You should know, I’ve loved every moment with your family,” she said.</p><p>George smiled.</p><p>“We’re glad to have you,” he said. Hermione nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Suddenly, she turned, proceeding down the row, searching the titles with renewed vigor.</p><p>“You taking everything?” George asked, eyes widening as she plucked another text from the shelves.</p><p>“Yes,” she murmured, thoroughly distracted by the back cover of the Ancient Runes text. “Except Divination.” The stack waiting at the till was already precariously high. “Professor Babbling tells me that Edwin Bailey will be on a lecture tour this year, so I’d better brush up.” She tucked the volume under her arm. On the front cover, a grumpy looking man crossed his arms, staring into the camera.</p><p>“Can’t disappoint Edwin Bailey, now, can we?” he joked, leaning over her to grab the other title that bore the man’s name. Hermione grinned, the shadow from before gone from her eyes.</p><p>She paced to the next section, and George twisted after her, his eyes coasting the shelves for something properly silly to sneak into her pile. The wooden sign over the following aisle read “Children.” Brilliant.</p><p>While she was distracted, he nicked a book on frog choirs, an illustrated guide to Animagus, and a story that seemed to be about a girl who cracked open the moon like an egg and drank the yolk (if the animation on the cover was anything to go by). Finally, on an impulse, he took a lilac, leather-bound journal off the endcap. She’d need a place to write things down. He sent them off to the till with a grin.</p><p>She insisted on perusing the entire store, and he found he didn’t mind. He hadn’t felt this normal in ages, the smell of parchment and the light spark of mischief running through him.</p><p>Finally, they headed to the till. The attendant rang up Hermione’s purchases, and George slipped him a handful of galleons.</p><p>“These are mine,” Hermione said, her brow wrinkling as she looked up at him.</p><p>“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Scholarship,” George said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Hermione lifted her brows.</p><p>“That’s nonsense,” she said, lifting her brows.</p><p>“No, truly,” George said, his face warming. “You and Ginny are the first recipients. It’s an annual thing.”</p><p>Hermione tapped her fingers on her arm.</p><p>“And, y’know, if you see anyone carrying a Skiving Snackbox, perhaps you look the other way,” George said, grinning.</p><p>Hermione scoffed. “As if,” she said.</p><p>George winked.</p><p>The cashier promised to wrap them up and send them along, and the two proceeded from the shop. A tug of wind, ruffled his hair, drawing his attention to the side. There, a stand of papers fluttered in the wind. Drawn by impulse, George stepped towards them.</p><p>“<em>Unhinged</em>” was stamped across the top in bold, black script. And a name—his name—was underneath.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Oh no.” He could hear Hermione, but her words were quieter than the title on the paper.</p><p>The photograph stretched from margin to margin. Him, lunging at Vane. His eyes looked feral, empty.</p><p>His fists tightened, his breath speeding as he read the caption.</p><p>
  <em>“George Weasley attacks Magnus Vane outside Wizengamot.”</em>
</p><p>The column exploded into speculation—trying to parse the reason for his breakdown, picking apart the violence like one might take a fork to a treacle tart.</p><p>
  <em>“One can only assume Mr. Weasley, a civilian volunteer with the Ministry, acted out of rage at the appearance of a man he supposed to be a legitimate Death Eater. Why he chose to take matters into his own hands, rather than allowing Vane due process is anyone’s guess.”</em>
</p><p>Blood.</p><p>
  <em>“The victim’s daughter is worried for her father’s trial. ‘My father was attacked,’ Romilda Vane, a sixth year at Hogwarts, said. ‘First by You-Know-Who, and now by this extremist, and the Ministry’s still putting him on trial? It’s a joke.’” </em>
</p><p>In.</p><p><em>“I do not condone Mr. Weasley’s actions,”</em> Shacklebolt’s quote was bold, sunk in the middle of the story like an anchor. <em>“This Ministry maintains that each defendant retains their right to a fair trial.”</em></p><p>The water.</p><p>
  <em>“Magnus Vane, meanwhile, has graciously agreed to not press charges. ‘We were all damaged by the war,’ he said. ‘Some more than others. I hope the boy gets some help before he does more serious harm.’”</em>
</p><p>He hadn’t meant to-to—</p><p>There was no way to make this go away. What had he done?</p><p>The parchment rustled as he unfolded it, heart hammering.</p><p>Below the crease, he could see a smaller photo—him, yanking at his hair, flinching in the courtroom. Unhinged.</p><p>Oh, bloody—</p><p>Hermione pulled him back from the stand, and George released the paper.</p><p>“Don’t look at it,” she said, tone sharp. “Fred’s paid the fine, and so long as you stay far away from Vane, it’ll be alright.”</p><p>“Didn’t know it’d made <em>The Prophet </em>this quickly,” George muttered, swallowing. Hermione sighed, tugging on his elbow.</p><p>“Leave it,” she said. “Leave it and walk away. Minister Shacklebolt is sorting it out.”</p><p>His feet had turned to rock, fusing with the cobblestone. He’d been a fool.</p><p>“Minister Shacklebolt shouldn’t have to sort it,” he said softly. “He trusted me, and I compromised everything.”</p><p>“It’s rubbish, George, really,” Hermione tried again.</p><p>“Is it, though?” he asked, voice hollow.</p><p>Hermione swallowed, and her hands came up, taking his shoulders. “Wallow or grow, Weasley? Which is it going to be?”</p><p>He didn’t have an answer.</p><p>#</p><p>July 19, 1998</p><p>“Kingsley offered me the position,” Ron said, boisterous, his glass aloft. “Out of all the recruits. Me.”</p><p>The table exploded with sound, and Mrs. Weasley jumped from her seat, wrapping her arms around Ron.</p><p>“Good going, Ron!” Bill called.</p><p>“It’s going to be brilliant—Hermione and I, travelling all over,” Ron said, his face lit.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head.</p><p>“I mean, if she comes with me,” Ron added hastily, glancing at her.</p><p>“For now, I’ll be at Hogwarts, but I’m very proud of you, Ron,” Hermione said, smiling a bit.</p><p>Ron’s jaw tightened, and he nodded. “But, after, I mean,” he said, looking at her meaningfully. Hermione didn’t answer.</p><p>Angelina chimed in, and the conversation pivoted to potential locations that Ron would be stationed.</p><p>All of them were so very far away.</p><p>George blinked down at his plate.</p><p>#</p><p>July 20, 1998</p><p>The revelation from the night before still hung over his shoulders, but he tried to brush it aside. He had to focus. He needed to bottle this batch of Wolfsbane before packing for Hogsmeade. He and Fred had been up all last night, working to make the potion more shelf-stable.</p><p>Pigwidgeon swooped through the flat’s window, envelop clutched in his talons.</p><p>“Hey Pig,” George called, slipping him a treat and taking the letter. He ripped it open, yawning.</p><p>Hermione’s neat script danced across the top page.</p><p>
  <em>“George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I received this note earlier, and I wanted to pass it on to you. I’ve showed the others, and they’re not sure what to make of it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Let me know what you think,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione.”</em>
</p><p>He turned to the second parchment. It was just a scrap, untidy handwriting crammed onto a small surface.</p><p>
  <em>“Check the keystones.” </em>
</p><p>George’s brow furrowed.</p><p>Keystones were common in the walls of the oldest wizarding homes. They often held runes with wards and other protective magic. The Weasley property didn’t have a wall or a keystone—only a large rock with the basic wards written in.</p><p>Why would they need to check there?</p><p>#</p><p>July 21, 1998</p><p>George hissed as the liquid slipped over the ladle, splashing the table. He vanished it in a quick move, grimacing.</p><p>“Should I write that down?” Percy said, voice dry. He sat at Fred’s desk, a parchment open as he took notes over the process.</p><p>Wolfsbane wasn’t easy to brew, but Percy was determined to do it for himself.</p><p>The git.</p><p>Percy waited for his response, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders. They hadn’t spoken in hours, not since Percy had broken the news of his move.</p><p>The longer George went without responding, the harder Percy’s expression became.</p><p>“I’m taking the job,” Percy said, finally.</p><p>“Don’t,” George said, brow lined in concentration as he counted the counter-clockwise stirs. “There are other options.”</p><p>“Like what?” Percy laughed.</p><p>George looked up from the caldron. “Come and help us set up the Hogsmeade shop,” he said.</p><p>Percy blinked, then, a sad smile stole over his face.</p><p>“You forget,” he said. “I saw how much stress Lupin was under during his time at Hogwarts. He was always so harried before the full moon, during our NEWT classes. I don’t want to be like that—worried all the time of what might happen if I bumped into someone helpless while…” he shrugged, trailing off.</p><p>“But you won’t,” George said, stepping towards him. “C’mon, Perce, it’ll be fine.”</p><p>Percy shook his head. “Finland makes sense,” he said.</p><p>“No, it-it doesn’t!” George said, smacking his wand onto the table.</p><p>“They’ve got healers there, doing work on making Wolfsbane more effective,” Percy said, leaning forward.</p><p>“So, we can do that, too!” George cried, gesturing towards the caldron.</p><p>Percy shook his head, smiling. “You’ve always been so terribly optimistic. It’s really quite annoying.”</p><p>George sighed, leaning back against the desk. This was just like Percy, tallying up life like a bad arithmancy equation, forgetting about half of the most important factors. Why was everyone always bloody leaving?</p><p>“Minister Shacklebolt’s already sorted it,” Percy said, adjusting his glasses. “I can work at the Wizarding consulate and help strengthen Britain’s ties to the rest of the magical world.”</p><p>“Your family is here,” George said, turning to the caldron. “You didn’t see what it was like, how Mum was, with you gone.”</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>“That’s not fair,” Percy said. “Stop being contentious.”</p><p>George didn’t turn to face him, instead, levitated a fresh a vial over from the storage rack.</p><p>“I’m going, George,” Percy said. “Mum understands, and I’ll be back on visits.”</p><p>George braced his hands on the desk, closing his eyes.</p><p>“You know how it is for people like me in Britain,” Percy whispered. “Magical ‘beings’ or ‘beasts.’ This part of the world doesn’t hold them in high regard.” His laugh was cold and empty. “I can’t even represent myself in Wizengamot anymore.”</p><p>The Wizengamot.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>While they’d been outside, racing around on tyke brooms, Percy had presided over a court of garden gnomes, banging a gavel against the garden bench, dressing in makeshift barrister robes every day for months.</p><p>Young Percy, packing a briefcase with third-year textbooks and stepping up to their Dad’s side on summer mornings, asking to come along, beaming as he stepped into the floo with him. Percy, crying a bit over his head boy badge while Fred and George scoffed. Percy, tripping after Crouch at the Quidditch World Cup.</p><p>There it was. Percy’s dream, shattered on the floor.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Perce,” George said.</p><p>“It is what it is,” Percy said, clearing his throat. “It does sting a bit, after getting all those NEWTS.”</p><p>“It’s not right,” George said, a heaviness settling on his shoulders.</p><p>“It’s built into the fabric of the Wizarding World,” Percy said, shrugging. “It’s written right there, in stone, I’m afraid. Beings like me are something to be swept aside or controlled.”</p><p>“It shouldn’t be that way,” George said. And then Percy’s words sank in. George turned, the glass vial slipping from his hand.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said. He turned, his brain churning. “Hold up, Percy. I’ve got to—um—” He waved his wand, casting a stasis charm over the potion.</p><p>Percy stared at him, a confused look on his face.</p><p>“Fred!” George shouted, racing from the room. “Oi!”</p><p>Fred dashed down the stairs.</p><p>“I need you to take over for a bit,” George said. Fred nodded, heading into the workshop. George nicked cap from the hook near the wall and dashed up the stairs to the flat, taking a handful of floo powder.</p><p>“The Burrow!” he shouted.</p><p>Someone yelped as he stepped through.</p><p>It was Ron, wheeling back from the hearth, tripping over the table.</p><p>“Where’s Hermione?” George asked, swatting the soot from his apron with his cap.</p><p>“Why?” Ron’s voice was hard as he steadied himself against the counter.</p><p>“It’s important,” George said, pausing. He turned to the staircase. “Oi, Granger, come down!” he shouted.</p><p>“She’s not here,” Ron said, folding his arms.</p><p>“Oh?” George said, faltering.</p><p>“Yeah,” Ron said. The house creaked. George lifted his brows, his mouth a thin line.</p><p>“Well?” he asked, cracking finally.</p><p>Ron’s expression didn’t shift. “Well what?” Ron asked, crossing to the other side of the kitchen.</p><p>“Where is she, then?” George followed, peering out the window.</p><p>“With the others, getting her Hogwarts robes,” Ron said, an edge in his tone. “I would’ve thought you’d know, since you’re the one pressuring her to go back.”</p><p>George rolled his eyes. “Alright,” he said, backing from the kitchen toward the floo. He was grabbing a handful of powder when Ron’s voice stopped him.</p><p>“Don’t you think it’s a bit pathetic?” Ron asked.</p><p>“What?” George replied, hand stilling over the bowl.</p><p>“This whole bit you’re doing,” Ron said, his voice cold. “The way you trail after her. I mean, Merlin’s pants, George, how bored are you? Get a girlfriend.”</p><p>The fridge door slammed shut.</p><p>George sucked in a breath, ice crawling over his ribs.</p><p>“We’re friends,” George said, urging his voice to remain even. “I don’t—” he couldn’t think. Ron couldn’t know. If Ron knew, Hermione would know, and that would make a horrible mess of things.</p><p>“Leave her alone, George,” Ron’s voice had gone low. “She’s got enough to worry about without you following her around, making her feel like she’s got to take care of you.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He’d been leaning on her so heavily, and he hadn’t even realized. He forced a laugh, but it didn’t ring naturally. “Never meant to, Mate,” he said. “Listen, I’m only here because of the runes—”</p><p>Ron exhaled, shoving his hands through his hair.</p><p>“Enough with the runes! Stop pushing all of this onto her!” he said, his voice ringing loud through the living room. George froze.</p><p>Ron’s breath was heavy, his eyes squeezed shut. “I know you’ve been putting ideas in her head—making her feel as though she’s got to go back to school, and now all this rot about the Ancient Runes Mastery.”</p><p>George’s voice was soft. “What Ancient Runes Mastery?” She’d mentioned a Mastery in the past, but not a specific one. This was new—Granger, wanting an Ancient Runes Mastery.</p><p>Ron recoiled, scoffing. “Oh, come off it. She’s been talking about it all week.”</p><p>Something sharp prodded at the back of George’s throat, and he tried to swallow it back. “I didn’t know,” he said. “But, if she’s talking about it, it’s because she wants it. Not because I or anybody else planted the idea in her head.”</p><p>Ron shook his head, muttering, and began to pace.</p><p>“You’ve got to listen to her,” George said, tone strained. If Ron didn’t listen, both of them would get hurt.</p><p>“No, you don’t get to talk down to me,” Ron said, his fists clenched. “Not anymore.” He shook his head, pointing a finger at George. “I know what’s best for Hermione. Not you. I know what Hermione wants. Not you.” Ron’s shoulders heaved as he spat the words. “You’re having a laugh, pushing her around, and I won’t have it. Hermione <em>always</em> knew what she wanted until you started playing with her mind like it’s one of your stupid toys.”</p><p>The unquiet fire pressed flush against his ribs, and George’s voice went low. “You think I’m the one who’s playing with her?”</p><p>Ron lifted his chin, eyes flashing. “It’s what you do, George.”</p><p>George snapped.</p><p>“All these years, I’ve stayed quiet as you mucked this up. I’ve tried to stand to the side—be a good brother to you and a good friend to her.” Ron rolled his eyes, but George kept talking, low and fast. “I didn’t yell at you. Not when you made her cry, not when you flaunted Lavender Brown around, not when you <em>left her</em>, Ron—” George’s voice climbed to a shout, and he flung his arm out. “—in the forest with a <em>Horcrux</em>.”</p><p>Ron balked.</p><p>“Yeah, I know about that, Mate,” George said, whispering through gritted teeth. “And you have the nerve to point at me? She’s trying to tell you what she wants, and you’re not listening to her, after everything!” He spat the words.</p><p>Ron’s face twisted, but George advanced, looming over him.</p><p>“You’re looking around for someone to blame, but it’s you,” George said, his wand clenched in his fist. His tone swooped into a growl. “And you’d better sort it, because I swear to you, if you hurt Granger again, I’ll—”</p><p>The floo whooshed, and Arthur Weasley stepped through. His face blanked as he looked between George and Ron.</p><p>“Bugger,” he said, dropping his briefcase to the floor. He crossed the room, rubbing his hands over his face. “Ron, it’s not something he can help.”</p><p>George’s eyes widened.</p><p>“I bloody well think he can,” Ron’s shout exploded. “Acting all high and mighty.”</p><p>Ron lunged at George, knocking him over the coffee table and into the sofa. The impact sent George’s ears ringing, and he twisted, grappling Ron.</p><p>“You’ve always expected the worst in me!” Ron roared, swinging up at him. George dodged. “I’m your brother, and you treat me like an idiot!”</p><p>“Only when you’re acting like one!” George shouted back, shoving Ron into the cushions. Ron was stronger than he used to be, and George strained to keep him pinned.</p><p>Ron’s grip tightened as he struggled. “The spiders! The unbreakable vow! All that taunting! Laughing at me, all those years! All you ever do is undermine me!” Ron brought his knee up, and it collided with George’s stomach.</p><p>The air left George’s lungs and he tumbled forward. In a flash, Ron flung him to the floor, his knee on his back and hands crammed against the scar of George’s ear.</p><p>“Ronald!” Ron didn’t mind Arthur’s shout.</p><p>George fought back, but Ron’s knee pressed dangerously against his spine. “You think you know everything,” Ron said, jolting him. “But you don’t.”</p><p>“I did not raise my sons to behave in this manner,” Arthur’s voice boomed through the room, the Sonorous charm lacing it with enough volume to reach the nearby village.</p><p>Ron stumbled back, off of George.</p><p>Gasping, George pushed himself to his feet. Ron wiped his nose on his sleeve and crossed to the bench by the door.</p><p>Once, years ago, George had knelt there, helping Ron lace his trainers. Ron’s hand had been sticky and small, his smile bright.</p><p>Once, years ago, Ron had cried there, calling for George to take him along. But, there hadn’t been enough brooms for Ron to play in the pickup game, and the youngest brother had been left out.</p><p>Once, years ago, Ron had hunched there, sulking while their Dad scolded him for trying to sneak into George’s school trunk. Ron’s face had flushed such a deep red that George had said it was his idea instead.</p><p>Once, years ago, Ron had whispered Harry’s address there, checking it over after George wrote it down in the dark. They’d gone out together, three sets of shoes crunching over the gravel, towards the Anglia in the night, Ron’s gaze flickering back and forth between Fred and George like they were heroes.</p><p>Now, Ron stood in that place, his face like a slammed door, and George couldn’t breathe.</p><p>His heart twisted, twisted, then ripped ragged in half—torn by the opposing pulls of his love for two people. Blood and water, and George wasn’t sure who was which.</p><p>George breathed, closing his eyes. “I’m trying to help,” he said.</p><p>Underneath the words, a different message lingered: <em>I would do anything for you.</em></p><p>“Yeah?” Ron asked. George nodded. “Then butt out.”</p><p>Ron strode to the door, slamming it behind him.</p><p>“George—” Mr. Weasley started, but then paused. George ran his hands through his hair.</p><p>“What, Dad?” he asked, finally.</p><p>“I think you should talk to someone,” Mr. Weasley said softly. “There are healers, maybe, who can help.”</p><p>George dropped onto the sofa. “You’re probably right,” he said.</p><p>Mr. Weasley sat beside him. “Does Ron know, then?” his father asked. George swiveled his head back, staring at the ceiling.</p><p>“About what, Dad?” It was a pathetic attempt, but he really couldn’t get into it at present. He was too tired.</p><p>“Oh, sorry,” Mr. Weasley said. “I thought we were done pretending. Carry on.” His dad pulled a copy of the quibbler from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “I expect he doesn’t,” Mr. Weasley mused, his eyes scanning the page. “Or he’d still be trying to throttle you.”</p><p>George sighed. “Let’s keep it that way, alright?”</p><p>“Whatever you say, George,” Mr. Weasley said. His arm came up, looping around George’s shoulders.</p><p>“Can you pass a message to Granger for me?” George asked, blinking at the unlit fireplace.</p><p>“Why not tell her at dinner?” Mr. Weasley replied, not looking up from his paper.</p><p>“Because I think it’s best if I disappear for a while,” George murmured. The paper wavered.</p><p>Finally: “What is it, then?”</p><p>George took a deep breath. “Tell her it’s about that note. For a while, I thought it might be a threat—telling us to check our wards or something. But, it may be in reference to the House Elves. We should look into the keystones—see which runes and enchantments are used.” George paused, swallowing. “But, don’t tell her I said it.”</p><p>“I won’t lie if she asks,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“Redirect the conversation, then,” George said, pushing to his feet. “You’re a smart man.”</p><p>Mr. Weasley dropped the paper, his mouth open, the frown lines deep on his features.</p><p>“You know as well as I that it’s time I disappear,” George said.</p><p>He didn’t wait for his dad’s reply before stepping into the green fire.</p><p>#</p><p>August 11, 1998</p><p>He’d built the shelving by hand. Magic would’ve been faster, but he’d had time to spare.</p><p>So much time.</p><p>Three weeks of it, working on the Hogsmeade shop in silence, interrupted only by the rattle of his tools, the splash of red paint, the thud of his boots on the floor.</p><p>The routine was regular and comforting.</p><p>Fred came by several times a week, Angelina in tow. He’d seen Lee once or twice, but the bloke was busy working on a new record, and George didn’t want to impose. A couple of times, George had snuck out to Aunt Muriel’s, but the keystone didn’t hold anything strange. It bore the same runes as the rock at the Burrow. On July 31st, he sent parcel of fireworks to Harry, but he’d excused himself from the family dinner.</p><p>No one else really knew where he’d gone off to, and that was for the best, he supposed. Fred had told them he was away on business.</p><p>In a way, he was.</p><p>Each Tuesday at three, he locked the doors, stepped into the floo, and went to speak to a muggleborne Healer by the name of Marcus about why he felt angry or sad or tired. Most of the conversation was rubbish, but some of it wasn’t, and those parts kept him coming back to the office near the corner of the village.</p><p>Today, they’d talked about how it’d been three weeks since he’d seen her. He hadn’t brought her up before, but today, it had slipped out. Unbidden.</p><p>Marcus had asked how that made him feel, and George had said “chuffed” because “like I’m slowly suffocating” hadn’t seemed appropriate.</p><p>The Healer hadn’t bought it.</p><p>George swiped his hand over his jaw, stepping through the hearth. Something clanked. He looked up, and Ginny stood, hands on her hips in the spot where the counter would go, once it arrived. Percy waited at her side, dark circles under his eyes, looking more than a bit put out. Percy was thinner, now.</p><p>“Finally,” she said, rolling her eyes. She took three strides to him, snagging his elbow. “Come on, then.” She pulled him to the floo. George blinked and lurched back.</p><p>“Hold up, Gin,” he said, prying her hand from his arm.</p><p>Ginny turned, her eyes narrowing. “If you miss my seventeenth because you’d rather mope here, I will murder you.”</p><p>George paused, gritting his teeth. He’d hoped to avoid this.</p><p>“Straight up,” she said, steel in her tone. “I will kill you. They won’t find the body.”</p><p>“Can’t I give you your present here?” he asked. “It’s just—”</p><p>Ginny shook her head. “Are you joking?” George winced. “I had Mum make apple cider—your favorite, not mine, mind you.” Her tone bristled, sharp.</p><p>George’s shoulders slumped. He hated to disappoint her, but he couldn’t be around Ron and Hermione. Not without occluding. He wasn’t ready.</p><p>Percy strolled forward, looking over the bright red paint with an incredulous expression. “If I’m going, you are as well,” Percy said, pinning him with a meaningful look.</p><p>“Speaking of which, what are you doing out of bed?” George snapped, turning to him. “You should be recovering.”</p><p>Percy adjusted the sleeve of his grey jumper, the movement calm and smooth. “It’s unbecoming to miss an important family function,” he said.</p><p>“It’s my seventeenth, George,” Ginny said, the words softer, quiet. “And all I want is for us to be together again, like a family.”</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“Alright,” he said. “Let me get your gift.” He loped to the back room, where his cot sat pushed against the wall, a crude desk beside it. The wooden drawer scraped as he withdrew the box.</p><p>“How’d you know where to find me?” he called.</p><p>“Harry,” she said. George rolled his eyes, nicking a clean oxford from his trunk. He pulled it on, tucking it into his trousers. Before he thought better of it, he checked the mirror beside the kitchenette. He looked a bit pale, but not all bad.</p><p>Why was he checking?</p><p>“Hurry up!” she called.</p><p>“Sorry!” he shouted, bounding over. Ginny waited at the floo, powder in hand. At his reappearance, she raised her brows.</p><p>“What you had on was fine,” she said.</p><p>“Shut it,” he said, adjusting the cuff. “It’s your birthday. A bloke’s got to look presentable.” He plunked the box into her hand. It had been Angelina’s idea—a pocket watch, magically calibrated to start keeping time while on a broom. Fred had done the tinkering, George the charms. She’d love it.</p><p>Percy stepped up to his side. “Thank Heavens. I was worried I’d have to strongarm you through the fireplace.”</p><p>Percy sounded serious, but oh, Merlin, he couldn’t be.</p><p>George tipped his head back, roaring in laughter.</p><p>Ginny smirked and yanked them both into the floo. They stumbled into the Burrow, and a warm cry greeted him.</p><p>“There he is!” the voice shouted, and George turned, eyes wide. Charlie launched across the room, pulling him into a hug. But, Charlie was in Romania again. Charlie almost never came home.</p><p>Ginny beamed, looking back and forth between them.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” George asked, stunned.</p><p>“Couldn’t miss this little pint’s special day,” Charlie said, patting the top of Ginny’s head with a broad hand. Ginny swatted at it. “A full-grown witch, imagine!” Charlie shouted, hoisting her into the air while she screeched.</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>After depositing Ginny on the ground, Charlie wheeled towards the door, nodding for George to follow.</p><p>“Aren’t you glad you came now?” Ginny whispered, elbowing him on her way out. As they walked, she undid the ribbon on the box, lifting the watch out. It was gold, swaying on the chain in the sunlight.</p><p>Ginny stopped.</p><p>“You got me a pocketwatch?” she asked.</p><p>“Fred, Angelina, and I—yes,” George said, leaning over her shoulder to tap it open with the press of a finger. “To be used for Quidditch especially.” Circling the watchface’s edge in gilded script were the spells most commonly used for enchanting broomsticks:</p><p>
  <em>“Ascendare, Celeritas”</em>
</p><p>“I know Mum and Dad probably got you one as well, but—” George started, but Ginny collided with him, almost knocking him over in the hug.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” he said.</p><p>They’d stretched the old tent over the yard, and people milled about around tables. The center of the floor was clear, but, Merlin, half of Gryffindor tower had to be here.</p><p>“Oi,” Fred said, pushing a glass of cider into George’s hands. “You’re looking terrible.” George looked down at himself.</p><p>“This is a clean shirt,” George said. Fred snorted.</p><p>Then, he turned to Ginny, grinning at the watch. “Fly high and fast,” Fred said, lifting his drink.</p><p>A Weird Sisters song boomed over the speakers, and Harry, Neville, and Luna called, waving Ginny over. Harry wore Teddy in a carrier around his back. In the sling, Teddy’s head peeked over Harry’s shoulder as he munched on a teething ring.</p><p>George’s eyes coasted over the crowd. Godric, he hadn’t been around this many people in ages.</p><p>Behind their parents’ table, Ron stood, arms folded. He wore a crisp, grey set of auror’s robes. Fred followed the direction of George’s stare. “Yeah, that happened,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Harry graduated the program as well, but he’s decided to stay put. No idea why.” Fred’s voice had a lilt of sarcasm as he looked at Harry, who was beaming at Ginny while he wiped drool from Teddy’s teething ring.</p><p>“Your guess is as good as mine,” George said dryly, still searching the crowd.</p><p>“She said she had to get something,” Fred said.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“She’ll be back soon, expect,” Fred said. George dodged a couple of Ravenclaws that he sort of recognized, pulling out a chair at table farthest from Ron, near Ginny at the edge of the tent. Fred grabbed the seat beside him. They watched the crowd in silence for a few minutes before Fred leaned in, saying, “Listen, you might want to—”</p><p>“Hermione!” Harry shouted, and George turned. Hermione stood near stage, handing something up to Lee. Lee nodded as she spoke.</p><p>She wore the red dress from the wedding, her hair gathered into a loose plait. As George watched, Hermione turned and smiled sheepishly at Ginny.</p><p>The music dimmed, and Lee’s voice boomed. “By special request from Hermione Granger, a birthday song for Ginny.”</p><p>The music came in, a flourish of piano. At the table beside theirs, Parvati Patil exploded into giggles.</p><p>
  <em>“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life,”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“See that girl, watch that scene, digging the dancing queen.”</em>
</p><p>George watched as Hermione crossed the floor and reached Ginny’s side, grinning. She leaned in and whispered.</p><p>
  <em>“Friday night and the lights are low,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Looking out for a place to go.” </em>
</p><p>Ginny laughed, tipping her head back. “What is this?” Ginny shouted over the music, but Hermione shook her head and tugged her onto the center of the floor. Granger mouthed the lyrics, playing at being serious, but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to pull it off.</p><p>
  <em>“With a bit of Rock Music, everything is fine,”</em>
</p><p>Granger swung Ginny’s hands back and forth, then spun her suddenly.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re in the mood for dance,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when you get the chance,”</em>
</p><p>Ginny whirled around, bent over laughing.</p><p>Hermione pointed at her, singing out loud.</p><p>
  <em>“You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen.”</em>
</p><p>Then, Hermione turned, pulling Luna onto the floor, then Angelina, who had been smirking at them from the side. Ginny grabbed Parvati and Padme, and then Luna called to Fleur, and Fleur brought Mrs. Weasley with her, and suddenly the floor was packed with women.</p><p>Half of the witches didn’t know the words, but that didn’t seem to matter.</p><p>In the middle, Hermione and Ginny jumped up and down, screaming the song’s lyrics.</p><p>
  <em>“See that girl, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Watch that scene</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Digging the dancing queen.”</em>
</p><p>The sunlight gleamed on Hermione’s curls, and the bright sound of her laugh echoed through the room.</p><p>“Breathe, Mate,” Fred murmured, nudging him.</p><p>“Right,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>Hermione whirled, her face tilted upwards, and then he lost her in the sea of others. After a time, the two broke from the crowd, nearing the side of the group that was closest to George’s table. The chorus had come around again, but something had gone wrong.</p><p>At some point during the song, Hermione had started to cry, and Ginny with her.</p><p><em>“Only seventeen,”</em> the speakers crackled.</p><p>Hermione smiled through the tears, swiping a palm across her cheek. The familiar shadow had passed over Ginny’s eyes.</p><p>
  <em>“Dancing queen.”</em>
</p><p>“Here,” Harry’s voice boomed above George’s head. Suddenly, Teddy was in his arms, and Harry was adjusting his tie, heading into the fray. George stood and followed him from a distance, Teddy perched against his chest.</p><p>“You’re breaking the rules,” Harry said as he approached the girls. “What did I say about crying today?” Ginny laughed, but then she wrapped her arms around Harry’s neck and tugged him close as the song ended.</p><p>Hermione slipped off, and without thinking, George followed her.</p><p>They’d parted from the tent when he finally worked up the courage to call her name. “Granger!”</p><p>Hermione turned, and her eyes rounded as they landed on him. At first, he thought she might cry. But then she lifted her chin.</p><p>“George Weasley,” she snapped, her hands balling into fists.</p><p>Oh. She was angry.</p><p>“Not a single note,” she said, her jaw tight. “Not one owl. Are you mad?” She stepped towards him, her stray curls sticking to her neck. He couldn’t give her an answer that would properly explain it, so he didn’t try. Instead, he took a breath and propped Teddy higher in his arms.</p><p>“Are you alright?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Not really,” she said.</p><p>“Don’t think this concerns you, Mate,” Ron’s voice boomed from behind him, and George wheeled around, flinching.</p><p>“Honestly, Ronald—” Hermione started, but Ron stalked past, heading back towards the tent. Hermione looked between them, a line of what seemed like confusion between her brows, and then she hurried after Ron.</p><p>George went back to the table, numb.</p><p>“What was that about?” Fred asked. George shrugged. After a time, Mrs. Weasley came for Teddy, and George handed him over.</p><p>Then, George started on another glass of apple cider and tried to forget about the smell of chamomile.</p><p>He’d just lifted the cup to his mouth when Alicia Spinnet tried to ask him to dance, but he shook his head. Fred said nothing. Percy, Charlie, and Bill wandered over, filling out the table. George pretended not to notice, but he could feel them stealing glances at him, like they were waiting for him to unhinge.</p><p>George took a drink of from the glass and tried to forget about the way Granger’s laugh rocketed through a room, all giggles and gasps.</p><p>The music boomed, and Angelina approached. “Hi,” she said, reaching for Fred’s hand. Fred glanced at George, but George waved him off, and Fred relented, letting Angelina pull him onto the floor.</p><p>The liquid poured down his throat, and George tried to forget about the way his magic sparked under his skin, every time they touched.</p><p>Bill and Charlie were openly watching him, now. Percy was the only one with some sense of decorum. Typical.</p><p>George lifted the cup, intent on forgetting the sound of her voice, reading by the fire. But, there was no more cider left.</p><p>George tapped the empty glass against the table</p><p>The tent was warm. Too warm.</p><p>He tipped back in his chair.</p><p>The room spun, the music blasting, and his head ached.</p><p>What if Ron had guessed.</p><p>What if Ron told her.</p><p>The world closed in, and he gripped the table’s edge. He wouldn’t occlude. That wouldn’t fix this. He leaned forward, and the chair legs slammed back into the ground.</p><p>He needed some air.</p><p>George peeled away from the tent, ignoring his brothers’ questions as he strode towards the Burrow. The summer wind whipped over the grass, and he sucked it in.</p><p>The gravel crunched under his boots, and he rounded to the front door. He could use some water. His fingers closed around the handle, and as it cracked open, a Muffliato charm broke.</p><p>Hermione’s voice poured out.</p><p>“I don’t know, Ronald! It feels like we can be happy, or—”</p><p>George shut the door, stumbling back.</p><p>This was the last place he should be. He turned, panicking, and apparated. The world twisted, and he popped onto the dock at the back of the property. The still water reflected his image, and George didn’t recognize himself.</p><p>One-eared, gangly, foolish George. He reached down, picking up a stone. Then, he flung it as hard as he could at the middle of the pond, a brutal yell ripping from his throat.</p><p>The ripples moved.</p><p>George sat, watching them.</p><p>Several minutes passed, and broom swished behind his head, two sturdy boots thudding against the dock. George twisted.</p><p>Charlie stood behind him, an old Cleansweep tucked under his arm.</p><p>“I don’t appreciate being tracked, Charlie,” George said, turning back to the water.</p><p>Charlie cleared his throat. “Most beasts don’t,” he said, stooping to sit beside George. Charlie leaned back on his hands, staring at the pond. “But, sometimes you have to, especially when they’re hurting.” His brow furrowed. “I haven’t lost a dragon yet.”</p><p>George summoned a handful of pebbles from the shoreline. “Bully for you,” he said. “I’m not a dragon.”</p><p>“No,” Charlie said. “You’re far more forgiving.”</p><p>George tossed another rock. This one arched high, hitting the water with a plop.</p><p>“When you’re not tackling people in the Ministry, that is,” Charlie said, nicking a stone from the pile and sending it whistling after George’s. It hit the exact same spot. “We do get the papers in Romania, you know.”</p><p>George hung his head.</p><p>“You’ve always had a short fuse when it comes to family,” Charlie said, letting loose another stone, and it landed where the others had. “Not at us, mind you. At the rest of the world. You never could hold back when you saw someone hurting one of us.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“Made you an excellent beater,” Charlie said. This time, he took two stones, flicking his wrist. The rocks spun, zipping to the center of the ripples once again. “But a terrible politician, I’d reckon.”</p><p>George snorted.</p><p>“Y’know, you were about nine when I discovered that I could push you into this pond, and you’d still look at me like I was brilliant,” Charlie said, his voice going quiet. “But, a few years later, when Marcus Flint shoved Percy into the edge of the Black Lake, you launched a Dr. Filibuster at his head.”</p><p>“That was different,” George said. Their family pond had no Grindylows.</p><p>“It was incredibly reckless,” Charlie laughed, chucking another rock. “But, it’s the way your compass spins, Mate.” It skipped twice before sinking into the water, right where the others had. “Someone lifts a hand to a Weasley, and that little needle in your chest goes wild.”</p><p>George rolled his eyes.</p><p>“I wondered back then,” Charlie said, his arm dropping. “How will George manage if that drive to protect us ever points him against one of his own?”</p><p>Charlie hadn’t thrown another rock, but George still felt it land. It lodged itself in the tender spot, just under his ribs.</p><p>“Did Dad tell you?” George asked, looking at Charlie for the first time.</p><p>“Nope,” Charlie said, his face drawn in concentration as he launched a stone high into the air. It curved above the trees, then fell exactly where he’d aimed the others. “I saw you, the night after the battle.”</p><p>George stilled.</p><p>“Reading aloud by the sofa while she slept,” Charlie said.</p><p>George ducked his head. “Why didn’t you say something?” he asked.</p><p>“Bill and I make it a general policy to not meddle, unless the situation is truly dire,” Charlie said. “It’s older brother business. You’ll understand someday.” Charlie grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together, with all their fighting this morning, and then the tension between you and Ron outside the tent.”</p><p>There was a pause, and finally, Charlie asked: “Do you want to tell me what happened there?”</p><p>George sighed. “I yelled at him for being a git to her, and he knocked me flat,” he said.</p><p>“You serious?” Charlie asked, cocking his head to the side, eyes wide in what seemed like disbelief.</p><p>George groaned.</p><p>“That’s shameful,” Charlie said. “You’ve got like, a foot on him.”</p><p>“Thanks,” George said flatly.</p><p>Charlie grinned and shrugged. The ripples on the pond were starting to fade.</p><p>“What am I supposed to do?” George asked, swallowing back the lump in his throat.</p><p>Charlie pushed off his hands, climbing to a stand. “I dunno,” he said. “There’s a reason I deal with dragons instead of people.” Then, he stooped, grabbing George beneath the arms and hoisting him to his feet.</p><p>But, he didn’t stop there. Charlie shoved, his hands colliding with George’s center, and George went flying off the dock. The water crashed around his back, over his head, and his shoulder blades brushed the mud at the bottom.</p><p>George kicked off the pond floor, gasping as he broke the surface. He was soaked through, but the water was warm, and Charlie was laughing. The sound carried through the trees like familiar music.</p><p>“Nothing’s changed, then,” Charlie said, watching him with a warm look in his eyes. George flicked the water from his hair and swam to the dock.</p><p>“We’ll find our way,” Charlie said, taking George’s hand and pulling him from the pond. “For now, take each day as it comes.” The water squelched inside of George’s boots, running off of him in rivers.</p><p>Charlie slapped him on the shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything,” he said. George nodded, and his brother scooped up his broom and took off, back towards the party.</p><p>He couldn’t follow him. Not with the way things were. Instead, he sat, his drenched clothes heavy against his skin.</p><p>Then, George waited for hours, tossing leaves and sticks and little bits of loose rock into the water as his shirt slowly dried. The sun went down, and the sky grew dark before he finally stood, his legs tingling and numb.</p><p>He ought to go back to the shop, but all that waited for him in Hogsmeade was sawdust, and the thought was so terribly lonely that he stomach lurched.</p><p>It didn’t feel like home. Not yet. Not like the Burrow or the flat above the shop in Diagon Alley did.</p><p>Maybe, he could sleep in his childhood room tonight. Just for one night.</p><p>He held his wand up and thought of the happy hours with Fred, tinkering away.</p><p>The trees spun, his center ripping through reality’s fabric, and he landed like a deftly thrown stone, in the center of the familiar room.</p><p>It was quiet, the house creaking around him. Outside, he could still hear the noise of the party. He waited, listening.</p><p>No sound from downstairs.</p><p>Weary, George kicked off his damp boots and crawled into bed, pulling the familiar quilt around him.</p><p>#</p><p>August 12, 1998</p><p>He hadn’t bothered to close the curtains, and the sunrise pried his eyes open at an unmerciful hour. George groaned, pushing the covers back.</p><p>He should really leave, before he disturbed anyone.</p><p>No sounds emanated from downstairs. Not even his mum was awake. George eased into the hall, creeping down the staircase.</p><p>He rounded the corner. Ginny’s room door was open.</p><p>On one side, a cot bearing a Holyhead Harpies duvet was pushed against the wall. Ginny’s light snores drifted from that corner, the bedspread shifting as she turned in her sleep. Quidditch posters were affixed to the ceiling and every available surface. A broom rested, tucked against the dresser.</p><p>He made to step past it, but his foot landed on the wrong side of the floorboard, and the stairs squeaked. Ginny stirred, then blinked, rising up on her elbows.</p><p>“George?” she asked, her voice a croak. George winced.</p><p>“Don’t mind me,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” Ginny sat up further.</p><p>“Where did you—” she paused, her eyes skirting to the other side of the room. Then her face paled.</p><p>George stopped. “What?” he asked.</p><p>Ginny spilled from the cot, her feet slapping against the floor. Her face went white.</p><p>Without thinking, George glanced towards Hermione’s side of the room.</p><p>It was empty.</p><p>George’s body jolted, his hand coming up to grip the door. The cot was stripped of sheets, the trunk gone. The makeshift shelves Mr. Weasley had assembled were bare. No books. Not a one.</p><p>Ginny pushed past him, dashing up the stairs to the attic.</p><p>“Ron!” she shouted.</p><p>George stumbled into the room, yanking open the closet. Nothing inside.</p><p>No.</p><p>This wasn’t—</p><p>“What d’you mean, you don’t know?” Ginny shouted, and he could hear her, pounding on the attic door. George sprinted down the stairs, turning, his breath coming fast.</p><p>“What’s the racket about?” Mr. Weasley cracked open the master bedroom, his hair askew.</p><p>George whirled. No one was reading in the kitchen. He dashed out to the garden, the morning dew soaking his socks.</p><p>The bench sat empty.</p><p>Inside the house, doors slammed, shouts ringing. He dashed back into the kitchen, and that’s when he saw it—the frayed, dark purple jumper with an “H” on the front. Folded and resting on the table.</p><p>George turned, turned, turned.</p><p>She was gone.</p><p>Hermione had gone.</p><p>#</p><p>First, George floo-ed to 93 Diagon Alley, where he yanked Fred out of bed and offered a brief explanation to a bewildered Angelina: “Granger’s missing.”</p><p>Then, George scrawled out a note, telling Calliope to find her.</p><p>Next, George floo-ed to Grimmauld Place, where Harry had no answer for him. Then, he floo-ed to the Lovegood residence. Then, the Longbottom residence. Then, he took a broom to muggle London and checked Granger’s old house—which was still abandoned. Then, he dashed into Flourish and Blotts, where the clerk stared at him with confusion. Then, George swallowed back the bile in his throat and headed into the Ministry, where he pounded on Shacklebolt’s office door until the man appeared.</p><p>After Shacklebolt took their report, George and Fred broke into teams. Fred rode over Diagon Alley while the George searched the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole. Charlie and Bill went looking in Hogsmeade. No one knew where Ron had gone. Presumably, to look. Ginny and their parents remained at the Burrow, in case Granger returned. But, she didn’t.</p><p>No note. No owl. No Granger, and with every passing hour, he began to feel more and more afraid.</p><p>Someone—a loose Death Eater, perhaps—had come in the night while Hermione folded laundry. They’d vanished her things and snatched her away, leaving only the jumper on the table. And now, Hermione was with them, fighting alone while they struggled to find her.</p><p>It was the only logical explanation.</p><p>Finally, late that night, as George stared over a folded map of the city, eyes red, the floo sparked to life.</p><p>Harry stepped out.</p><p>“She’s safe,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She just turned up—”</p><p>Ginny began to run to the floo, but Harry held up a hand. “Wait.”</p><p>George dropped into a chair at the table, heart hammering.</p><p>“She’s on her way to Australia,” Harry said. “She only stopped by to drop off her things.”</p><p>George swallowed. “You’re certain it was her?”</p><p>Harry nodded.</p><p>“But, why not keep her things here?” Ginny asked, whirling around.</p><p>Harry sucked in a breath, an uncomfortable look coming over him. “She seemed to think that it would be inappropriate, given the circumstances.” Harry said, staring at his hands. “She wanted me to tell you all that she’s terribly sorry. Apparently, she didn’t get the owls because she was in a muggle library, and she had no idea we were looking. She thought Ron would explain.”</p><p>“Well, he didn’t,” Ginny said, taking a short, shaky breath.</p><p>“Is she alright, Harry?” George asked, searching the other man’s face. Harry pulled his glasses off, his gaze flickering towards the stairs.</p><p>“Honestly, I don’t know,” Harry said, his voice quiet. “They’ve fought before, but—”</p><p>George’s ribs pressed inwards.</p><p>Ron hadn’t. Surely, he was misunderstanding.</p><p>“This time feels different,” Harry said.</p><p>George went numb. He reached forward, bunching the fabric of Granger’s jumper in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>#</p><p>August 31, 1998</p><p>With the rest of August came a series of departures. First Charlie. Then Percy. Then Ron. George hadn’t said goodbye to Ron, who still refused to answer Ginny’s questions about what precisely had occurred the night of her birthday. George couldn’t dwell on Ron, or he’d feel sick and angry all at once.</p><p>But, mostly, he was worried.</p><p>The weeks folded into each other, and Calliope never brought anything new. Only the papers, which were full of rubbish about him, his family, and the Ministry. Day after day, there were no new mentions of her. Not a single photograph. She’d simply snapped her fingers and disappeared, and George didn’t know what to do.</p><p>As the school year approached, he assembled the counter and unpacked the product, but the Hogsmeade location was larger, and half the shelves were empty. He ought to tinker—invent something new, but every time he sat at the workbench, the numbness crept up until the thought of creating anything was unbearable. The old product would have to do for now. To pass the time at night, George searched through books on runes, wards, and keystones, but most of them didn’t have anything about House Elves in them, and he had yet to locate a firm connection.</p><p>She would know better than he did—where to look, how to find it.</p><p>He kept meeting with Healer Marcus, and they talked about why George watched the window.</p><p>About whether George should keep watching the window.</p><p>Her jumper smelled like chamomile.</p><p>George wasn’t going to stop watching the window.</p><p>#</p><p>September 1, 1998</p><p>The train whistle punched through Hogsmeade, and George dropped the box of Canary Creams, dashing out the door.</p><p>She’d be there.</p><p>He couldn’t stop himself. He raced to the station, shoulders heaving as he searched for her. The sea of students pressed around him on all sides.</p><p>“Come to welcome us in?” Ginny asked, stepping off the Hogwarts Express. George nodded.</p><p>No one came out after her.</p><p>“She wasn’t on the train,” Ginny said quietly.</p><p>“Oh,” George said.</p><p>The Hogwarts robes marched past, and the students filed into the boats and carriages. Ginny spared him a small smile before slipping after the others, her broom under her arm.</p><p>George watched the thestrals until they disappeared into the woods. Then, he turned and trudged back to Hogsmeade.</p><p>#</p><p>September 2, 1998</p><p>No sign of Granger.</p><p>#</p><p>September 3, 1998</p><p>No Hermione.</p><p>#</p><p>September 4, 1998</p><p>He’d begun to think she may never come back. The thought was like a knife, carving out his insides.</p><p>#</p><p>September 5, 1998</p><p>Students crowded the shop—most of them older. He hadn’t been expecting a rush this early; the first Hogsmeade weekend wasn’t for weeks. It seemed as though Professor McGonagall had loosened the restrictions on visiting the village for the students who were of age. Fred and Lee would be pleased. Verity nudged him to the side to grab a paper bag for the customer. She’d floo-ed over to help for the day.</p><p>He listened to the chatter as he rang another purchase into the till. Then, something golden flashed in the windowpane.</p><p>George looked up and caught it.</p><p>The strobe of sunlight on a set of curls.</p><p>“Be right back,” he shouted, vaulting over the counter. The bell jangled as he whipped the door open, searching.</p><p>Where had she gone?</p><p>He sprinted through the street, shouldering his way through the crowd.</p><p>George turned, the cobblestones uneven under his feet. There, across the way, she walked. Her head bent low, books clutched to her chest as she ducked around the corner.</p><p>She was wearing his jean jacket.</p><p>“Wait!” He called, and for a moment, her steps seemed to slow. But, she didn’t stop.</p><p>She knew. She knew it was him, and she wasn’t stopping. She’d said she would always be his friend, but here she was, walking away, and she wouldn’t bother to tell him why.</p><p>George sucked in a breath, and the hurt surged out.</p><p>“Hermione Granger, you promised me!” His shout was hoarse and desperate as he watched her push through the crowd, away from him.</p><p>His breath came in gasps, and he tripped back, shoving his hands through his hair. The cobblestones blurred together. A great hole had been rent, right through his chest.</p><p>All those years, and he’d never once worried that she would leave the family behind altogether. They were knit, the Weasleys and Granger. Once a Weasley, always a Weasley. That was how it was supposed to be.</p><p>George blinked, trying to collect himself as he turned to the spot she had been and braced for her absence.</p><p>Hermione Jean Granger stood in the middle of the street, watching him.</p><p>As their eyes met, the people between them vanished.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Vigil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Candlelight.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!<br/>Really cutting it down to the wire with this one, but HERE WE ARE. I've been editing all night, and I know I didn't catch every mistake, but, at this point, I'm air drumming to Journey and more than a little bit lost to the world. Please forgive any errors. &lt;3</p><p>I hope this week finds you all safe and well. &lt;3 </p><p>Thank you so much for the support, for reading, and for commenting. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this storyworld or to these characters. </p><p>This week, our songs are as follows: "Leaves from the Vine" by AtinPiano/"Icarus" by Bastille, "Train Wreck" by James Arthur, "Atlas: Touch" by Sleeping at Last, "Yellow" by Coldplay, "Sparks" by Coldplay (This was suggested by a reader a few weeks ago, so thank you!), "Healing Waters" by Starship, and "Pure Imagination" by Rook1e/"Open Arms" by Journey.</p><p>This chapter is a lot. But, hold tight, okay?</p><p>Grab your snack (definitely something warm this week--like a cinnamon roll), your drink (I highly recommend hot cocoa with this chapter), and your softest blanket. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Three: "Vigil"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>April 4, 2003</p><p>George’s eyes were dazed and unfocused, and his body folded like a paper doll as he dropped, unseeing, towards oblivion.</p><p>Hermione Jean leaned over the railing, her arm outstretched. The scream was hoarse as it tore from her throat: “Carpe Retractum!”</p><p>
  <em>Stay with me.</em>
</p><p>The spell uncoiled from her hand as bolt of golden lightning, arcing through the space between them. It collided with George’s chest in a surge of purple sparks, and then it caught. George’s body lurched in mid-air, his head and limbs snapping back at the sudden tension.</p><p>The tether solidified, and in the span of a single second, she could feel it—the battered beat of his heart, the shallow breath in his lungs, the magic’s force tying them together, for better or worse.</p><p>She wasn’t strong enough.</p><p>Her feet ripped from the ground as the tie yanked her over the barrier, her wand left on the floor of the Quidditch box.</p><p>The cord of light accelerated her fall, dragging her to him like a magnet. She slammed against his chest, the air whistling in her ears.</p><p>Gravity, gravity.</p><p>Destination. Determination. Deliberation.</p><p>Hermione’s center jolted, but they didn’t move.</p><p>They couldn’t apparate.</p><p>“Arresto—” She choked on the words of the spell. “—Momentum.” Her magic fizzled. It wasn’t focused enough to caste by hand again.</p><p>This was it.</p><p>Hermione blinked at the ground and tucked her head against George’s chest.</p><p>The other Hermione would’ve saved him.</p><p>“Arresto Momentum!”</p><p>Gravity’s claws receded at the sound of Ron’s bellow, and the air became thick and heavy, like sand.</p><p>A flash of green streaked towards them. The Harpie whistle shrilled as Ginny Potter, fastest chaser in the league, reached them, swooping under and plucking them from the sky. Hermione’s ribs slammed against the back of the broomstick, her grip on George slipping as he dangled, unconscious on the other side of it. The broom dipped.</p><p>“Hold on!” Ginny screamed. So, Hermione did, her eyes fixed on George’s chalky face, her fingers white as she gripped him, the Carpe Retractum pulsing between their chests, keeping them tied. They hurtled towards the players’ entrance, and the tunnel made everything dark, the broom shrieking.</p><p>They dropped to the floor of the locker room, tumbling towards the floo.</p><p> “St. Mungo’s!” Ginny yelped, and the green flared, sucking the three of them away.</p><p>Only seconds had passed, and yet George felt colder.</p><p>The world whipped, reality’s jetstream tugging at her, and then they hit the polished tile that had become all too familiar.</p><p>The calm in the hall evaporated as George’s body slumped towards the floor, Ginny and Hermione bracing to keep him upright. A team of healers swarmed, clustering around them, and suddenly, Hermione was pulled away. The fraying sparks between George’s chest and her own vanished.</p><p>A whoosh. Angelina dashed through the floo, followed shortly by Lee.</p><p>Under the fluorescents, with the team moving around him—George looked fragile.</p><p>The floo roared, and Harry, Ron, and Fred stumbled out.</p><p>George still wasn’t moving.</p><p>Her throat closed.</p><p>The green robes whirled thick and fast, levitating George onto a gurney.</p><p>“No—wait—” Hermione gasped, rushing towards them. Surely, they’d need to ask her some questions or something. There must be something she could do to help.</p><p>“Mrs. Weasley-Granger, please come with us,” a soft voice said, and a nurse took her arm, but Hermione pulled away, following the team.</p><p>George’s hand, pale and limp, spilled off the gurney as they tore his sleeve open. Angry, purple lines webbed over his skin, crawling towards his elbow.</p><p>No. No, it was moving too fast. A wave of anxiety rocked her. It was some sort of curse—or venom. Every second was precious, and she’d wasted too many of them. The world went cold.</p><p>Her lungs burned.</p><p>“Mrs. Weasley-Granger? You are Mrs. Weasley-Granger, yes?” the nurse asked.</p><p>“The knife—You’ve got to-to—” she said, tripping over her words, trying to move to follow the team. “It was a knife.”</p><p>She couldn’t breathe.</p><p>No one was listening.</p><p>George’s blood dripped onto the floor.</p><p>The healers turned George’s arm over, shouting words she couldn’t make out, and began to run. The gurney wheels squeaked as they wheeled it around, and then he was gone—disappeared between the ward’s swinging doors.</p><p>On instinct, Hermione’s feet began to move, but the nurse stepped in front of her.</p><p>“Miss, are you his wife?” The words were distant.</p><p>George’s blood was red on the tile. Like a phantom sent from an unsteady future, she saw him. Hazy, crouched against the wall, crimson staining his hands, face, and robes.</p><p>No. The healers would stop the bleeding. He wouldn’t bleed out. He couldn’t.</p><p>Hermione blinked, and the ghost vanished. She had imagined it—her mind conjuring things to process the trauma.</p><p>Logically, she knew this, and yet, the vision taunted her.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione whispered, eyes not leaving the spot he’d been. “That’s me.”</p><p>The nurse’s words washed over her—something about seeing to things, and that she’d be back in a moment. Harry murmured with another attendant, handing off the handkerchief-wrapped weapon. The healer turned on his heel, pommel in hand, racing after the team with the gurney.</p><p>Hermione turned, staring back at Ron and Harry.</p><p>Once, years ago, she’d wished that the danger would pass them by. That it would fall to someone else instead of the three of them. Just once.</p><p>She hadn’t meant George.</p><p>She gasped, pressing her sleeve to her mouth. Ron’s expression was unreadable, but Harry reached forward, guiding Hermione into a seat in the lobby, taking the one beside her.</p><p>“We got here fast,” Harry spoke rapidly, whispering in her ear. “He’ll be alright.”</p><p>He didn’t understand.</p><p>“George hates hospitals,” Hermione said, blinking and shaking her head. In the middle of the floor, Fred paced, each lap a stretch of three strides, then a jagged turn. Angelina watched him, quiet.</p><p>“I’ll get Mum and Dad,” Ginny whispered. Hermione barely registered the sound of the green flames, her eyes fixed on the ward doors. The small windows showed only a sliver of the hall beyond.</p><p>Hermione clenched her seat’s armrests.</p><p>The doors swung open, and a chilling cry stretched through the lobby. Hermione’s breath froze in her lungs, and Fred haulted mid-step. The yell hiked, twisting into a horrible, anguished scream.</p><p>It was George. George’s voice.</p><p>Hermione unhinged.</p><p>They were <em>hurting</em> him.</p><p>Hermione bolted, leaping from her seat towards the ward doors. As though expecting this, Harry lunged for her, his hand catching her elbow. Something flashed.</p><p>“Let me go!” she shouted, struggling out of his hold. Harry’s hand slipped, and for a moment, she sprang free. Then, Harry collided with her, wrapping his arms all the way around hers and her torso, yanking her back. Her body hoisted into the air at the force of it, and she kicked her legs out. The world was a blur of light and sound.</p><p>George’s cries continued to echo on the other side of the doors, again and again, the sound wrenching, spiked with agony.</p><p>“He needs me! He needs me—” she screamed, fighting against Harry’s arms.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Hermione, I’m sorry,” Harry gasped, but he wouldn’t let her go. “We’ve got to stay out here.”</p><p>“No!” Her voice cracked, raw and broken. “You don’t understand!” Like a strobe, Hermione thought of the warm touch of his hand on hers, hasty kisses and half-hazard Episky light, the brush of bottled Dittany stroking over her cheek.</p><p>Everything in her burned. “He needs me!” She had to be at George’s side. Her magic welled up, exploding under her skin, and Harry yelped, drawing his hands back.</p><p>Hermione launched, the world spinning around her as she blasted through the double doors, her boots squeaking on the tile. George’s voice drove her forward, catapulting her past startled attendants and a long stretch of doors.</p><p>As she neared the section at the end of the hall, George’s shout halted, cutting out suddenly.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>Hermione tumbled to a stop, yanking the curtain back from the place the sound had last been.</p><p>She froze, stricken in horror at the sight.</p><p>George’s body convulsed, his back arching against the cot as green robes stormed around him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth open and teeth gritted.</p><p>And it should have been her.</p><p>“You’re sure it’s Ridgeback Venom?” someone shouted. The attendant holding the knife snapped back a reply, but it was a jumble of noise in the chaos.</p><p>The rattle of footsteps clattered behind her, and suddenly, someone snagged her, hooking an arm around the front of her shoulders. Hermione lurched, fighting the hold.</p><p>“Mione, stop,” Ron’s voice was loud and strained in her ears. At the sound, an attendant blinked at them, stepping away from the table. “You can’t—” Ron hissed as her elbow connected with his ribs, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he began to drag her backwards.</p><p>All she could see was George, alone on the table.</p><p>“No!” she gasped, pulling towards George, her arm outstretched.</p><p>Fred and Angelina’s calls echoed down the hall, closer and closer,</p><p>“Careful, Ron!” Angelina shouted.</p><p>“You lot have to wait outside,” the attendant snapped, crossing towards them.</p><p>“I know, I know!” It was Fred now, gasping, and yet another hand came down on her shoulder. “Granger, please.”</p><p>“I’ve got to—” she begged, charging against the force holding her back.</p><p>“They’ve got to get it out,” Fred was saying, his hands joining Ron’s as they yanked her away.</p><p>The medic closest to George’s right arm twisted his wand, and a thin stream of dark purple floated from the gash in a faint trickle. As it left the wound, George contorted, his head slamming back against the table.</p><p>Hermione cracked in two.</p><p>“George!” She choked, lunging. Her feet left the floor, but Fred’s hold was strong, and she slipped, losing valuable ground as they dragged her towards the lobby. “George!” she shouted.</p><p>On the table, George’s eyes opened, glassy and unfocused in her direction.</p><p>Behind her, Hermione felt Fred and Ron go still, their hold slackening.</p><p>But then the medic twisted the wand again, and George’s eyes rolled back, his frame shaking.</p><p>The healer swore, struggling to keep his aim on the gash. “Do a body bind already or hold him steady!” Then, the man pressed down on George’s elbow, cranking the wand tip over his skin, and drawing another stream of purple into the air.</p><p>George’s mouth wrenched wider and his face twisted, but no sound came out.</p><p>They’d put a silencing charm on him. Hermione’s insides went molten, something dormant from past battles flaring to life.</p><p>“Does she need to be sedated?” the attendant before them shouted, and Angelina’s angry reply was only noise.</p><p>Hermione didn’t think. She only moved. The instincts coming to her like lightning, she dropped her weight, kicking Fred’s ankle out, and slammed her forearm into Ron’s throat. They staggered back, and she twisted under and out from their grip, dodging the attendant. One bound. Two. Three—and she pushed between the medics near his head.</p><p>“What’s she doing here?” the healer yelled, struggling to maintain a hold on George’s arm as he thrashed. A hand latched onto Hermione’s shoulder, squeezing like a vice as it tugged her away, but Hermione’s outstretched arm was so close. She strained, extending her hand towards his face.</p><p>Finally, her fingertips brushed George’s brow.</p><p>Time seemed to slow.</p><p>The magic blossomed outwards from her touch, easing the worst of the convulsions as it travelled over him like ripples on a pond. George’s head dropped, limp on the table, and the thrashing of his arms and legs faded to small tremors. He was still rigid, but the shaking had been reduced to small tremors.</p><p>The healer at George’s arm blinked, looking up at her with tired eyes.</p><p>The grip on Hermione’s shoulder yanked.</p><p>“Wait—” The healer shouted. “No, she stays.” He wiped his jaw on his shoulder before stooping over George’s arm once again. The attendant let her go.</p><p>The team made room for her, working around her as she cradled the weight of his head between her hands. The scar of his ear pressed uneven against her left palm, his neck cold and damp under her fingertips.</p><p>It should’ve been her.</p><p>“I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking on the lump in her throat. “Only a bit more.” She kept repeating it, over and over. As the healer drew pull after pull of the venom from him, George flinched, trembling, but he remained still enough for them to work.</p><p>And Hermione didn’t let go.</p><p>Not when the purple marks faded, revealing inky, grey ones beneath. Not when the healer swore, asking what else it could be. Not when the spider work of curse continued to crawl further, up towards his elbow. Not even when the healing enchantment failed to draw it out.</p><p>No, Hermione held tight, praying for a miracle.</p><p>The room spun, and the earth seemed to tremble under her feet, but Hermione Jean did not falter.</p><p>“No way around it,” the healer shouted, reaching under the table and yanking out what looked like a tourniquet. The strap had a thin, white fiber running through it, and it glowed as they twisted it around George’s forearm, just below the elbow. She held on when they tightened it, pressed their wand to the white line, and caste an adapted Protego. The strap fell away, but the fiber remained, biting through George’s skin as the spell cracked through his arm. George’s pulse stuttered and hitched under her index finger.</p><p>Then, the spell’s flare faded, the skin knit back together, leaving a raised, jagged white line where the light had blazed. The healer crossed his arms, waiting. No one breathed as the grey crept further, then reached the line.</p><p>It stopped.</p><p>The room exhaled.</p><p>The healers bustled back into motion, turning their attention to the open gash.</p><p>Through all of this, Hermione held on, like a caste-iron lantern floating over him.</p><p>#</p><p>6:00 a.m., April 6, 2003</p><p>George’s hand was warm and limp in hers as Hermione studied the open file in her lap, penciling more notes in the margin. The adapted Protego had held thus far, which was lucky. It was experimental procedure developed after the war, using wand core fragments to channel shields, blocking off certain curse damage. According to the healers, it worked about fifty percent of the time.</p><p>She turned, her eyes once again finding the thin line that looped under George’s skin. The strand of unicorn hair would continue to carry the spell, keeping the curse from spreading.</p><p>There was almost nothing on the curse itself, though. That sheet of parchment in the file was mostly blank, listing only the symptoms—dark grey marks, centralized in the veins, localized magical signature disruption. But, that was to be expected, given that a different sort of magic was present in the area. They could tell that it had bound itself to the magical signature in George’s blood, though, due to the way it refused to be extracted by regular means.</p><p>They’d have to figure out what it was to find a counter spell to separate it.</p><p>For now, they didn’t know what it was or how to remove it.</p><p>The thought made her chest tighten. Hermione swallowed, steeling herself. She had to be clear-headed. She returned to her notes.</p><p>The gash was resistant to Dittany and other, similar spells, so they’d decided to stitch it closed. She had a page on changing out the wrappings, but she’d also made the attendant walk her through it.</p><p>At her left, George laid on the cot, his breath deep and slow. They’d kept him under for the past two days, frantically trying different methods to draw the curse’s essence out.</p><p>The door clicked open, and Angelina appeared with a paper bag, Fred walking behind her.</p><p>“Molly sent food,” she whispered, dropping into the seat beside Hermione.</p><p>While a continual stream of Weasleys had visited, Fred was constantly in and out, stopping by to check in on George every few hours.</p><p>Angelina, however, hadn’t left once—living out of a small bag Fred had brought for her the first night, when he’d dropped off some of Hermione’s things as well.</p><p>Fred paced over to the cot, his face drawn.</p><p>“You don’t have to—” Hermione whispered back, but Angelina pinned her with a serious look.</p><p>“Stop,” Angelina said, opening the bag up.</p><p>“While you were in the meeting with the healers, they came and cleaned him up a bit,” Fred said, glancing at Hermione. “They said they took him off the dreamless this morning?”</p><p>Hermione nodded, biting her lip. They hadn’t dosed him since the night before, but he still slept. She didn’t know how long it would take him to wake.</p><p>“So, they’re done,” Fred said, swallowing. Hermione closed the file.</p><p>“Not necessarily,” she said. “They plan to study the traces they found in the venom.”</p><p>Fred’s jaw went tight. “And then what?”</p><p>Hermione looked at George. She didn’t know. She hated not knowing.</p><p>“It’s his casting arm,” Fred said, staring at her.</p><p>“I know,” Hermione snapped. Fred exhaled and shoved his hands in his pockets, turning to face the poster on the wall.</p><p>Angelina rustled in the bag, drawing out an oatmeal raisin bar. “C’mon,” she said, pressing it into Hermione’s hands. “You’re like Angelo. All grumpy when you’re hungry.”</p><p>Guilt slammed her. “Is Angelo alright?” Hermione asked. “You’ve been here just as long as I have.”</p><p>Angelina snorted. “He’s in Heaven. Molly lets him eat his weight in sweets every time he stays with them. I’ll have to pry him off her when this is over.”</p><p>“Mum’s probably closing the floo and changing the locks as we speak,” Fred said, speaking at the wall. “Never seeing our son again. He’s as good as lost to us.” The joke was dry, but the fact that Fred was trying made Hermione’s throat close.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” Angelina said, pointing at the treat in Hermione’s hands. “Eat.”</p><p>She took a bite. It was soft, warm, and sweet, but swallowing was still a monumental effort.</p><p>“Surely, you’d like to go home and—” Hermione tried again, but Angelina cut in.</p><p>“No,” Angelina said, voice level and calm. “I’m here until you leave.”</p><p>Hermione blinked, something pricking at her eyes. “But—”</p><p>Angelina leaned in, a determined look coming over her. “I’m here until you leave,” she repeated. Then, her voice went quiet as she added: “Because I know how it feels.” Across the room, Fred’s shoulders went tight.</p><p>“Anyway,” Angelina said lightly. “Eat your breakfast.” She hoisted the bag onto Hermione’s lap.</p><p>#</p><p>12:00 p.m., April 6, 2003</p><p>Hours passed as he slept, and Hermione sat, watching him. Across the room, Angelina napped in her chair, her feet propped up on the extra seat Fred had snuck in.</p><p>George stirred, flinching, and Hermione swallowed. He’d become more restless over the past hour or so, the dreamless sleep potion leaving his system.</p><p>This was her fault. She’d gone and challenged the blood supremacists—practically invited them to attack her, and George had gotten caught in the crossfire. The guilt was more and more intense with each passing moment. First, the portkey. Now the knife. Both because of her.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she whispered, propping her head on her hands, which had been folded at the edge of the bed for over an hour.</p><p>The door swung open, and Healer Marcus walked in. “We’ve got the results from our tests earlier today,” he whispered, waving a thin stack of parchment. After finding George at Mungo’s, he’d joined the care team, insisting on helping.</p><p>“And?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Nothing odd, apart from the—” Marcus nodded meaningfully at George’s arm. “The adapted Protego has stabilized, which is good news. In comparable cases, we have yet to see one break after stabilization.”</p><p>“But, this is a new curse,” Hermione said, fidgeting.</p><p>Marcus nodded. “That’s true, and it’s why we’ll be keeping a close eye on it. But, for now, we’re preparing to discharge him. We’ll let him sleep this off at home.”</p><p>Hermione gaped. “You’re not serious,” she said, snapping the file shut.</p><p>Marcus raised his brows. “I am, actually,” he said. Hermione’s face heated. They couldn’t just send them back. Not with so many questions unanswered. A nurse bustled through the door, and Marcus stepped aside to let her through. The attendant paced to George’s bed, pulling a stoppered vial from her pocket. “Just a little something to take the edge off,” she said. With deft hands, she propped George’s jaw open and uncorked the glass. Then, she poured the blue liquid down his throat.</p><p>Hermione watched, stricken.</p><p>“It’ll wear off over the next several days. A week, at most. If he needs a higher dose, owl us,” the nurse said, heading back to the hall.</p><p>Hermione blinked, reaching for the file. “How will I know?” she asked.</p><p>The nurse snorted, pausing in the doorframe. “He’ll tell you. Loudly.” It clicked shut behind her.</p><p>Hermione didn’t laugh. Marcus cleared his throat.</p><p>“Listen, Mrs. Weasley-Granger, I know this is a lot to handle, but we’ve done what we can for now. If he worsens, come back in, and we’ll do another round.” He spoke gently, but Hermione was fried from 48 hours without proper sleep. She didn’t want to do another round. She wanted to fix it properly.</p><p>She crossed her arms, staring down at the tile.</p><p>“I know how this seems,” Marcus said. “But, curses like this are complicated. First, we’ll need to analyze the curse traces we isolated. We’ll have to compare it to our records to determine if it’s a twist on an old foe, or something entirely new. Then, we’ll have to see how it responds to different counter-casting. All of that takes time.” He sighed, unclipping George’s paperwork. “Frankly, it’s a bit out of my area of expertise. But I’m going to do my best to help the process along as I can. I’m already pushing the board as hard as I can to fund it.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, blinking.</p><p>“I wish I had more answers for you,” Healer Marcus said, his voice going quiet. “For both of you.”</p><p>At the reminder, Hermione stiffened. “Leave my research alone,” she said, swallowing. “For now, if it helps things go faster, just focus on this.”</p><p>Marcus paused. “That’s not really—”</p><p>“You have a finite amount of hours to spend on research pertaining to our care per day, no?” Hermione said, lifting her chin. “I’m only asking you to spend those on George, for now.” She lifted a hand, gesturing to her head. “This—this is a bother, but, I’m fine, really. Prioritize.”</p><p>Marcus tucked his clipboard under his arm. “On the record, I’m not allowed to agree to that,” he said, tilting his head.</p><p>“But off the record?” Hermione asked, twisting her sleeve in her hands.</p><p>Marcus didn’t answer. His gaze slid from Hermione to George, then back to Hermione.</p><p>“Owl me if either of you needs anything,” he said. “I’ll fetch the attendants. They’ll help you get George settled at your place.”</p><p>#</p><p>4:00 p.m., April 6, 2003</p><p>The attendants wheeled George through the Marcus’s office floo, holding his head upright as they threw the powder in. He still hadn’t woken, but this didn’t seem to concern anyone on staff.</p><p>After the flames died, Hermione stepped up with Fred and Angelina, and Fred called the flat’s address as Bill waited for his turn.</p><p>The attendants had moved the coffee table out of the way and were glancing around with uncertainty. As Hermione came through, they gawked.</p><p>“Are you really Hermione Granger?” the one on the left asked.</p><p>“Thought it’d be bigger,” the one on the right mumbled, peering around the flat.</p><p>George stirred, a soft mumble coming from the back of his throat, and his head tipped forward. Hermione hurried towards him, but she didn’t make it in time, and George began to spill from the chair. The second attendant lurched, grabbing him.</p><p>“Honestly,” Hermione snapped, crossing her arms.</p><p>“Sorry—” the attendant flushed. “Um, where do you want him?” he asked as Bill whooshed into the hearth.</p><p>“Thanks, but we’ll take it from here,” Fred said, crossing to George. Bill paced to George’s other side, and together, they hoisted him from the wheelchair.</p><p>The attendants ducked back through the floo, taking the chair with them.</p><p>“Gits,” Fred muttered.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>“But, um—Where do you want him?” Fred asked, his voice going a bit funny on the question.</p><p>Hermione blinked. Did they really think she was going to put George on the sleeper sofa in this state?</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said, sarcasm biting through her words. “I thought we could stick him in one of the glass cases downstairs. See if any customers are interested.”</p><p>Fred’s eyes rounded, and Hermione brushed past him, throwing open the bedroom door.</p><p>“What sort of a question is that?” she said, exasperated. “Merlin, Fred. I mean, really. Honestly.” Fred and Bill dragged George through and lifted him, resting him on the middle of the mattress. Bill’s mouth had quirked up at the corner.</p><p>As Bill helped Fred Scourgify George, cleaning the stale hospital smell off him, Angelina pointed Hermione towards the loo. “They’ll watch him. You wash up,” she said.</p><p>Hermione grabbed a change of clothes, her movements slow and unsteady.</p><p>“You want takeout?” Angelina called from the kitchen.</p><p>“Alright,” Hermione called back, then headed for the shower.</p><p>The door closed behind her, and suddenly, panic bloomed.</p><p>She wasn’t next to George. What if he needed her and she was preoccupied? She blinked hard. Time seemed to be moving at a strange pace. Slowing to a crawl, then leaping forward. She leaned back against the sink. The scar could be moving—right now. She jolted towards the doorknob, her hand closing around it.</p><p>She stopped, breathing hard.</p><p>Fred and Bill were with him. They would shout if something went wrong. Wouldn’t they? The thought was solid enough to get her to move.</p><p>Shaking, Hermione worked quickly, scrubbing the grime off before tripping out of the shower and grabbing her clothes.</p><p>Her hair dripped as she yanked an oversized jumper over her head and tugged on a pair of joggers. The anxiety built in her chest, pushing harder and harder. She had to hurry.</p><p>When she emerged, Bill and Fred sat, murmuring on the edge of the bed. George wore a clean set of pajamas, the right sleeve cut up to the elbow.</p><p>He was still asleep.</p><p>At the sight of him, the tension in Hermione’s ribs eased.</p><p>“Angelina’s making you some tea,” Fred said, glancing up at her. Bill pushed to his feet.</p><p>“I’ve got to head back to the cottage,” he said. “But please owl if you need anything at all.”</p><p>Hermione nodded and thanked him. Then, she stood, twisting her hands together, listening as the floo roared. Her ears filled with a rushing sound. Soon, it would only be her. Only be her to watch over him, and what if she missed something?</p><p>“We can stay, if you need,” Fred said, watching her.</p><p>Hermione’s throat closed. “Would you?” Hermione asked, the sob hitching her voice. “At least for tonight?”</p><p>“As long as you need,” Angelina said, coming up to her side. The other woman slid a mug into Hermione’s hands.</p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>11:59 p.m., April 6, 2003</p><p>The sun had slipped from the sky, and stars shone through the windowpane. Empty takeout containers littered the dresser’s surface. The door hung open to the living room, Angelina’s sleeping form faintly visible on the couch—which Fred had transfigured to better accommodate the two of them. Now, though, Fred was working in the kitchen, the soft clink of tools echoing through the flat.</p><p>He’d also dragged the sleeper sofa into the bedroom, without her asking.</p><p>But Hermione hadn’t moved, crouched at the edge of the bed, head propped on her hands and eyes fixed on the gauze wrapped around George’s arm.</p><p>She wouldn’t move until he woke. She would be here.</p><p>She was on her third draught of pepper-up, and it felt as though she was half-steam, half empty.</p><p>George twisted, mumbling. He’d been doing it all night. It hadn’t been real words, but the sound was comforting—like a reminder that he was still there.</p><p>A few hours ago, she’d started whispering back, as though it were a two-way conversation.</p><p>“Well, personally, I think Muggle Studies courses ought to incorporate more muggle literature,” she whispered, tracing her thumb up and down his hand, the touch sparking faintly. “But, that’s a good point you raise. Music is just as important, really.”</p><p>She had no idea where it was all coming from, whimsy and ideas floating into her head. Nonsense, really. But it broke up the quiet.</p><p>“You have a lot of good ideas, you know,” Hermione whispered, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Very inventive. I’ve always thought that.” George didn’t answer, his breath deep and slow.</p><p>Something in Hermione’s ribs flickered, softly aching.</p><p>On an impulse, she leaned in, brushing a kiss to his temple. For the first time in days, the sparks flared, strong and vibrant. Hermione started, pulling back a bit.</p><p>George stirred, his breath catching in his throat. Then, the fingers of his cursed hand flexed around hers.</p><p>“Georgie?” she whispered, blinking.</p><p>His head lolled towards her, and his voice, slurred from weariness or medication or magic—there was no way to tell—spilled from his lips.</p><p>“Hermione,” he mumbled, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re here.” His hand began to tremble, a slight tremor working through his arm. She’d seen it in her parents’ office—patients coming out of anesthesia. The potion they’d given him must’ve elicited a similar effect. He didn’t seem to notice it, and his eyes were glazed over as he watched her.</p><p>“Yes, George,” she said, kneeling closer and pushing his hair back from his brow. He hummed lightly, a look of utter content coming over his face.</p><p>“Come back to bed,” he murmured, the words sluggish and slipping together. Hermione’s throat closed. He didn’t remember. Not like this.</p><p>She wouldn’t ruin it for him.</p><p>“I will in a minute,” she whispered. George’s face relaxed, and he dipped back under the waves of sleep.</p><p>Hermione didn’t move from his side.</p><p>#</p><p>April 7, 2003</p><p>Bright light spilled over Hermione’s eyelids, and she inhaled, blinking.</p><p>Her hand was empty. Panic rocked her, and she jerked her head aloft.</p><p>George sat upright against the pillows with a quill tucked between his teeth, staring over a mess of paperwork on the bed. The file from Mungo’s laid open on his lap, parchments spread out over the duvet. She searched along his arm, but the grey markings hadn’t crept any further.</p><p>The pinch in her stomach eased a bit.</p><p>George glanced up, a deep line between his brows. He pulled the quill from his teeth with his good hand, then spoke: “Funny really, but I can’t feel my legs.” His tone was calm and light, but his eyes carried a tension—alarm, brewing steadily.</p><p>Merlin, how long had he been awake?</p><p>She swallowed, the cogs in her mind grinding together, whirring into action. Legs. What had the materials said about the legs? There’d been something.</p><p>“That’s a common side effect of the—”</p><p>“Anaesthenium Draught,” George mumbled, turning a sheet of parchment over. “Yes, I know.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed, pulling her hands from the bed’s edge. “It should fade in the next several days,” she whispered.</p><p>“It’s rubbish,” he muttered, the words clipped and tight. “Surprised I’m awake at all, after that dosage.” He dropped the sheet of parchment, lifting another. His marked hand shook the slightest bit. “There’s no excuse—they’ve got on file that my family’s never responded well to it. Should’ve just let it be. I’d rather deal with the pain than this.”</p><p>Hermione’s ribs constricted.</p><p>As she watched, George took the quill, pressing it to the parchment’s margins.</p><p>“Fred refused to move you, despite my insistence,” he said, scrawling out a note. “You shouldn’t sleep like that, Love. It’ll give you a headache.” He spoke casually, the endearment rolling off his tongue while he concentrated. He popped the quill back between his teeth and flipped the page.</p><p>But, despite his apparent ease, a line of tension carved between his brows, and he kept flexing the cursed hand, just the smallest bit.</p><p>Hermione blinked again. “George?”</p><p>“Hm?” he reached for another sheet, one that was close to her hand.</p><p>“Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice hitching. George paused, and he lowered the parchment and quill. His eyes worked over her.</p><p>“No,” he said. “Not really.” He swallowed, his gaze flickering back down to the file.</p><p>He was lying.</p><p>Hermione stared at the bandage, at George’s battered frame, the ghost of his screams ringing in her ears.</p><p>“Right,” she said faintly, nodding.</p><p>The image of George’s body slipping over the railing circled through her mind—limp, sailing backwards over the green Quidditch pitch. And then it changed, and he was contorted on the table, thrashing wildly.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked softly.</p><p>She blinked, pushing it down.</p><p>“Yes?” she asked, lifting her head. He’d gone still, studying her, his head tipped towards her and brow wrinkled.</p><p>“Are you alright?” George sounded hesitant, worried. Her stomach lurched. She needed to look after him, not the other way around. She braced herself, trying her hardest to become a steel wall.</p><p>“Just tired,” she said, cool and collected despite the panic tearing up and down beneath her sternum. “Don’t worry about it.” She said it softly, her voice even, but George didn’t relax. His jaw went tight.</p><p>“I know that look,” he said, his tone wary. “Hermione, talk to me.”</p><p>Her gaze fluttered down to his arm, where the bandage wrapped from his wrist to his elbow. The scar hadn’t moved any higher.</p><p>It wouldn’t, so long as she was there.</p><p>The thought was irrational, but it still stuck in her head, circling.</p><p>So, she was unflinching at his side. She read silently, checked his arm every thirty minutes like clockwork, and ignored the concerned glint growing in George's eyes as he watched her.</p><p> </p><p>#</p><p>April 8, 2003</p><p>Hermione sat alone in the hallway, waiting, watching the loo door, her hand jittering against her leg. Angelina had gone to the Burrow to check on Angelo for the day, and Fred was helping George.</p><p>It was taking them an awfully long time, and if something went wrong, Fred hadn’t practiced the charm to restore the Protego like she had. She closed her eyes, trying to envision the strand of light blocking off the curse, but she couldn’t quite picture it. The balloon of anxiety expanded in her chest, tighter and tighter.</p><p>The loo door swung open, and Fred and George emerged. George’s hair dripped, and he wore an old purple jumper and jeans. His arm was slung over Fred’s shoulder, his feet dragging on the floor. “A hand, Hermione?” Fred asked, hoisting George a bit higher. George winced at the movement. “I’d like to check with Lee downstairs about the sales from yesterday before the mid-day rush, and then maybe help him out a bit.”</p><p>“Take me on your way, you git,” George said, shooting Fred an exasperated look. Hermione sighed. He’d been on edge since the day before, watching her like a hawk, trying to make it out like he was completely fine when he clearly wasn’t.</p><p>Fred shrugged. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t the time,” he said. “Besides, Hermione’s right here, and she’s almost certainly perfectly capable of helping you to the living room.”</p><p>Fred wasn’t wrong. Technically. They’d been using a variation on the featherlight charm since yesterday evening to move him from room to room. It wasn’t a perfect solution—they’d had to reduce the charm’s lightening efficiency to the bare minimum, or the process made George sick. With its aid, theoretically, Hermione could support George. He had yet to let her, though.</p><p>Hermione scrambled upright, taking the other place under George’s left arm. “It’s alright,” she said. “I can manage.”</p><p>“Fred,” George said, glaring at him, his throat bobbing. Fred didn’t respond.</p><p>“Now, I’ll catch him if you can’t—” Fred stepped out from under George, his hands extended. As his support receded, George’s remaining weight shifted, and he lurched into her, but it wasn’t too much.</p><p>George’s warmth soaked through her shoulder and side, little sparks dancing.</p><p>“I’ve got it,” Hermione said, bracing George upright.</p><p>“Excellent,” Fred said, a quick grin flashing over his face. “You’re a lifesaver, Hermione!” Fred called as he disappeared around the corner. The flat door swung open and shut.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George muttered, his tone flat.</p><p>“What’s your problem?” Hermione asked, pulling him forward a step, then another.</p><p>“You’ll have to narrow that question down,” George said dryly.</p><p>“It’s fine for Fred to help, but not me?” she asked, an edge creeping into her voice.</p><p>“Ah,” George said, his tone light. “That’s only when you’re like this.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Like what?” she asked, stopping. George leaned heavily on her shoulder, watching her with a guarded expression.</p><p>“It’s hard to explain,” he said softly.</p><p>Hermione firmed her jaw. “Try,” she said, proceeding with helping him towards the living room.</p><p>“Fair enough,” he said, sighing.</p><p>He took a deep breath, tipping his head back. “Once, I was working the till a bit late, and this bloke came in. Our anti-theft wards went off, but he wasn’t after product. He wanted the Galleons.”</p><p>Hermione’s step faltered. George pretended not to notice.</p><p>“We had it sorted,” George said. “But, you walked in, book in hand, and saw this poor sod, pointing his wand at my face, screaming about handing it over, or else.” Here, George paused, his eyes working over her face.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together as they turned the corner and approached the sofa.</p><p>As they rounded it, George still hadn’t finished the story. She huffed. “So, what happened?” she asked, finally.</p><p>“The blast from your wand drove him clear through the shelves and out the front window,” George said, clearing his throat. She crouched and lowered him onto the sofa, blinking.</p><p>“They took him to Mungo’s, and he recovered,” George said. “At the time, I thought it was over.”</p><p>Hermione stilled, her hands on either side of him. “Wasn’t it?” she asked. George shook his head, leaning in.</p><p>“No, see, after I’d finished repairing the window, I turned around, and there you were,” he said, studying her face. “Looking at me just like that.” He tapped the bridge of her nose with an index finger. His mouth was a grim line.</p><p>Hermione leaned back, crossing her arms. “Like what?”</p><p>“The way you’ve been watching me since I woke up,” George said, tilting his head. “Like I’m made of glass.” He lifted his brows.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth opened, but she didn’t have a reply. So, she scoffed, glancing at the ceiling.</p><p>“You kept finding excuses to be in the shop whenever I worked for weeks,” he said. “You wouldn’t admit why, but it was pretty obvious. I tolerated it, until one day, someone dropped something unexpectedly, and you shot off a Bombarda.”</p><p>“Stop it,” Hermione said, the words a bit sharp.</p><p>“It almost hit Verity,” George said quietly. “She was fine, but you weren’t.”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear about this,” Hermione said.</p><p>“It didn’t get any better until you started talking about it—”</p><p>“George, I said stop!” Hermione snapped. “This isn’t like that.”</p><p>George closed his eyes. “Blimey—Granger, then how is it?” he said, the words taut and loud. “You won’t tell me about how you’re feeling, but, every time you’ve got to leave the room, this look of terror flashes over you.”</p><p>Hermione stilled. She hadn’t realized he’d noticed, and now, here he was—worried over her again.</p><p>“That’s not—” she started, but George leaned in, staring intently at her.</p><p>“I prefer to feel like your partner, rather than a security risk that you’ve got to mitigate,” George said, his voice going a bit strained. “So, you’ll have to pardon me, if I don’t want you inundated with reminders of what happened.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “You think my helping you down the hallway reminds me?” she asked. George nodded, watching her. As though she could ever forget, for even just a moment, how he’d looked as he dropped. How he’d sounded as he cried out.</p><p>Hermione stood, her chest tightening. “You’re wrong,” she said.</p><p>George crossed his arms. “Am I?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes, George, you are,” she said, tension snapping in her tone. “You don’t get it.”</p><p>George’s eyes widened.</p><p>She hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing away.</p><p>“Tell me, then,” he said quietly.</p><p>“I didn’t—I should—I’ve got to, um—” she tripped to the side, then spun, heading to the kitchen.</p><p>“Would you please just talk to me about what happened?” he asked, his brow furrowing as she backed away. Hermione ducked behind the counter.</p><p>“You’ve read the file,” she said, not looking at him. She opened the pantry door. “This could use to be tidied.”</p><p>“The file doesn’t have anything about you in it,” he said, ignoring the distraction.</p><p>She glanced over, and he was watching her over the back of the sofa, his expression shuttered.</p><p>“That’s because it’s not relevant information,” Hermione said, sorting through the candy basket. She nicked one of her favorite chocolates, peeling the wrapper off.</p><p>“It is to me,” George said. Hermione grabbed another chocolate and wandered back to the living room, dropping it in George’s lap, checking the edge of his bandage on instinct as she did.</p><p>“Here,” she said. “Honestly, George, I’m managing. I’m a bit tired, but I think that’s to be expected, right?”</p><p>George studied her, turning the sweet over in his fingers. “Fred mentioned that you took it pretty hard,” he said. Hermione swallowed. “Something about you almost blowing a hole through the wall.”</p><p>This wasn’t the time. She had to be calm and focused. She had to look after him.</p><p>She blinked, schooling her features. “He’s exaggerating,” she said, dropping into the armchair. “It was scary at the time, but I’m alright.” She wasn’t lying. Not really. She was as well as she could be, given the circumstances, and George didn’t need to worry about that on top of everything else.</p><p>“He wouldn’t give details,” George said, staring at his hands. “But, he seemed to think we should talk about it.”</p><p>Hermione took a large bite of the chocolate and chewed slowly. “Like I said, it was scary, but really—I’ll be alright.”</p><p>She paused, looking for the way to explain without burdening him. “But, with the rest—you should know that when I help you, it makes me feel like I’m being productive,” she said. “Like I’m doing something to make things a little bit better.” She took a breath, meeting his gaze. “It’s frustrating when you won’t let me.”</p><p>George laid the chocolate to the side. “I see,” he said softly.</p><p>Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “Is there anything else that I should know?” His face was turned toward the windows, but the dark shadows under his eyes were more pronounced than usual. He looked worn, and his voice was tired.</p><p>Hermione looked at him. “No,” she said. “Not really.” The lie snagged at her conscience, her ribs constricting. He needed to get well. Eventually, she’d explain.</p><p>For now, she had to be strong. To keep watch.</p><p>#</p><p>April 9, 2003</p><p>“I’m bored,” George said, and Hermione snorted, pulling the tea tins from the cabinet. “Where’s my—” he paused.</p><p>A thud echoed through the living room, followed by a yelp, and Hermione dropped the kettle, rushing to the sofa. A bolt of panic crawled up her throat.</p><p>George had fallen, his body facedown beside the coach.</p><p>“Bugger,” he muttered, straining to push himself up.</p><p>“Would you stop it?” Hermione said, darting toward him. The feeling had started to slowly creep back into George’s legs, and with the change, he’d become insufferable.</p><p>Every time she turned her back, he tried to move. At first, it was to grab little things like a book on the far side of the coffee table or a blanket near his feet. But even after she moved everything within reach, he continued in the behavior, ignoring the healers’ guidelines and trying to do more than he should. He could manage with his left arm for most things—eating, reading, brushing his teeth. But, the strength in his core and legs was still sapped, and George seemed to think that he could trick it into returning.</p><p>He’d come close to tumbling off the sofa several times in the last couple of hours.</p><p>She knelt beside him, trying to pull him up, but he shook his head, his hand faltering as he waved her off.</p><p>“Let me try,” he said, an edge in his tone. Hermione backed away.</p><p>“Alright,” she said, crossing her arms, pushing the jolt of anxiety down. He’d overexerted himself already, and she could see the tiredness in his frame.</p><p>But, once again, George didn’t seem to pay nature any heed.</p><p>He winced, dragging his elbows under his chest, and then he braced himself, pushing slowly upward. His leg shifted the slightest bit, but it was uncoordinated and clumsy, not holding any weight. Halfway up, his shoulders began to tremble, but he smacked his hand on the table’s corner. His grip went white as he twisted, trying to shove himself further upright.</p><p>It was an admirable effort until his right arm gave out, then his left, and he tumbled.</p><p>Hermione sighed. George laid, quiet on the floor. His good hand was clenched, the fist tight.</p><p>“Are you ready to let me help you?” she asked.</p><p>“I’d like to be an obstinate git for a few more minutes, if that’s alright,” he said, frustration nipping through his words. Hermione bit her lip. Then, George added, softly: “I need a moment. Make your tea.”</p><p>“Alright,” Hermione said. “Want any?” She paced back over to the kitchen.</p><p>“Yes please,” George said quietly.</p><p>She hadn’t realized how in motion George always seemed to be. If he wasn’t focused on a task, he was walking around, tinkering, pacing, cooking, dancing. She bit her lips together, watching him as she put the kettle on the burner and leaned back against the counter.</p><p>The water was beginning to rattle when George finally sighed.</p><p>“Hermione?” he called.</p><p>“Coming,” she said, bounding over. She stooped and hoisted him upright, her hands gripping under his arms. He was heavy—they hadn’t used the featherlight charm that day. She grimaced as she dragged him back onto the sofa. George watched her, an unreadable expression on his face as she adjusted the pillows behind his back, then pulled his left leg, then his right onto the couch.</p><p>“Proper cozy,” she said, smiling as she tugged the blanket over. His gaze warmed as she tucked it around him.</p><p>The kettle whistled.</p><p>Hermione stepped back, breathing heavily. “Don’t you dare move,” she said, pinning him with a strict glare. Something sparked in George’s eyes, but she didn’t have time to examine it before darting into the kitchen to turn off the burner.</p><p>A thud shortly followed, and Hermione whirled.</p><p>George watched her from the couch, in the same spot. She crossed to him.</p><p>He’d swung his foot out, letting it drop heavy to the floor.</p><p>“Accident,” he said, shrugging, but his mouth twisted up in the corner. He was toying with her. Hermione pinned him with a flat look. George quirked his brows, studying her.</p><p>Huffing, she dragged his leg back onto the sofa and under the blanket. As she backed away, she glanced at his arm. The scar hadn’t moved. Good.</p><p>“What sort of tea do you want?” she asked.</p><p>“Chamomile,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Always Chamomile.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Alright.” She headed back into the kitchen.</p><p>“Hermione?” George called.</p><p>“Yes?” she poured the water over the tea.</p><p>“I’m flirting with you,” he said, staring at her from over the back of the sofa. Hermione set the kettle down.</p><p>“By falling off the couch?” she asked, crossing and placing his mug on a coaster within his reach.</p><p>George huffed. “No, I meant just now.”</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile at the incredulity in his tone. There was a pause.</p><p>“Why? Do you have some sort of thing for clumsy boys?” The words were playful and teasing, his voice ringing with merriment as he lifted his brows.</p><p>“Honestly, you’re ridiculous,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.</p><p>“My Mum did,” George said, shrugging. Hermione snorted, imagining a young Arthur Weasley tripping around Molly.</p><p>Then, she carried her drink to the armchair, lifting her book from the cushion. Finally. She nestled in, flipping the cover open and blowing steam off the rim of the mug.</p><p>The blessed silence lasted for no more than a minute.</p><p>“Pay attention to me,” George said. “I have on good authority that I’m bloody cute.”</p><p>She couldn’t help it—the laugh ricocheted out of her, and she lowered the volume onto her lap.</p><p>George grinned. “Did you like that one?” he asked.</p><p>“Very good,” she said, nodding. She returned to her book, but she didn’t read the words. Instead, she waited, hoping for more of the silly game they’d begun to play.</p><p>George’s leg thudded onto the floor. Hermione looked at him over the pages.</p><p>“Oops,” he said dryly. Hermione stared at him, unflinching, and lifted her book higher.</p><p>George’s mouth opened, his brow furrowing. “Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. Hermione grinned, hiding behind the volume.</p><p>Another thud. Hermione peeked around the cover. His other foot was on the floor, and he was watching her expectantly, his open hands poised over the leg dramatically</p><p>“Well?” he asked. Hermione shrugged. George’s mouth dropped open wider. “You’re really not going to come over?”</p><p>“If you want both feet on the ground, you can sit like that,” she said, grinning.</p><p>George’s eyes flashed with mischief, and he braced an elbow against the back of the sofa. “I’ll do it.”</p><p>Hermione lowered the book, mirth evaporating. “Don’t,” she said. George stared at her squarely, then pushed off, tumbling to the floor.</p><p>“George!” Hermione cried, exasperated. “You could’ve hit the table.”</p><p>“What a terrible accident,” he called, the words cheerful and bright. “But now, you’ve got to help me.” Hermione made her way over, shaking her head. His grin was a bit too triumphant as she pushed him upright, leaning him back against the couch. “This working for you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.</p><p>Hermione’s face flamed, and George’s laugh rang through the living room. The sound sent her high, up through the roof, into the stratosphere, and her breath hitched.</p><p>“Merlin, it is, isn’t it?” George cried, laughing even harder.</p><p>“No, George!” she cried, smacking him with a throw pillow. George ducked, tugging the pillow from her grip.</p><p>“I ought to leave you on the floor,” she said, crossing her arms.</p><p>“You wouldn’t,” George said, smiling.</p><p>“Is that so?” Hermione asked, quirking her brows.</p><p>George nodded, a happy spark lighting his eyes.</p><p>Godric, he was right.</p><p>Hermione stared at the wall. “Fine,” she said, reaching towards him. George grinned.</p><p>“You’re very charming when you’re attentive,” he said, tipping his head towards her as she leaned close. Hermione paused, her face flooding.</p><p>“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, helping him back onto the cushion. “Stop throwing yourself around, before you hurt yourself.” For the hundredth time, she adjusted the pillows, dragged his legs back into place, and tucked the blanket around him. But, she didn’t mind. Not truly.</p><p>She crossed back to the armchair. Before she could sit, however, George piped up.</p><p>“I can’t fathom why you’ve got to sit all the way over there,” he said. She blinked, looking over. George was staring at his hands. “Bloke gets rather lonely, you know, on a sofa, all by himself.” The words were playful, but George’s face had flushed.</p><p>Hermione’s insides melted together.</p><p>She grabbed her book and tea, laying them on the coffee table. Then, she pushed George’s legs back and slipped onto the far seat. Finally, Hermione propped his blanketed feet on her lap and took her book from the table. She could feel George’s gaze following her every move. She turned. His face was lit, an eagerness in his eyes that startled her. Hermione flushed and looked down at the book.</p><p>“Modern approaches to the care of magical creatures require additional planning,” she read aloud, propping the tome on George’s ankles. “Housing, feeding, transporting, and regulating creatures has been complicated by the expanding reach of muggle telecommunications.” As she carried on, George relaxed back into the pillows.</p><p>After a time, she paused, checking on him. He hadn’t interrupted for over ten minutes, which was strange, given the steady stream of demands for her attention he’d levied over the past several hours. He was watching her, a small smile on his face.</p><p>“Are you feeling alright?” she asked.</p><p>“Never better,” George murmured.</p><p>#</p><p>It was nearing five, and Fred was still working the shop downstairs. Rain pattered on the windows, and a fire crackled in the hearth. At the kitchen counter, Hermione sorted through groceries from Mrs. Weasley, and George rested on the sofa. A soft flutter of wings cut through the silence, and Calliope swooped in, carrying a large bundle of mail tied in twine. She dropped it beside George, then headed to Hermione, chirping.</p><p>“That’s more than usual,” Hermione said, looking up from the glass containers before her.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, the parchment rustling as he untied it. “Lee sent it up—she delivered to the shop while we were gone, and it’s just been sitting there.”</p><p>“Smart bird,” Hermione said, walking to the pantry to fetch a treat. Calliope followed her, hopping onto her shoulder. She’d just finished handing her the fish biscuit when something thudded in the living room.</p><p>She ducked out of the pantry, concern lancing through her. George hadn’t moved, but the mail lay strewn on the table.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” George’s voice had gone odd and a bit faint on the sofa. “Come here.”</p><p>Inexplicably, her heart stuttered in her chest, a small pinch forming in her stomach.</p><p>George stared downwards, a rumpled bunch of parchment tucked under his arm. She approached slowly, coming to a stop beside the coffee table.</p><p>George glanced up at her, then away again, sucking in a breath.</p><p>“No, here,” he said, nodding at the seat on the sofa beside himself. “Please.” This part was added more softly, but the tension in his body hadn’t receded. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, watching the floor.</p><p>She took a breath and slipped onto the cushion beside him.</p><p>“What is it?” she asked. The curse marks were stationery, the skin around his elbow still clear.</p><p> George’s shoulders slumped, and he pulled the parchment from under his arm, looking down at the paper. It was a copy of <em>The Prophet</em>, from several days back.</p><p>On the front page, George tumbled off the railing, and Hermione lunged after him, a jagged bolt of light streaming from her hand. His body lurched, and Hermione dropped over the ledge.</p><p>Hermione froze. She hadn’t thought to sort through the mail. She shook her head, shying away.</p><p>George was pale, watching the image loop. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.</p><p>She steeled herself, looking away from the photo. “It was a bad call, really.” She cleared her throat, struggling to keep her tone clinical. “See, I caste a Carpe Retractum, and it dragged me over with you. But Ginny and Ron sorted it.”</p><p>The paper wavered in George’s hands.</p><p>“You said Fred was exaggerating,” he whispered, blinking up at her.</p><p>“He was,” Hermione said, swallowing. George’s look turned to stone, and he unfolded the paper, staring at her. Below the fold, a whole row of photographs documented the events at the hospital. Her break from Harry’s grip. The way she’d fought, Harry hoisting her back. Her arms, reaching. The tears streaming down her face. Hermione blinked. She hadn’t known she’d been crying.</p><p>In the last photo, Harry leapt back, staring at his hands, and Hermione tore from the frame.</p><p>The headline was the worst part: <em>“Golden Girl’s Meltdown at Mungo’s.”</em></p><p>Hermione closed her eyes. She hadn’t seen the reporter. But of course, there had been one.</p><p>She sucked in a breath. “I didn’t blow a hole through the wall,” she whispered.</p><p>“Really,” George sounded strained. He tossed the paper onto the table and buried his face in his hands.</p><p>She hadn’t meant to hurt him even more.</p><p>“Would you like to tell me the truth this time?” George asked. He hadn’t moved, and the words were muffled through his palms.</p><p>“You don’t understand,” she tried, but her throat closed before she could continue. She couldn’t speak, the ghost of his cries circling in her mind.</p><p>“Clearly,” George said quietly, lowering his hands and staring at the photos on the table. “I thought you trusted me, but—” The words were quiet, his tone hitching on the last one.</p><p>“I do,” Hermione said, blinking.</p><p>George shook his head, not looking at her. “Then why didn’t you say something?”</p><p>Hermione’s shoulders went tight. “What did you want me to say?” she asked. “I told you it was scary.”</p><p>George scrubbed his hands through his hair, blinking hard. “Merlin, Hermione,” he whispered. “Communicate with me.” He ground his palms against his eyes. “I can handle it.”</p><p>Her heart stuttered in her ribcage, and she sucked in a breath.</p><p>“Okay,” she whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. “If you must know, I’m terrified.”</p><p>George lifted his head, watching her.</p><p>“I was then, and I am now,” she said. “I suppose I’m used to tucking things like that away, until the danger is over, you know?” She shook her head, swiping a palm across her face. “And, um—” a raw feeling coursed through her. “You’re hurt, and that’s—” she squeezed her eyes shut.</p><p>George’s hand came down, soft on her shoulder blade, his thumb rubbing a warm circle there. “It’ll be alright,” he murmured. “You can tell me.” On that table, the images looped endlessly. Hermione ducked her head.</p><p>“You don’t understand—In Mungo’s, the way you—” she stopped, choking on the words.</p><p>“The way I what?” George leaned closer.</p><p>“The way you cried out,” she whispered, blinking at the floor.</p><p>George’s hand stilled.</p><p>“Over and over.” Her voice was hoarse. “That’s what—I mean—in the lobby, we could hear it coming through the doors, and it was—and—I don’t—” She wasn’t making any sense, the tears sneaking out her eyes. “You were in so much pain, but they wouldn’t let me go to you, so I—”</p><p>“Just about blew a hole through the wall,” George whispered, and she could hear the misery running through the words. “Hermione—” He reached for her.</p><p>Hermione shrugged a bit. The throw blanket was askew on the armchair’s back, and she rose, crossing the room. She refused to meet his eyes, busying herself with refolding it.</p><p>“Hermione,” George said, low and soft. He shifted, bracing his hands against the sofa, but his feet caught, and he fell back with a thud. “I can’t—” Frustration bit through the words. Hermione blinked at him. “Please,” he said, searching her face. “If it’s alright, I’d like to hold you, and I can’t reach you over there.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Okay,” she said, nodding.</p><p>She dragged the blanket over her shoulders and slowly returned to the far end of the sofa.</p><p>“Closer,” he whispered, a blazing look on his face. Wordlessly, she scooted towards him. As she neared, George reached out and pulled her into his right side, snug under his arm.</p><p>He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, only watched her.</p><p>“I’m alright, you know,” he said. Hermione nodded, studying the blanket’s frayed edge.</p><p>“Look at me, Darling,” his voice was strained. Hermione blinked at the new endearment, turning to face him. George lifted her right hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. Then, he tugged it close, flush against the center of his chest.</p><p>“It’s still going,” he said, quirking his brows and giving her a silly, little smile.</p><p>She could feel the steady drumbeat under her fingers. Hermione breathed. He was parchment and cinnamon, and nutmeg, and sunshine. Her throat closed, and she twisted her other arm out from under his, reaching her hand up to the back of his head. George’s breath caught. His hair was soft in her fingers.</p><p>“Closer?” Hermione asked softly.</p><p>“Godric, yes,” George said, exhaling. His right hand came out, bracing against the couch’s back to hold himself upright. Gently, she pulled his head down, drawing him to her.</p><p>Outside, rain pelted the windowpane, and George’s heartbeat sped under her fingers as she kissed him. Slow, soft, warm magic coalesced between them.</p><p>After a few moments, she pulled back a fraction, and the sigh that spilled from his lips was shaky.</p><p>“Would you terribly mind doing that once more?” he whispered, his eyes still closed.</p><p>“Not at all,” she said, pulling him in again, combing her fingers through his hair. George made a small noise of surprise in the back of his throat, and the hand he’d been using to brace himself slipped. His balance faltered, and he tensed, but Hermione caught him. Without breaking contact, she shifted to crouch at his side as she used the kiss to steady him, pushing him upright, tilting his head back and into the sofa’s headrest.</p><p>Then, she lightened her touch, shifting her mouth gently over his. As she skated her hand through his hair, the tension in his frame softened, and George seemed melt, more and more, into the cushions with each moment.</p><p>“Merlin, Granger,” he breathed, his tone glazed over and a bit bewildered as she broke away. His heart raced under her hand.</p><p>He was alive.</p><p>“Where did that come fr—” George’s voice cut out, and he stuttered as she moved back in.</p><p>“Three for luck?” she whispered. George nodded rapidly.</p><p>“Absolutely,” he said. Hermione dipped lower, and he tipped his chin up to meet her, earnestly leaning into the kiss. He cupped a hand over the back of her head, and then, as they moved in slow tandem, he hummed. The sound was a happy, breathless sort of music.</p><p>He was alive.</p><p>He was alive.</p><p>He was alive.</p><p>The thought energized her, the magic rooted in her chest whirling. On an impulse, she let it flow over her ribs, down her arm, and through her fingers, where it strobed, warm against George’s beating heart. He faltered as the wave hit him. “Oh, Love—” he breathed, surging forward to draw her closer.</p><p>The flat door creaked open, and a loud squeak echoed over the floorboards. Hermione fell back against the sofa, eyes going wide.</p><p>Ginny stood in the threshold, a hand clapped over her mouth. A moment later, Fred walked in, rummaging through a crate. “We’ve got some extra stock, so we need to decide where to—” he looked up. His eyes worked from George’s messed hair to Hermione’s face, which had gone quite warm.</p><p>George cleared his throat, hastily swiping his hands through his hair. “Excellent,” he said. “We can sort through it later.”</p><p>Fred’s face lit, and he placed the crate on the ground. “Have we interrupted something?” he asked. A pink tinge swept over George’s cheeks.</p><p>Ginny elbowed Fred, nodding towards the flat door.</p><p>“Not at all,” George said, but it was a bit strained.</p><p>“I mean, just say the word, and we can disappear,” Fred said, grinning, ignoring Ginny as he crossed to the back of the sofa. He knelt, folding his hands over the top of it as he looked back and forth at them. “It certainly looks like we were interrupting.”</p><p>Over George’s shoulder, Ginny flailed and did a little dance, fist pumping. “Call me later,” she mouthed at Hermione emphatically, pointing at the floo. Hermione bit her lips together, but the other witch’s excitement was contagious, and finally, she caved, smiling the smallest bit, hiding her face behind her hands. Ginny jumped up and down, then slipped back through the door.</p><p>Fred hadn’t moved.</p><p>“Fred,” George shot him a foreboding look.</p><p>Fred shrugged and loped across the kitchen, nicked a butterbeer from the box, and then ducked after Ginny. He paused in the frame. “Angelina and I will be back later,” he called. “We’ll knock though!” He grinned and slammed the door behind himself before George could answer.</p><p>George turned back to face her, swallowing. “Are you alright?” he whispered, an urgent look coming over him.</p><p>She nodded, mouth dry.</p><p>George exhaled, his eyes rounding. “Merlin’s pants, woman,” he said, something wonderful and bright sparking in his eyes. “Warn a bloke.” He collapsed against the back of the sofa, clutching his chest.</p><p>Hermione grinned, the flicker in her ribs flaring.</p><p>Then, she dragged the blanket over and tucked into his side, curling her feet beneath her. George’s arm was warm on her shoulders, and she closed her eyes.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” he whispered, his fingers softly brushing her cheek and he slipped a curl behind her ear. The glow of the fire spilled over them.</p><p>George's heart thrummed steadily beneath her ear, pulling her under. </p><p>Finally, Hermione rested.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Fever Fudge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>F E V E R  F U D G E</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone! &lt;3 I hope this week finds you safe and well!</p><p>Thank you so much for your kindness, comments, and kudos last chapter! &lt;3<br/>This chapter is a special-edition double-length chapter to celebrate the start of December and all of the Hygge vibes that it brings. See, we're going to pretend that this was an intentional choice, rather than me getting ridiculously carried away with Hogsmeade. (I cut somewhere between seven and ten thousand words from this chapter draft during editing, which only brought us to 19k. I am sorry.)</p><p>SONGS: "I'll Be Seeing You" by Billie Holiday (honestly on repeat for the first couple scenes), "Blaze of Love" by Starship (just in general), "Godspeed" by James Blake/"I Wanna Be Yours" by Artic Monkeys (moving day scene), "Mama Mia" by Abba (for the bit from the teaser/watching from the window moments), "Light that Fire" by Oh The Larceny (Sept 12), "Living on a Prayer" by Bon Jovi (it'll be obvious), "Wellerman" by The Longest Johns (you'll know), Cozy song of your choice/"I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm" by Kay Starr (birthday), "Lay All Your Love On Me," by Abba (you'll know), "I Wanna Be Yours" by Artic Monkeys/"Someone To You" by Banners (last scene). </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this storyworld or to these characters. </p><p>I am running on very little sleep at the present moment (I'm okay! I was having too much fun writing and kept forgetting to go to bed), so please pardon any typos! I tried to be thorough while editing, but I almost certainly missed things. &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>Grab your snack (I suggest peanut butter cookies or a warm scone for this week), your drink (it's gotta be Chamomile or coffee this week), and maybe set up a blanket fort. You deserve one. &lt;3<br/>Now, let's dive into Hogsmeade, where snow coats the ground...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Four: "Fever Fudge"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>September 5, 1998</p><p>Hermione watched him, her books clutched to her chest. She hadn’t moved.</p><p>She was waiting for him.</p><p>The realization coursed through him like fire, and he apparated, popping onto the sidewalk beside her. Hermione jumped, then steeled herself, gripping her books more tightly.</p><p>“You shouldn’t apparate in a crowded street!” she said, her brows drawing together.</p><p>“Not a single note,” George snapped. “Not one owl.” The words were an echo of what she’d yelled at him the night of Ginny’s party, and Hermione’s eyes widened. George’s hands flexed, and he stuffed them in his pockets. “I—we—all of us, really—we were so worried.”</p><p>Hermione inhaled sharply. “I didn’t know what to do,” she said, her voice raspy. “With everything that happened, I didn’t want to make you all feel uncomfortable, and—” She paused, coughing into her shoulder. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her cheekbones appeared sharper and more pronounced. His stomach pinched as his gaze worked over her.</p><p>The weeks hadn’t been kind to her. She looked absolutely knackered.</p><p>She needed a friend.</p><p>George shook his head, staring at her. “Alright, come with me,” he said, nodding back towards the shop.</p><p>“What for?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George sighed. “We need to have a chat.” He waited, watching her with his hands in his pockets. Hermione shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t bite, Granger,” he added softly.</p><p>Finally, she nodded, and they paced down the cobblestone together. As they walked, Granger shifted a few times, adjusting her hold on the volumes. George reached over. “What’ve you got there?” he asked. The trick worked, and Hermione handed some of the stack over.</p><p>“Just some reading that I’ve got to catch up on,” she said. “From the first week of classes.” George studied the spines, then tucked them easily under his arm, carrying part of the load. It was unlike her to be behind in coursework. Anyone else and he wouldn’t flinch, but Hermione?</p><p>He snuck another glance. Merlin, she looked worn.</p><p>As he watched, she sniffed, dragging her sleeve across her nose.</p><p>“My flat isn’t ready yet, and it’s been hard to focus in the room I’ve been renting because there isn’t much space,” she said. “I thought I’d do it while I was gone, but there wasn’t an opportunity.”</p><p>George pointed her towards the shop’s back door. “Well, we’re just about to close up, so it’ll be quiet at least,” he said. “You’re welcome to study here.”</p><p>Hermione looked at him, incredulous. “It’s the middle of the day, George,” she said.</p><p>“I’ve got some things to take care of,” he said lightly, pulling open the handle and gesturing for her to walk through.</p><p>“Granger!” Fred’s voice called. George’s eyes widened. Fred stood in the middle of the flat, dusting soot off his jacket. A large box lay at his feet. “Good to see you’re still with us.” As the door snicked shut, Fred held up a finger. “One moment—I need a word with this fellow about the shop.”</p><p>George followed him out into the main area, and Fred pulled him behind some shelves.</p><p>“Can it wait?” George asked, crossing his arms.</p><p>Fred took a breath, then hesitated. “Look, Mate,” Fred said, an unfamiliar tension lining his shoulders. “You’ve got to go about this in the right way.” He stared meaningfully towards the flat door.</p><p>George started. “No—that’s not. Fred!”</p><p>Fred pulled a package of Edible Dark Marks from the shelf, turning it over in his hands. “I know things seem to have ended, but you’ve got to take this slow,” he said.</p><p>“Fred!” George grimaced. “I’m not making a pass. That’s not going to happen.” He paused. “Ever.”</p><p>Fred’s face blanked. “What?”</p><p>George rubbed his hands down his face. “Nothing’s changed, Fred,” he said. “Ron’s still my brother, and Hermione would never—I would never—”</p><p>Fred’s look turned to stone. “You’re not serious?” he asked. “They broke up! That changes everything!” he hissed in a whisper.</p><p>George crossed his arms and turned, exasperated. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I only want to be her friend?” he whispered. If Hermione ever found out—he could picture it now. The look of discomfort. The pity. The panic. The way she’d draw back, perhaps forever.</p><p>Fred rolled his eyes, shoving past George’s shoulder. “Let me know when you’re ready to be honest, Mate,” he said, not looking back as he strode to the shop floo. “I’ll be back later.” He disappeared in a jet of green flames.</p><p>George stared at the empty hearth, then turned, rapidly shouldering through the students to get to the till.</p><p>“Verity, we’ve got to close,” he said. Verity didn’t flinch, ringing the last purchase in as she stuck a “Sorry!” sign on the counter.</p><p>“I’ve got it,” she said. George ducked around the corner, casting the security enchantments and setting the locks while Verity shuffled customers out. Then, George paced back to the back door, walking into the flat. He left the door cracked open, and the light sounds of Verity tidying up filtered into the room.</p><p>Hermione hadn’t moved. Her books were stacked on the simple, rough wooden table, but she hadn’t sat down.</p><p>“You didn’t have to do that,” Hermione said softly.</p><p>George started towards the kitchenette. “No matter,” he said. “Sit down, Granger. I’ll make you a cuppa.”</p><p>The chair scraped out, and George lit the burner.</p><p>A small sniff came from behind him. He glanced back, and Hermione had laid her head on the table, burying her face in her arms.</p><p>“Alright?” he asked, faltering.</p><p>She nodded slightly, but in the softer, indoor light, he could see the ruddiness on her face. He took two, brisk steps to her, grazing the back of his hand on her forehead.</p><p>Hermione lifted her head, trying to lean back.</p><p>“You’re burning up,” George said, kneeling.</p><p>“Just a muggle bug,” she whispered. “I keep meaning to see someone about it, but there hasn’t been time.” George snapped his fingers, and the cherry-red box on his workstation zipped off the shelf and into his hand. He unfolded it, sliding open one of the cardboard drawers.</p><p>“Here,” he murmured, slipping the cure-end of a fever fudge from the wax paper. “Don't worry—we worked all the issues out of it, and it’ll take your temperature down.” He held it out. She reached for it, her fingers brushing his as she took it. The sparks surged up his hand, and George flinched.</p><p>She hadn’t noticed, staring at the chocolate. “I used to confiscate these,” she whispered.  George smiled wryly.</p><p>“Going to turn me in, are you?” he asked, pushing off his knees and returning to the kitchenette. “Eat it, woman.”</p><p>When he glanced back to check, she was chewing, the redness in her face receding. “If this turns my hair blue or something, I’ll—” she muttered around the fudge.</p><p>“No, that’s a different candy,” George said, closing the box and sticking it under the counter. She didn’t laugh.</p><p>“I know what you’re going to say,” Hermione said, finally.</p><p>“Do you, now?” he asked, plucking the tea tin from the exposed shelving.</p><p>“I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Hermione said.</p><p>“What’s not a good idea?” George’s hands slowed as he reached for the tea scoop.</p><p>“Patching things over with Ron,” Hermione whispered. George turned. “I didn’t realize until too late that things weren’t—” her voice cut out, and she shook her head.</p><p>“Granger,” George said, crossing his arms. She didn’t respond. “Do you want to patch things over with Ron?” he asked.</p><p>Granger slumped. “I want to be his friend,” she said. “But, as for—” she stopped again, and her expression shuttered. George swallowed. So, it was true, then. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to influence her in either direction.</p><p>“Granger,” George said, softly. “Be with Ron or don’t be with Ron. Either way, we’ll be here.” He turned to the tea tins. “Now, do you want Chamomile, or something else?”</p><p>Hermione looked up, eyes rounding. “You’re not—?”</p><p>“Not what?” George asked.</p><p>“I thought you would want me to,” she said. “I mean, he’s your brother.”</p><p>“You’re family too,” George said. “It’s important that you’re both happy.” She still hadn’t answered the question, so he chose for her, scooping the Chamomile out. Perhaps he should put some pepper-up in.</p><p>Hermione’s brow wrinkled. “But that’s not really true,” she said. “Especially now that Ron and I aren’t—” her voice hitched. George stilled.</p><p>“Look at me,” he said firmly, bracing his hands on the counter. “Your place in this family is not determined by your relationship status with Ron.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “But I broke his heart,” she said. George shook his head. It was just like her to blame herself.</p><p>“Yeah, and Fred gave him a lifelong phobia of spiders, but we still keep him around, now don’t we?” The joke didn’t land quite right, and Hermione stared down at her hands, biting her lip. George sighed. “Look, Hermione, I wasn’t party to the details, but even I can tell that things were a bit more complicated than you’re making them out to be. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”</p><p>She wouldn’t look at him. “Right,” she said. But he could tell she meant the opposite. She pulled her coat tighter around her.</p><p>“I mean it,” George said, pinning her with a serious look.</p><p>“I’m sure you do, George, but you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione said stiffly.</p><p>George paused, his heart beating hard under his sternum.</p><p>Hermione shook her head, blinking hard. “There were warning signs, but I ignored them.” She picked a piece of lint off her coat sleeve. “It’s like, all the while, I had this idea in my head, you know?” Hermione said, rubbing a palm across her cheek. “Once we got together, he would finally see me, and I would take care of him, and we wouldn’t fight anymore, and I wouldn’t make him feel small, and we’d be happy, and things would be different.” Her voice was hitching, dangerously close to breaking, and George’s hands shook on the kettle as he poured out the hot water. He was going to slip up—say the wrong thing again. She was so fragile, and the conversation had taken a dangerous turn.</p><p>He pushed Fred’s face out of his mind and mouthed the words.</p><p>The numb calm settled over him. Just for a few minutes.</p><p>“But it wasn’t like that, and I should’ve known better,” she whispered. “I feel so stupid. Why did I think that things would be different in a relationship than they were when we were friends?” Something shattered behind her eyes, and George’s ribs constricted. He pushed harder on the spell.</p><p>“You’re asking the wrong bloke, I’m afraid,” George said. “I don’t have much experience when it comes to romance. But you should know that none of us blame you. Not for one moment.” His voice was even and smooth.</p><p>“Do you really mean that, or are you saying it to make me feel better?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Mean what?” George asked. He carried her cup over slowly, watching the rim to make sure it didn’t spill.</p><p>“Your family doesn’t blame me?” she asked, biting her lip.</p><p>George hesitated, choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t speak for everyone, but from what he’d heard, it was the truth.</p><p>“I dunno. Mum might be a little sore about it, but she still thinks of you as one of her own, I’d wager. I mean, Granger, you could hex my other ear off, and everyone would still be glad to see you,” he said, turning back to get his own drink.</p><p>Hermione watched him, silent.</p><p>“You want a bite?” he asked, opening the fridge.</p><p>Hermione paused. “I couldn’t impose,” she said.</p><p>“Nonsense,” George said. “You’d be doing me a favor. I’m used to cooking for more people, and the leftovers have a terrible way of piling up.” Slowly, he eased off the spell, letting the magic slip away until he was himself again.</p><p>It had been for her protection. That was it. That was the only exception.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. “You can cook?” she asked. She looked shocked and a bit skeptical. George laughed.</p><p>“So what’ll it be, Granger?” George asked, peeking at her from over his shoulder. “I’ve got Cornish Pasties? Or I can throw together some soup.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes lit at the mention of soup.</p><p>“Soup it is,” he said, pulling a package of carrots out.</p><p>“Oh, you don’t have to—” she started, but George shook his head.</p><p>“I want to,” he said, crossing to the sink and washing his hands. “Now, tell me about Australia.” He lifted the container of leftover stock from the bottom shelf and dumped it into his largest pot. Chicken soup would be good, probably. Chicken soup always went down well when he felt ill.</p><p>Hermione took a deep breath. “I have Crookshanks at least,” she said, slowly. She paused. “Things have been better.”</p><p>“Mm?” George prompted. He set the knife to dicing the carrots, onions, and celery before whirling around to nick the dish of leftover roast chicken.</p><p>Hermione lifted her teacup and promptly burst into tears. George laid the glass container on the counter.</p><p>“Granger,” he said softly.</p><p>“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” she choked, setting her cup down with a rattle. “I don’t know why I’m—”</p><p>George tugged the freezer open and grabbed a pint of iced cream. Then, he crossed to the chair beside Hermione, dropping into it.</p><p>“Here,” he said, pushing the iced cream across the table. He summoned a spoon, laying it on top.</p><p>“I’ll get my germs in it,” Hermione said, brow wrinkling.</p><p>“I’m impervious to harm,” George said. “Don’t worry.”</p><p>Hermione snorted, but the sound was a bit strange, caught mid-sob.</p><p>“What?” George asked. “You know something I don’t?”</p><p>Her eyes flickered over his ear.</p><p>“That’s nothing,” he said, waving a hand. “It’ll grow back.” He pried the lid off and looked pointedly at her, holding the spoon out.</p><p>Hermione sighed and took it, dipping it in. “You’re not supposed to have sugar when you’re sick,” she said. “It’s bad for the immune system.”</p><p>George grinned. “You’re not supposed to deprive yourself of sweets when you’re sad,” he said. “It’s bad for the heart.”</p><p>Hermione stared down into the pint. It was nearing empty.</p><p>Bugger, he should’ve thought that joke out.</p><p>Hermione swiped a palm across her cheek, and George stood, returning to the roast chicken.</p><p>“You don’t have to, but you can talk about it if you’d like,” he said, tearing the chicken into smaller bite-sized pieces.</p><p>“I don’t want to bother you about it,” she said, her voice muffled around the spoon.</p><p>“Granger,” George said, using her name like a warning. “I’m your friend. You’re not a bother.”</p><p>“That is my name, isn’t it?” Hermione said. The laugh that came out of her was choked.</p><p>George stopped.</p><p>“Hermione Granger,” she said. “Golden girl.” She spat the title.</p><p>“Hermione?” George backed away from the cutting board, alarm lancing through him.</p><p>“Brightest witch of her age,” she said, digging the spoon in again. Her shoulders had gone tight, and a distant look had filtered into her eyes.</p><p>“Hermione Jean Granger,” she said, the whisper hoarse and quiet.</p><p>George hurried over, kneeling in front of her again.</p><p>“I don’t think I’m a Granger anymore,” she said, a hollow laugh ringing through the words as she slapped the carton on the table, the spoon rattling inside it. Then, she began to cry again.</p><p>George went cold.</p><p>“My parents are afraid of me,” she choked. “I can see it when they look at me.”</p><p>“Hermione,” he whispered, but she didn’t seem to register his approach.</p><p>“It’s not the same—I-I ruined everything,” she said. “They used to love hearing about magic, but now, when I t-take out my wand, or my books, they flinch—” she sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. “—like I’m going to hurt them?” At the last part, her voice went high.</p><p>George’s chest tightened, his hands flexing. He had to—to do something, but—</p><p>Hermione wiped her palms over her cheeks, not meeting his eyes. “They don’t want me to be magic anymore,” she whispered. The words went through him like a physical blow.</p><p>Oh, Godric.</p><p>The need to take her into his arms and hold her burned so hot that it was painful, but that wasn’t what she needed. Not from him. She was vulnerable, and he wasn’t thinking clearly enough, the sparks rattling his logic. It—it wasn’t safe.</p><p>“I don’t blame them,” Hermione’s voice went hoarse and light. “I must seem like some sort of monster.” George swallowed and dragged the other chair over, sitting down and bracing his elbows on his knees.</p><p>“You’re not a monster,” he said.</p><p>Hermione shook her head, staring past him like he wasn’t even there. “Do you ever think about how frightful magic can be? The way it tears people apart. Hurts them, permanently?” Her eyes flicked to his, then to the side, towards his ear. George ducked his head.</p><p>“Sometimes,” he said. “But it can also help.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. “At what cost,” she murmured.</p><p>“It’s a part of you, Granger,” he said. “And like most things, it can be used for good or evil. It’ll be there, whether you like it or not.”</p><p>“I know,” she said, a bit of tension coming through the words. Then, more softly: “They didn’t want me to come back to Hogwarts.”</p><p>George closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”</p><p>“I almost didn’t,” she said.</p><p>George rubbed at the back of his neck.</p><p>“After everything with Ron, I just wanted Dad to hug me,” she said quietly. “And Mum. That’s all I could think about on the journey over. Waiting in the library, taking the portkey, driving with the healers to their flat.”</p><p>The cord of strain entered her tone once more. “My mum and dad give the best hugs,” she said. “They used to joke that hugging was their own kind of muggle magic. It’s silly, really, but it’s sort of our family thing.”</p><p>George watched her. “It’s not silly,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s hands twisted in her lap. “But even after they lifted the Obliviate, they didn’t, um—” she shrugged, her eyes empty.</p><p>George sucked in a breath.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “They’re too frightened by me. Half the time, they still think they’re Monica and Wendell, and when they don’t, they expect me to be eleven or fourteen or something. When I enter the room, they get overwhelmed and find some excuse to leave.”</p><p>George’s throat closed. She’d sacrificed so much already.</p><p>“They made a whole little life for themselves, you know,” she whispered. “I kept waiting, hoping things would improve, but they didn’t want to come back to London with me. They said they needed time to wrap things up in Australia. So, I had to fly home without them.”</p><p>“You didn’t take a portkey?” George asked.</p><p>“No, they wouldn’t have agreed to that,” she whispered. “See, there were three tickets, and I was sort of expecting that they’d show up at the last minute anyway, right up until they called my boarding group.” She paused. “But they didn’t.”</p><p>Unbidden, the image of Hermione, sitting in a crowded room, watching the door for the Grangers flashed in his mind. She’d sat there, by herself. No Grangers. No Weasleys. George buried his face in his hands.</p><p>Hermione stared at the books. “And now I’m here alone.” She rested her forehead back in her arms, a defeated slump in her shoulders. Suddenly, he knew what to do.</p><p>His eyes not leaving her, George crossed to his cot. Her face was still buried in her arms, so he slipped his hand under the pillow and withdrew the purple jumper. His boots thudded on the floor as he made his way back to her.</p><p>“Not alone,” he said, dropping it into her lap. “I know it’s not the same—not the Grangers, but you’re not alone.”</p><p>Hermione blinked at the stitching.</p><p>“Once a Weasley, always a Weasley,” George murmured, brushing a hand over her head on his way to the kitchen. “We’re here for you, and we’ll help you sort this mess out with your parents, alright?”</p><p>At the table, Hermione rubbed her thumb over the jumper’s collar, watching him.</p><p>“And if you ever pull a stunt like that again—leaving it folded on the table—” George tried to keep the words light, but it came out a bit strained. So he turned, sticking a ladle into the broth and dumping the vegetables into a hot pan. “Fred and I will put glue in your shampoo.”</p><p>Hermione laughed. It was a bit quiet, the shuddering aftershock of her tears running through it, but the sound still set him at ease.</p><p>He worked over the stove, and she watched him in silence for a while. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, though. More like the calm after a storm.</p><p>It was ruptured when door banged open, and Ginny tumbled through.</p><p>“Fred said that—” she turned, looking at Hermione, and shrieked. Ginny dashed over, throwing her arms around the other girl. “I ought to throttle you,” she cried, shaking Hermione’s shoulders.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “I’m sorry,” she said.</p><p>“You said you’d be here on time for the start of term,” Ginny said. “You promised in your owl! The boys? They’ll manage. But you can’t do that to me,” Ginny was almost shouting. “You can’t do that to me, Hermione. We’ve talked about this.”</p><p>Hermione watched Ginny, dazed, then reached around her, hugging her tightly.</p><p>“Be cross with Ron, but I didn’t do anything—” Ginny said, her pitch swerving high, the sound of her voice pinched with hurt.</p><p>“I’m not cross with anyone,” Hermione said, muffled in Ginny’s shoulder.</p><p>Fred stumbled into the back room, Angelina at his side. “I’ve returned with friends,” Fred cried. “Behold! She lives and breathes.”</p><p>Angelina joined the other girls at the table, and Fred proceeded to George. “What’re we making?” he asked, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder as though their disagreement earlier hadn’t happened. George blinked. He didn’t have time to respond before Fred tilted toward the open door: “Ver, get in here!”</p><p>Verity poked her head in. “I was just going to head back to London,” she called.</p><p>“Nonsense, we’re doing family supper,” Fred said.</p><p>The floo whooshed in the shop, and Lee appeared behind Verity. “Love what you’ve done with the place, George,” Lee said, following Verity in as he stared around the rather empty, sad looking room. “Really lets your personality shine through.”</p><p>Hermione whirled around, taking them all in. Finally, her eyes landed on George, wide, unblinking. Owlish.</p><p>“Not alone,” George mouthed, turning back to the soup.</p><p>Supper was full of laughter and teasing, and Granger looked more and more like herself as the evening went on. After eating, the others left, and George thought Hermione would follow them out.</p><p>But she didn’t. Instead, she joined him at the sink, carrying the dishes over.</p><p>“I like to do it the muggle way,” she said, pulling her hair over her shoulder to re-do her plait. George blinked, watching her hands pull the mass of curls into something smooth and neat. As she scrubbed at the plates, he dried, and she talked. About Australia, about the distance in her parents’ eyes, about feeling isolated.</p><p>Then she asked him how he’d been, and George almost dropped the plate he was holding. He opened his mouth, intending to explain that he was fine.</p><p>But then he looked at her, the ruddy glow of the lamp flickering on her face, and his barricade collapsed.</p><p>He told her about always feeling tired. About having trouble inventing, like he’d been sapped of his creativity. He even mentioned the nightmares—not the ones about her, of course, but the others with Percy, Fred, Sarah, and Lupin. He was about to tell her that he felt isolated too, when he realized how it might sound, and he stopped himself. Hermione was unphased by the pause, leaning over her mug, her elbows on the counter.</p><p>“I get them too,” she said softly. George stilled. At some point, he’d leaned back into the counter, the dishrag slung over his shoulder as they talked. “It wasn’t as bad at the Burrow, but after I left, they got worse.”</p><p>George swallowed. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “I’m sorting it with a healer soon,” she said. She drained her mug, then blinked at the clock, going pale. “I didn’t realize the time. I still have loads of reading.”</p><p>George whirled, his arms unfolding as he took in the hour. It was nearing eleven. “Good Merlin, I kept you here too late,” he said. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Hermione crossed to the table and began to tug her mittens on. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “This was nice, really.”</p><p>George watched her, a line between his brows. “Don’t work too hard,” he said. “Your professors will understand.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “There you go again,” she said.</p><p>“What?” George asked, pulling his boots on. He wasn’t going to have her trudging through Hogsmeade alone at this hour.</p><p>“Older brothering me,” Hermione said dryly. George straightened, his face flushing. But Hermione was watching him with a warm look in her eyes, her knuckle pressed to her lips.</p><p>She looked happy. Really, truly happy.</p><p>He could do this.</p><p>“Somebody has to,” George said, grinning. He grabbed the stack of books from the table. “C’mon, Granger. I’ll walk you back.”</p><p>#</p><p>After he returned to the flat, George laid on his cot and stared at the ceiling. Like a film, he played through the last decade, remembering every time he’d nudged Ron and Hermione together, assuming that it was for the best. Stepping aside. Talking with Ron sixth year. Trying to help. Even giving Ron that book on relationships. He thought he’d been so selfless.</p><p>The memory of Hermione’s eyes earlier in the evening cut through the reel, hurt shattering in them like glass, and it hit him like a knife through his ribs.</p><p>He was a fool.</p><p>Not because whatever chance they might’ve had was now wasted—dashed against the rocks of her relationship with his brother. No, he’d known they’d never be together for a long while. That was nothing new.</p><p>He’d been so arrogant, presuming to know what was best, and he’d acted accordingly when he shouldn’t have meddled at all.</p><p>Fred’s voice from years ago rang in his ears: <em>“No. Enough. You think you’ve got this whole thing sorted, but you may actually be making things worse. Did you ever think about that?”</em></p><p>George ground his palms into his eyes as a wave of self-loathing yanked him under.</p><p>That night, he slept fitfully as always. But his brain made quick work of the new material, strobing the memory of her shattered look between flashes of the same, familiar terror—Granger, laying on Fred’s cot in the Great Hall.</p><p>                                                                             #        </p><p>September 6, 1998</p><p>George paced up and down the side street between Healer Marcus’s office and the Hog’s Head, his eyes fixed on the inn. Inside, Aberforth watched him through the window, his blue eyes dulled in disinterest. The streets were emptier today. It was early enough on a Sunday that most folks were still tucked into their houses.</p><p>“She’s got to study,” he muttered. “She doesn’t want to be bothered.”</p><p>He turned, then halted. But what if she could use the company? His hand jittered against his leg. She had said that she felt isolated.</p><p>He blinked, shaking his head. It’d been twelve hours.</p><p>“Get a grip, Mate,” he whispered, fisting his hands. He started towards High Street. Granger would want quiet.</p><p>A window slammed open behind him.</p><p>“George?” Granger’s voice rang over the street. George’s heart flipped, and he turned. She leaned out of a window on the second floor. She had on her Weasley jumper.</p><p>Something like elation filled him, and he strode closer, peering up at her.</p><p>“What are you doing over here?” Hermione called. Ink was streaked across her left cheek.</p><p>“Running some errands,” George said. It wasn’t a lie. He had intended to get some treats from the Owl Supply Co. beside the inn. “How goes the studying?”</p><p>Hermione braced her elbows against the window frame. “It’s coming along,” she said, a wrinkle appearing between her brows. “I saw you outside just now, and I wasn’t sure if you needed anything.”</p><p>“I’m good,” George called, smiling. He cleared his throat. “Do<em> you</em> need anything?”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head. “Well—” she hesitated. “I don’t want to be a bother.”</p><p>George bounced on his toes, the snow crunching under his boots. “Have out with it,” he said.</p><p>“If it’s not too much trouble, could you bring me some tea or coffee? I’m out and getting up in the middle of things can be disruptive,” she said, biting her lip.</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>“You don’t have to if it’s too much trouble, but I thought I’d ask, since—” she rushed to say, leaning further out the window.</p><p>“Merlin, Granger, you’ll fall,” he laughed. “Would you like anything to eat as well?”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “That would be excellent,” she said, ducking from the window. A moment later, she returned, tossing a few galleons down. George snatched them out of the air.</p><p>“I’ll drop it by in a bit, then,” George called.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “I mean, if you’d like, you could eat with me?” she asked. “It can be helpful to talk through material, especially with retention, see—” she prattled, a curl coming loose from her plait in the winter wind. George grinned. “Unless you’re busy?” Hermione asked, hesitating.</p><p>“Not busy, Granger,” he said. “But, if you’re going to bore me, I’m putting my food on your tab.”</p><p>Hermione tipped her head back and laughed.</p><p>“Fair enough!” Hermione called. “I’ll see you soon, then?”</p><p>“Brilliant,” he said. Hermione slid the window shut, and George backed away. Excitement zipped under his sternum as he dashed across the street to the market. George pocketed her galleons, rolling his eyes. He’d slip them onto her counter later.</p><p>Once inside the shop, he moved quickly, grabbing a tin of Chamomile from the shelves. He hesitated. She had asked for coffee, as nasty as it was. George grimaced, but he grabbed a package. Tea was really so much better. Then, he made his way to the cart of hot food, picking out a couple of toasties. The brown, paper wrappings crinkled in his hands. He slipped two Galleons over the counter, and clumsily tucked the Sickle of change into his coat’s pocket.</p><p>On his way through the door, he jostled into someone.</p><p>“George!” Healer Marcus said, grinning. “How are you?”</p><p>George’s eyes widened. He hadn’t yet decided how or whether he would tell Marcus about Hermione’s return.</p><p>“Relax, this isn’t a session,” Marcus said. His voice went quiet, but something mirthful lingered under the surface.</p><p>George stammered. “Um, great, actually,” he said. Healer Marcus looked at the food in George’s arms, an approving expression coming over him.</p><p>“It looks like you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” Marcus said.</p><p>George’s face flooded.</p><p>“A bit, yeah,” he said. Marcus grinned.</p><p>“Crack on with it, then,” Marcus said. “See you Tuesday?”</p><p>George nodded and tripped back through the doors, hurrying across the street. The Hog’s Head was empty. Aberforth pushed away from the bar, his eyes narrowing.</p><p>“No outside food in the dining area,” he said.</p><p>“I’m on my way up, Mate,” George said, heading for the stairs.</p><p>“She know you’re coming?” Aberforth’s tone went a bit sharp, laced with a protectiveness. George turned slowly.</p><p>“Yes,” George said.</p><p>Aberforth relaxed, grabbing a dirty glass from the bar and wiping it down. “She’s been crying in that room since she got in on Friday. Terrible racket,” Aberforth said. “But, last night, the crying stopped.”</p><p>George stilled.</p><p>“If the crying starts again, and I find it has anything to do with the likes of you,” Aberforth’s voice was calm and serene, almost bored. “You’ll never do business in Hogsmeade again.”</p><p>“We’re friends, Mate,” George said. “But—message received.” He bobbed his head.</p><p>Aberforth lifted his gaze, pinning George with frigid blue. “Which of those Weasley boys are you?” he asked gruffly.</p><p>“George,” he said, lifting his brows. Merlin, he’d talked with Aberforth before. But, there were a lot of them, he supposed.</p><p>Some of the grumpiness lifted from Aberforth’s expression, his expression softening just a bit. “Keep this conversation to yourself,” he mumbled.</p><p>George nodded and bounded up the stairs. No one else wandered the hall, and the other rooms seemed vacant. Most people wouldn’t look twice at The Hog’s Head, but that likely made it ideal for Hermione.</p><p>He rapped on her door, and almost immediately, she swung it open.</p><p>“George!” she shouted, quill stuck behind her ear. Her eyes latched onto the coffee, and she snatched it out of his hands. Bugger. “There’s room on the table.”</p><p>It was cramped—boxes lined the wall opposite the bed, and books littered the floor and mattress—the only free space occupied by a horrifyingly ugly orange cat. George grinned at Crookshanks.</p><p>She’d wedged the small table against the wall, and George set the toasties down there, along with the tea tin. As he watched, Hermione dumped the coffee into a brown, paper sachet poised above a mug and whispered a heating charm over a thermos of water. Then, she tipped the water through the filter. A warm, sharp smell filled the room.</p><p>It wasn’t completely terrible.</p><p>“You don’t have a kitchen?” George asked, turning.</p><p>“No, and it’s awful,” Hermione said. “But my loft will be ready tomorrow, so—”</p><p>“Aberforth will miss you,” George said, grinning.</p><p>“Aberforth has left a parchment listing available flats under my door every morning since I arrived,” Hermione said dryly. She took a bite of her sandwich, watching him as he looked around.</p><p>An empty tin of Chamomile being the Hogsmeade market stamp lay in the bin. She’d gone through the whole thing in a weekend? George glanced up, worried.</p><p>Hermione pulled her jean-clad legs to her chest, chewing more slowly.</p><p>“You going to move all this yourself?” George asked, glancing at the boxes. Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“That’s the plan,” she said. “After classes, I’ll move the boxes. Then, I’ll get some essentials from Magical Miscellaneous. I saw some furniture in there the other day.”</p><p>George shook his head. “You’re not moving on your own,” he said. “I’ll help.”</p><p>“You’ve already done so much,” Hermione protested.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” George said, staring at the wall of boxes. “I’ll put you to work next time I have to move.”</p><p>She snorted, and George turned, dropping into the chair opposite hers. He lifted his toastie, biting into it. The filling was scalding, and he yelped, flinching back. Hermione started, and he grimaced. “Sorry, burned my tongue,” he said.</p><p>“You’ve got to blow on it,” Hermione said, “or use a cooling charm.” She pulled her wand out and tapped his sandwich, murmuring the spell.</p><p>It was the first time he’d seen her do magic since her return. Something eased in his ribs as he watched her. Then, Hermione glanced up, snorting. “You have—” she nodded at him.</p><p>“What?” he asked. She shook her head.</p><p>“I’ll get it,” she said, and she reached into the brown paper, drawing out a napkin. Before he had time to dodge, Hermione leaned over the table, swiping it along the skin just to the side of his mouth. George’s mind blanked. Her knuckle brushed his jaw, and the sparks flared.</p><p>Then, as quick as she had leaned in, she backed away, as though nothing had happened. Heat zipped up his neck and into his cheeks. Hermione was unphased, settling back into her chair.</p><p>“Oi,” George said. Hermione blinked, looking up at him. George balled up the napkin and tossed it at her. “Just tell me where it is next time,” he said. Now, Hermione blushed—a deep rose filling her cheeks.</p><p>“It was going to spill!” she said, suddenly defensive.</p><p>“Alright, Mum,” he said flatly, lifting the toastie to take another large bite.</p><p>Granger scoffed. Her eyes narrowed, and she chucked the napkin back at him. “Git,” she said. George blinked at it, then at her.</p><p>“Five points from Gryffindor for poor table manners,” he said.</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling. “You can’t take points,” she said. “You’re not a prefect.”</p><p>George raised his brows. “You willing to bet on that?” he grinned at her. “That castle and I have an understanding. I’ll find a way.”</p><p>Hermione paused, assessing him. “You can’t,” she said. “It’s impossible.”</p><p>George leaned in, grinning, something light and playful coursing through him. “Look me in the eyes and say that again,” he said.</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth, glancing at him. He lifted his brows. “You can’t,” she said slowly, enunciating each syllable in a swotty tone. “It’s impossible.”</p><p>George folded his arms. “Just for that, I’m giving the house cup to Hufflepuff,” he said.</p><p>Hermione sputtered, laughing. Her eyes sparked with life, and George’s heart lurched, snagging on her smile like it was a hook and he was an idiot fish.</p><p>Heaven help him.</p><p>“They deserve a win, I think,” he said, nodding seriously at the opposite wall.</p><p>“Alright, what do I get when it doesn’t work?” Hermione said, taking a bite. George whipped his head back to face her.</p><p>“Betting? A prefect?” he asked. “I’m shocked.” Hermione rolled her eyes. George darted forward, folding his hands. “Alright, if I win, you’ve got to develop a product for the shop.”</p><p>Hermione’s brow furrowed. “And you have to let me sell it,” he said, grinning.</p><p>“Fine,” she said, staring him down. “But if I win, you’ve got to—” she paused, biting her lips together. “Sneak into the castle and try to take a NEWT during exams.”</p><p>George threw his head back and laughed. “Alright, deal,” he said, sticking his hand out. Hermione shook it, and the light fluttered up his wrist.</p><p>#</p><p>George whistled as he approached the shop, sticking the enchanted key into the lock. Happiness cracked through him, a buzz of energy in his hands. The events of the day had put a lightness in his step. Perhaps he’d take a spin at the workstation—see what came of it. The door clicked open, and he tossed his coat on the counter, vaulting over it.</p><p>The bell rang.</p><p>“Sorry, we’re closed,” George said, unwrapping the scarf from his neck.</p><p>They didn’t answer. George turned. Magnus Vane stood in the entryway, watching him with a cool expression. George stiffened, drawing his wand. “Shouldn’t you be in prison?” he asked, gritting his teeth. Bitter smoke swirled in George’s ribs, burning.</p><p>Vane laughed, adjusting his leather gloves. “I’ve been a good boy, so they let me out on a bail until the trial proceeds.” Vane tilted a brow and tucked his walking stick under his arm. He reached over to the display stand, lifting a Decoy Detonator, his face neutral.</p><p>The sensations flashed through him like unquiet ghosts, and George felt his head cracking on a staircase, the terror as Death Eaters descended on him in a swarm, the snag of his shoes on the Ministry floor, the rough texture of the bag on his head.</p><p>Cold, terrible fire, ripping him to pieces.</p><p>The frigid echo rang through his mind: <em>“Take him.”</em></p><p>Fred wasn’t here. Where was Freddie?</p><p>George gripped his wand.</p><p>“Touchy, are we?” Vane said softly, his voice slicing through George’s thoughts. His eyes flicked to George’s hand as the corner of his mouth tipped up. “Better calm down. We wouldn’t want to have another incident.”</p><p>George said nothing, holding his defensive stance.</p><p>“I’ve come with a proposition,” Vane said, resting the Decoy Detonator back on the display. “One that I believe to be beneficial for the both of us.”</p><p>“Get out,” George spat. Vane’s eyes narrowed. He swung his briefcase open, and before George could stop it, stacks of parchment zipped through the air, plastering against the shopfront’s windowpanes, blocking out the light from outside.</p><p>They were papers—the papers from the summer. Old cover stories from <em>The Prophet</em>, showing George’s breakdown at the Ministry, him lunging at Vane. Photos of him scowling in the street paired next to headlines questioning his involvement in the rebuilding efforts, criticizing his closeness to the Minister. <em>Extremist. Violent. Unhinged.</em></p><p>“It seems you have a bit of a public relations issue,” Vane said dryly, watching him. George didn’t shift from his defensive stance. He wouldn’t give Vane the opportunity.</p><p>“Get out, or I’ll make you wish you had,” George said, his voice dropping low. Over his head, the shop light flickered as George’s magic quaked, snapping.</p><p>“I don’t think you will,” Vane said calmly. “I know Kingsley’s got a leash on you.” He closed the briefcase with a metallic click, his movements slow and precise. “Wouldn’t want trouble at the Ministry. I expect second bout of violence against my person would be terribly hard to explain away.”</p><p>George’s shoulders tightened.</p><p>“If you were to testify at my trial, however, I believe it would put a great many of these concerns to rest,” Vane said. George stilled, but Vane continued to speak, each word crisp. “It would present a united image—assuaging speculation that you are unstable.”</p><p>“You think I care about my reputation?” George asked, barking out a cold laugh. “Get out.”</p><p>“No, Mr. Weasley, I don’t,” Vane said. “However, your reputation isn’t the only one in question.” He pulled his walking stick from under his arm, and it thudded against the wood floor. “Your actions reflect on those close to you, do they not? This would restore faith in the Ministry’s due process.” His gaze flicked to the paper in the center of the window. The title read <em>“Minister Places War Trials on Hold Pending Internal Review.”</em> Two photos were aligned beneath the headline. In the first image, George tackled Vane. In the second, Minister Shacklebolt leaned over a podium, Hermione, Ron, and Harry standing behind him with straight shoulders and solemn faces.</p><p>George snapped. He shot off a Stupefy, aiming it just to the side of Vane’s head. The spell splashed against the papered window, leaving a scorch mark. “That was a warning,” he said. “The next one hits your face.”</p><p>Vane sighed, a look of boredom flitting over him. “How unfortunate,” he said. “I make a powerful colleague, Mr. Weasley. I can open many doors for you.” He shrugged. “Or, I can close them.” His voice went light, the threat poised like a question.</p><p>“Enjoy prison,” George snapped.</p><p>The bell jingled. “Send your brother my regards,” Vane said.</p><p>George lunged over the counter, but Vane spun on his heel, apparating away.</p><p>Bloody—</p><p>He squeezed his eyes shut. Then, he dashed to the windows, flicking his wand. The headlines didn’t budge. He gave up, attacking it with his hands, trying to scrape the parchment from the glass with his fingernails. It came away in shreds.</p><p>George swore.</p><p>#</p><p>September 7, 1998</p><p>“How was your first day back?” George asked, shouldering the weight of the heavy box against his chest. He’d been up late, scrubbing the shop windows clean of filth, but he didn’t want to use a lightening charm. The heaviness inside the cardboard was stabilizing, somehow.</p><p>“It went well. I managed to catch up on the readings, but I’d like to work more ahead,” Hermione said, biting her lips together as they stepped from the cobblestone towards Tomes and Scrolls. Her new flat was tucked away, over the shop on High Street. Perfect for her, really. “I met with Professor McGonagall, and we discussed how I can best prepare for my NEWTS—and for applying to a Mastery. It’s rather complicated.” A deep furrow formed between her brows, and she dug in her pocket.</p><p>“How do you mean?” George asked, watching her at the base of the staircase that hugged the side of the building.</p><p>“Well, I’ve got to take an additional set of exams in December, just to be allowed to apply. Like NEWTS, but specialized for the topic of interest.” She pulled a key out, face brightening.</p><p>“Percy talked about those,” George said. “I thought you usually take them after NEWTS, though?”</p><p>Hermione shrugged and stepped onto the staircase. “Yes, well, I don’t want to wait an additional year to take them, so I’m doing things a bit backwards,” she said. George grinned, following her up. “I’ve got to pad my application a bit, as well.”</p><p>“You’re joking,” George said. “You’re the golden girl. They’ll leap at the chance.” Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Masteries are different. They want relevant experience—activity related to the subject matter you plan to study,” she said, sighing. She stuck the key into the flat door. “And, I’m not planning to apply for a D.A.D.A. Mastery.”</p><p>“So, what do you plan to do?” George asked. Hermione turned the key.</p><p>“Maybe some student teaching next term, if I can get approval,” she said, jiggling the door handle. “It’s not done often at Hogwarts, but due to my age, Professor McGonagall said she’d be willing to consider it.” George paused, a sudden thought coming to him. Hermione pushed at the door, but it stuck. She sighed.</p><p>“Say, Granger, what’re you doing for your birthday?” he asked.</p><p>“I hadn’t thought about it,” Granger said, thrusting her shoulder into the door again. It groaned, quaking, but didn’t budge.</p><p>George tilted his head, and she stepped back. He slammed into it with the length of his arm, and it swung wide. Hermione flashed him a grateful smile.</p><p>“We could do something, if you like,” he said, following her in. The entryway was a narrow hall with dark, wooden beams supporting the walls and crossing over the ceiling. Their boots echoed on the flooring as they emerged into a wider room.</p><p>“That might be nice,” Hermione said. “If I don’t have to study. I don’t particularly fancy having to spend it alone.”</p><p>Inside, a small kitchen and living area faced a wall of windows over high street. Hermione flicked the switch, and the bulb sputtered on. A thick layer of dust covered the floors, which were barren of furniture.</p><p>“Cozy,” George said dryly.</p><p>“What, like yours is so much better?” Hermione said, shooting him a look. He shrugged.</p><p>“Where d’you want this?” he asked. Hermione nodded towards the kitchen, proceeding through the door on the other end of the room.</p><p>George edged the box onto the counter.</p><p>Hermione’s scream echoed through the flat.</p><p>George stiffened, vaulting around the counter and through the door.</p><p>Like a dark phantom, Bellatrix Lestrange cackled in front of a bureau, knife extended.</p><p>George moved like lightening, the shield spell cracking off his lips as he leapt in front of Granger, pressing her back against the wall.</p><p>The blue glow flickered, and Bellatrix’s face twisted. Then, she morphed, tumbling to the floor in a pile of golden-brown curls and denim. Her brown eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unseeing.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“It’s a—” the words stuck in his throat. The next breath, the monster shifted, and it was Fred. Then Percy, bleeding out. George blinked, and it became Granger again, flickering back and forth between them. The other Weasleys flashed by—his dad, his mum, Charlie. Ginny. Harry. Bill, Ron—all in a rapid strobe, but it kept coming back to one person.</p><p>Granger, dead and grey on the floor. Just like his nightmares.</p><p>Dead.</p><p>The world tipped, the magic in his veins going cold. George stumbled, reaching out a hand to brace himself against the wall.</p><p>“Riddi—” The faint spell died in his throat. George closed his eyes, but the sight of her body wouldn’t fade. He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>“Riddikulus!” Hermione shouted, and the bureau clattered. George slumped, sliding down along the wall, gasping.</p><p>“George—” Hermione knelt by his side. “It was only a boggart.” Her voice was calm and quiet. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to scream. I wasn’t expecting it.”</p><p>George nodded, eyes closed.</p><p>“It’s alright,” she whispered. “Everyone’s fine. Fred’s safe.”</p><p>George nodded again. What had come over him? He knew how to deal with a boggart. Lupin taught them, years ago.</p><p>But he’d seen a lot since then.</p><p>Hermione sat at his side, leaning her head against his arm. The touch was warm, and some of the tension eased out of him.</p><p>“Harry told me once that your Mum’s boggart was something like this,” she said.</p><p>“Runs in the family, I guess,” George muttered, holding his head in his hands. Hermione reached up, skating a hand over his shoulders, and George braced, trying not to react as the sparks flared, burrowing deep into his chest.</p><p>Suddenly, he felt lightheaded for an entirely different reason. He lurched, pushing to his feet. “Right, well, where do you want to start?”</p><p>“George, why was I one of the bodies?” Hermione asked faintly.</p><p>“Because you’re family, and you’re here,” he said, waving her off. “Now, we should probably get the dust cleared before unpacking anything—” he was rattled, pacing around the room and rambling as she watched him quietly.</p><p>Finally, Hermione stood, approaching him.</p><p>“We can transfigure some of the essentials, but you’ll need bookshelves, obviously, and—” George raised his brows, the cadence of the nonsense he was talking about hitching as she neared. “—a desk, for studying and all that, and—” Hermione didn’t acknowledge a single word. Instead, she slipped her arms under his and hugged him tightly. George’s eyes fluttered closed, the magic in his chest strobing warm through him. “—and, um—” What had he been saying?</p><p>Dear Merlin.</p><p>It had been so long since she’d hugged him.</p><p>She smelled like Chamomile, and she felt like sunshine, and he was going to come apart.</p><p>“It’s going to be alright,” Hermione said, her voice muffled in his jacket.</p><p>“—bugger, Granger,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t worry about me.” George faltered, his hands shaking a bit over her shoulders.</p><p>She didn’t let go.</p><p>“Don’t be a git. I’m going to worry about you—” she said, pausing. “Because you’re family.”</p><p>It did him in. George melted, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Terrible waste of time,” he muttered. “You really shouldn’t.” He dragged in a breath, trying to clear his head. Any moment, now, he’d let go. Any moment now.</p><p>Any—any moment now.</p><p>He tried to brace to pull away, but the glowing, wonderful feeling soaked through his chest like a balm, and his logic unraveled.</p><p>“See, this is a proper Granger hug,” Hermione whispered, the words playful but also a bit forlorn.</p><p>Her meaning hit him, and he tightened his arms around her.</p><p>“Is it?” he asked faintly. Hermione nodded.</p><p>He hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten—how cold he always felt, really, until the feeling was chased away, replaced by something far kinder.</p><p>“Do you feel any better?” she asked, quiet.</p><p>It was hard to think straight. He could feel it—the three words tumbling like a flare through his ribs.</p><p>“I—”  George halted, wincing and biting it back.</p><p>Where was the joke? There had to be a joke he could say instead. He tipped his chin down and fixed her with an incredulous stare.</p><p>“No, this is excruciating,” George said, grinning at her. “Put me out of my misery.”</p><p>“Honestly,” Hermione laughed, giving him a final squeeze before pulling away. George ducked, wiping a sleeve over his face before she could see the red that was certainly staining it.</p><p>What had come over him? It was like Veritaserum—he’d almost—almost—</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Right,” he said, spinning rapidly to the wall, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “How many shelves will you need to cover this thing?”</p><p>They worked for the rest of the afternoon, scrubbing the place clean, assembling shelves, hauling boxes, setting up Crookshanks’s cat tree, and loading furniture from the shop down the street.</p><p>Finally, he helped her unpack her books one by one. She commented on her favorites as he passed them up for her to place on the shelves, eyes bright.</p><p>“This is my favorite trilogy. Brinkerhop was supposed to write a fourth, but then the war happened,” she shrugged, shelving the three books together before taking the next one.</p><p>Several minutes later, she brightened again. “Oh, this is a collection of essays about the care of magical creatures, and I’ve had it for ages, but really, the information is really well organized, which is abnormal for scholarly writing in Wizarding culture. At first I thought it was a cultural difference, but I’ve noticed that even purebloods tend to prefer muggle forms of—” that trailed into an avid discussion about the ways in which information was sorted within chapters and units. Apparently, the wizarding world was rubbish at writing textbooks.</p><p>Moments later, she was lit again, talking about an Ancient Runes book, then<em> Hogwarts: A History</em>, then <em>Incantation Etymology</em>, then <em>A Practical Study of Memory Work</em>—which she sheepishly offered to return to him, but he shook his head, laughing.</p><p>When his eyes fell on the familiar, green binding of the book from the Burrow, the breath left his lungs.</p><p>“Not a bad read,” he said, handing it over. A smile ghosted across Hermione’s face, and she nodded.</p><p>They could’ve used magic to make it easier, but Granger seemed to enjoy doing it the muggle way.</p><p>And George? George didn’t mind one bit.</p><p>#</p><p>September 9, 1998</p><p>The paper thudded against the shop door, and George ducked out to grab it. It was a new periodical. The top bearing a strange title.</p><p>
  <em>The Resonant.</em>
</p><p>George rolled his eyes, preparing to chuck it in the bin, but then the image on the cover caught his attention, and his stomach twisted. There, on the front page, was a photo of Granger, trudging up the stairs, unlocking the door, and heading into her flat.</p><p>“<em>Hermione Granger Spotted,</em>” read the headline.</p><p>They hadn’t.</p><p>
  <em>“After a long absence, Hermione Granger was spotted in Hogsmeade yesterday, entering what appears to be her flat. Like many returning ‘eighth-years,’ she’s chosen to stay off-campus, however she appears to be taking a few more liberties than her peers. Sources at Hogwarts report that the witch missed the first week of school—highly irregular behavior. Consistent attendance has always been compulsory for graduation. It remains to be seen if the muggle-born has pulled a few strings with the Ministry to side-step those restrictions.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>While Granger has yet to speak on the reason for her extended disappearance, sources close to the witch speculate that it may be due to the end of her fling with war hero Ronald Weasley. Fellow student Zacharias Smith said ‘Should have seen them in school—she was always following them around. Harry and Ron, that is. But it looks like the second he showed real interest, she split.’ Shocking news for fans of the couple, who appeared to enjoy a summer of bliss before Granger broke it off.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Known best for his work in the Wizarding War, Ronald Weasley stayed at Hermione’s side faithfully and helped Mr. Potter and Miss Granger to conduct perilous assignments that were pivotal in bringing down the dark lord. It’s unclear what reasons Miss Granger may have had for leaving, but classmates painted a picture that some may find illuminating. ‘Probably got bored,’ Smith said. ‘She’s always been more interested in books than people.’ Another peer expressed disapproval. ‘It’s not surprising,’ said Romilda Vane, a fellow Gryffindor acquainted with the witch. ‘She seems great at first, but if you really get to know her, she’s cold and flighty. It’s a little disappointing, because I think we need kind, compassionate people in leadership right now, and everyone seems to be looking to her. But she’s only interested in her pet causes—not really things that will help the Wizarding World move forward and heal.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ronald Weasley could not be reached for comment.”</em>
</p><p>George saw white, the anger molten in his stomach.</p><p>They’d printed a photo of her flat—broadcasting her location to the entirety of Wizarding Britain. Not to mention the article’s tone and how it spoke about her. It was disgusting. George shoved the parchment into his pocket.</p><p>There was no name on the piece. Whoever had written it was working anonymously.</p><p>Cowards.</p><p>George yanked his coat from the rack and stormed from the shop, down the street, past the Town Hall, Honeydukes, and Keddle’s Tea and Bakery to the steep roofed building with the “Tomes and Scrolls” sign out front. He shouldered past a pedestrian and strode to the staircase, then up to the second floor.</p><p>He pounded on the door.</p><p>“Granger,” he called.</p><p>Inside, someone stumbled, and then the door swung wide. Hermione had a nightgown on, a terrycloth robe wrapped tight around her frame.</p><p>“George!” she started. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>He groaned and rested his forehead to the doorframe, yanking the parchment from his pocket. “You’ve got to move,” he said, holding it out. “It’s not safe.” He rubbed his palms into his eyes.</p><p>Hermione’s hand wavered as she took it from him. He watched the line between her brows grow deeper, the small squeak of indignation escaping her as she skimmed the contents. Her hands tightened as she skimmed the final bits. When she blinked up at him, she looked very much like she had the year of the Triwizard Tournament, when she’d cried to him over the blisters covering her hands.</p><p>“But I like this flat,” Hermione said, her voice small. She swung the door open wider, and George stepped inside, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s right over the bookshop, and besides—” her tone went indignant. “All the good ones are taken, now.”</p><p>She crossed to the counter and lifted a coffee pot. “Want any?” George winced, but she poured him some anyway, distracted at the article in her free hand. She slid the mug across the counter.  It was the size of a bowl, and George’s eyes widened.</p><p>“You don’t drink that much coffee every morning, do you?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. George took the mug from her, lifting it to his mouth. It didn’t smell bad. It was sort of nice, really. He took a gulp.</p><p>Godric. It was like straight acid. He spewed into the sink, setting the cup on the counter. “That’s not edible,” he choked.</p><p>“I like it strong,” she said, distracted as she re-read the article. “It doesn’t list my address or anything.”</p><p>“The shop name is visible,” George said, huffing. “May I?” He pointed at the kettle, and Hermione nodded, not looking up. He reached over her shoulder and set it on the burner, and Hermione moved to let him.</p><p>“I can put up some extra wards,” she said. George closed his eyes. He didn’t want to scare her, but the thought of someone bursting into her flat in the middle of the night was enough to fill his chest with leaden dread.</p><p>“What if they get through?” George asked, careful to keep his voice calm.</p><p>“Then I’ll turn them to ash,” Hermione said, her tone casual. “And they’ll learn a very important lesson about boundaries.”</p><p>George snorted, but tension in his ribs didn’t lessen. She shouldn’t have to worry about any of this.</p><p>“Honestly.” She slapped the paper into the bin. “What a load of rubbish.”</p><p>George dumped out the coffee in his mug, shaking his head. “They like to write things that sell,” he said, more than a bit tired. “They don’t care if people get hurt.”</p><p>“You’re going to be worried about this, aren’t you?” Hermione asked quietly.</p><p>“Not at all,” George said, but the words were a bit hollow, and Hermione looked at him flatly.</p><p>She sighed. “What if we put a direct connection on the floos,” she said. George turned, leaning back against her countertop. “That way, if something happens, I can duck over to your place straight away.”</p><p>George paused.</p><p>That was an idea.</p><p>She’d be safer that way—she’d be able to get through even if he was gone. But the thought of connecting their floos also made his heart race in a way that made him uneasy.</p><p> “I mean, if that’s alright?” Granger added, an uncertain look coming over her. “You don’t have to, of course. It was just an idea.”</p><p>George shook his head. “No, if you’d like to, that’s completely fine.”</p><p>“It’s perfectly alright if it makes you uncomfortable or something,” Granger said, wrapping her robe tighter around herself.</p><p>“Not at all,” George said lightly. “You know what does make me uncomfortable?” He leaned towards her, bracing his hand on the counter and raising his brows.</p><p>Hermione paused, watching him.</p><p>“When you try to bloody poison me,” he said, nodding at the coffee pot. “Get some help.”</p><p>Hermione laughed, pushing herself up to sit on the countertop.</p><p>“The other day, Harry bought some eye cream on an errand for your Mum, and they wrote a whole column on how the war must be making him age prematurely,” Hermione said, her voice taking on a dry tone.</p><p>“I’m sure Gin loved that,” George said, rifling through her cabinet. “Helga’s Garden, where’s your tea, woman?”</p><p>Hermione hopped down and nudged him out of the way, pulling open a drawer and looking at him pointedly.</p><p>As he made the tea, Hermione slid a loaf of bread out of the cupboard. “Want some toast?” she asked.</p><p>“Always,” George said. Hermione pushed the bread at him.</p><p>“Great,” she said. “How about some eggs as well?” A mischievous grin lit her face.</p><p>Oh, Merlin.</p><p>George steeled himself and pushed aside the sparks under his sternum.</p><p>“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms. “Go get ready. I’ll make you something.”</p><p>“You’re a lifesaver!” she called, dashing towards the loo.</p><p>#</p><p>That night, he was just about to close shop when he saw her through the window, walking side by side with Aberforth. Snowflakes perched in her curls, and her nose was red from the cold. She had a bag from the market in her hand.</p><p>He’d already seen her earlier. There was no reason for her to stop by. He folded his arms, suddenly jittery. She was beaming at Aberforth, who appeared more than a little grumpy. The older man shrugged and shook his head before giving Granger a faint wave and heading back towards The Hog’s Head.</p><p>George stared at her, a ridiculous hope circling in his mind—<em>Come in. Come in. Come in</em>.</p><p>Miracle of miracles, she paused at the door, looking up at the sign as she reached for the handle.</p><p>“Yes—” George breathed, the word jumping out of him. He blinked, trying to appear unbothered as Granger poked her head in.</p><p>“Hey Granger!” he called, leaning forward. “Need anything?”</p><p>She shook her head, looking around. “No—only checking to make sure you haven’t blown anything up.” She nodded, as though satisfied with her findings, then grinned. It lit him from the inside out.</p><p>George bit back the smile, glancing at the floor. “Well, have a good night,” he said. She waved then ducked out, heading towards her flat.</p><p>He watched her until he could only see the footprints she’d left in the snow.</p><p>Fancy that. Granger, dropping in, just to say hello. Maybe she’d do it again tomorrow.</p><p>His heart lurched traitorously, and George blinked. He’d been down this road before. Not again. Granger was a friend—family, but not—not that.</p><p>She was being friendly, and he was being a git.</p><p>“Stop,” he whispered to himself, teeth gritted. He had to get a better grip.</p><p>#</p><p>September 12, 1998</p><p>They hadn’t planned the trip in advance, but she’d mentioned the keystone research, and he’d brought up the small amount he’d done, and then she’d wanted to see the wardstones for herself, but she had to finish prefect rounds first. It took longer than he thought it would, and for a while, he thought she’d decided to wait until morning. But, then she’d walked through the shop door at eleven, and he’d grabbed his coat.</p><p>They’d floo-ed to the shop in Diagon, then to the Burrow, where George had crept around to ensure that no one was awake while Hermione dashed out the door to hide in the shed. She hadn’t wanted to fly, so she was studying the Weasleys’ wardstone at the perimeter as George sorted the beat-up station wagon in the yard.</p><p>It would run. He closed the hood and rubbed his hands together. It wasn’t as cold here as it was in Hogsmeade, but the temperature had dropped with the late hour, and the wind wasn’t helping things. After he warmed his fingers, he darted around the car and opened the front door.</p><p>Hermione crossed to his side, leaning against the vehicle’s dented, wooden paneling to watch. A bit more performatively than he perhaps needed to, George yanked a screwdriver from his jacket pocket and jammed it into the ignition. As expected, it needed a bit more help. So, he turned to the steering column cover, removing it with a flick of his wand. He pulled the access panels back.</p><p>“Light,” he murmured, and Hermione whispered the spell like music. The glow spilled over his shoulder, illuminating the wires.</p><p>Hermione leaned close, and the heat spread through him like fever. He leaned away, closer to the wires, and focused on stripping the insulation off the red ones.</p><p>“Do you have to hotwire it?” Hermione asked, her voice quiet and laced with skepticism. George grinned.</p><p>“No,” he whispered. “But this is more fun.” He twisted the wires together, and the car came to life, the ignition, radio, and lights flicking on like magic.</p><p>Bass pounded through the radio—an unfamiliar muggle song, and Hermione gasped, lurching over his shoulder to dial the nob down. George ducked forward to let her through, laughing.</p><p>“It’s going to wake everyone!” she hissed.</p><p>“Shut it and get in,” he said, lifting the starter motor’s wire. Hermione’s face went red, and she scrambled away, around the other side of the vehicle. The door squeaked open.</p><p><em>“Tommy used to work on the docks, union’s been on strike”</em> the radio sang.</p><p>“Is that safe?” Hermione asked, sliding onto the passenger seat.</p><p>
  <em>“He’s down on his luck, it’s tough, so tough.”</em>
</p><p>“No,” George grinned. He leaned the wire in. Just before it made contact, he yelped, going stiff. Hermione squeaked, and he dropped the ruse, his shoulders shaking with laughter.</p><p>“George!” His name snapped across her tongue.</p><p>He winked and touched the wire to the others, and the engine sputtered to a start. Quickly, he caste a sticking charm, then a shield charm to insulate the wiring. Hermione chewed her lip as he bounced into the driver’s side and took hold of the wheel. He slammed the door shut, and turned to her, grinning.</p><p>
  <em>“She says, we’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got.”</em>
</p><p>“Buckle up, Ickle-firstie,” he quipped.</p><p>
  <em>“It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not.”</em>
</p><p>“I’m nearly nineteen,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.</p><p>
  <em>“We’ve got each other and that’s a lot for love”</em>
</p><p>“Right, but I’m twenty, so that makes you the kid here,” George said, looking over his shoulder as he reversed the station wagon onto the dirt road.</p><p>
  <em>“We’ll give it a shot.”</em>
</p><p>“Yes, clearly I’m the child in this situation,” Hermione said dryly, reaching over him suddenly to pull the seatbelt around him. Heat rushed up his face. Granger was unbothered, muttering as she clicked it into place near his hip.</p><p>
  <em>“Whoa, we’re half-way there. Whoa, livin’ on a prayer.”</em>
</p><p>George kept his head turned towards the back window, eyes fixed on the dirt road until she looked away to fasten her own with a metallic snap. George spared her a glance as he shifted gears.</p><p>
  <em>“Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione Jean stared out the windshield and into the night, her gaze sparking with determination as she cranked the radio up. “Drive,” she said.</p><p>
  <em>“Whoa, livin’ on a prayer.”</em>
</p><p>George pressed his foot to the gas.</p><p>#</p><p>“This isn’t the rune for boundary, George,” Hermione whispered, crouching over the wardstone at Auntie Muriel’s. “It’s not the same as the one at the Burrow.”</p><p>“What d’you mean?” he asked, moving closer.</p><p>“This line here,” she pointed to the mark in the middle. “It’s a bit longer than it should be, and it’s carved at an angle, slanting inward, while the rest of the rune is etched at ninety-degrees.” George stared. He’d missed it entirely.  </p><p>“What does it mean?” George asked.</p><p>“I intend to find out,” Hermione said, steel in her eyes. She pulled a sheet of parchment from her bag and pressed it against the stone. Her hand moved like lightning as she traced it.</p><p>#</p><p>It was past 1 a.m. when the hatchback shuddered up the Burrow’s dirt road. Halfway through the return trip, Granger had stopped answering his quips, pulled under by the gentle rumble of the engine. George pulled his wand from behind his right ear, humming one of Bill’s sea shanties.</p><p>“Soon may the Wellerman come,” George mumbled, singing softly. He strained to see over the dashboard as he turned the car’s wheel towards the side yard. “To bring us sugar and tea and rum.” The words had lost all meaning, repeated over and over to keep him awake. The car trembled as he shifted into neutral, then park.</p><p>George collapsed back into the seat.</p><p>“Finite Incantatum,” he whispered, and the wires separated. The car clicked off. Granger slept in the passenger seat, the night still around them.</p><p>For a single moment, he allowed himself to watch her, unguarded. She’d turned a bit in her chair, and the gentle slope of her nose was tucked against the seat cushion, her arms crossed, the seatbelt pressing into her cheek.</p><p>George swallowed. “Lumos,” he whispered. He stuck his wand between his teeth as he stooped down, finding the damaged cables. Once he had them in hand, he took his wand, placing it against the exposed fiber. Slowly, he repaired the wiring, the magic pulling the insulation back into place. He caste a Muffliato, and it muffled the sound of the access panels and steering column cover as he affixed them back into place.</p><p>Finally, he pried the screwdriver loose, mumbling the repair spell over the ignition. He gave it a bit of extra juice, directing the magic down, into the engine, in case there was any damage there.</p><p>Hermione hadn’t stirred. George bit his lips together.</p><p>The last train would be leaving within the hour, taking a final load of Galleons from Gringotts to the smaller branch in Hogsmeade. They ought to hurry.</p><p>“Granger,” he whispered. She didn’t move. “Granger?” Hermione mumbled, turning further into the chair. “We’re here.” Nothing.</p><p>George unbuckled his belt and tucked his wand between his teeth. In the soft glow, he reached over, clicking hers free. He pulled it away, careful not to touch her.</p><p>“C’mon, Sleepy,” he said quietly. Hermione shook her head, her face twisting. George tried again. “We’ve got to move.” Hermione shifted closer to the seat, turning away, towards the window.</p><p>George sighed and dropped back into his chair. Then, he eased the driver’s side door open, climbed out, and shut it softly behind himself. His boots thudded through the grass as he crossed around the hood and to the passenger side. Hermione hadn’t moved. He snorted and gently pulled her door open, crouching.</p><p>Her curls were slipping from her braid, the print from the seatbelt stamped on her cheek, and the whole of George hurt with something beautiful.</p><p>“Get up, Hermione,” he murmured, making peace with the pain.</p><p>Hermione blinked, her eyes dazed. Then, her gaze fixed on his face.</p><p>“George?” His name spilled from her lips in a confused whisper.</p><p>“Hi,” he whispered back, grinning. “You’re harder to wake than Fred, and that’s saying something.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. Then, she grimaced and stretched. George stepped back to allow her room, shutting the car door behind her.</p><p>He turned to the Burrow for the first time.</p><p>In the dark, he could just barely make out the outline of a rocking chair and the solitary figure sitting quietly in it.</p><p>“Bugger,” he whispered.</p><p>Hermione turned, her eyes widening.</p><p>“George,” Mr. Weasley said, voice low and carrying just loud enough to reach them. “Mind you use the keys next time.” With that, he pushed off his knees and nodded at Granger, speaking warmly. “Hello, Hermione. It’s wonderful to see you, dear.” He pulled the Burrow’s door open, then turned, waiting pointedly.</p><p>“What do we—” Hermione breathed.</p><p>George winced. “You’re about to watch me get the dressing down of a lifetime.”</p><p>Hermione snorted and headed towards his dad, ducking her head as she slipped past him and through the door.</p><p>George jogged to catch up. The Burrow’s living room was toasty, a single lamp lit by the window.</p><p>Arthur caste a silencing charm towards the direction of the master bedroom, then turned.</p><p>But he didn’t look one bit angry. Instead, he appeared rather delighted.</p><p>“I ought to tell you mother,” Arthur said, laughing quietly. “Thought we’d been robbed until I realized the wards hadn’t gone off.”</p><p>George shoved his hands in his pockets.</p><p>“Should’ve known that no one would steal that rubbish car.” Mr. Weasley’s eyes sparked as he moved back from the floo.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Go on through,” Mr. Weasley said, gesturing at the both of them. Granger hesitated in the hearth, waiting for him. George’s face burned as he stepped into the floo beside her. Hermione brought her arm up, tucking her hand on his elbow. George’s cheeks warmed. Mr. Weasley chuckled softly, his gaze fixed on George’s face as he handed over the powder.</p><p>#</p><p>September 16, 1998</p><p>“Remind me again why I need a sofa?” George groaned as Hermione dragged him through Magical Miscellaneous. It was near the edge of Hogsmeade—a new addition opened to supply the sudden flush of older students living in the village.</p><p>Fred, Angelina, and Ginny trailed behind them, talking animatedly about Angie’s performance in the latest round of tryouts for the Holyhead Harpies. She was one of the top contenders. Normally, George would be hanging back, prying for details, but something kept him at Granger’s side.</p><p>“Because your flat is cold and barren,” she said, yanking his hand along. “What about this one?” she stopped at a paisley print fabric number, and George grimaced at her.</p><p>“You can’t be serious,” he said.</p><p>“Alright, not your taste,” she said. She dragged him further, stopping at a leather option. “This one?” She asked.</p><p>George shrugged.</p><p>“Well, try it out,” Hermione said. George sighed and sat down. It wasn’t bad. He stood, scratching at the back of his neck.</p><p>“I’m not sure,” he said. The kitchen table’s chairs seemed to suit him fine.</p><p>As he stared at the thing incredulously, Hermione flopped onto it. She leaned back against the headrest, then twisted, examining the arm cushions, her face lined with concentration.</p><p>“It’s well made,” she said. “And it’s got good back support.”</p><p>George shrugged. Hermione glanced around, then slipped her feet from her snow boots, flopping onto her stomach across the cushions. There was a small hole in the heel of her sock. George grinned at her ridiculousness.</p><p>“Whatever are you doing?” he asked.</p><p>“Can’t buy a sofa unless it passes the proper tests, Weasley,” she said. Merlin, she was serious.</p><p>“This would be good for reading,” she said.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>Suddenly, he really wanted the sofa.</p><p>“Actually,” he said. “I think I do like it. That’s the one.” Then, he turned, calling to the sales associate. “Excuse me, I’d like to buy this sofa, but this madwoman is lying all over it.”</p><p>Hermione scrambled upright, her face going a shade of pink that he hadn’t seen before. “George!” she hissed.</p><p>George threw his head back and laughed.</p><p>Fred, Ginny, Hermione, and Angelina helped him shrink the sofa. Then, they moved it into the loft, dragging it around to find the right spot. Hermione’s idea had won out, for no particular reason, really.</p><p>When he looked at it, resting against the wall by the door, the place felt a little more like home.</p><p>#</p><p>September 19, 1998</p><p>George rapped on Hermione’s flat door, shuddering. The sun peeked over the granite chimneys, setting a fierce glare on the snow. The air was crisp and frigid, and wind whistled through the rooftops, biting at his cheeks. George tucked his hands beneath his arms while he waited. He should’ve worn his mittens. Did he still have mittens?</p><p>Hermione pulled the door open, her hair in wet ringlets. She wore her Weasley jumper and a pair of faded jeans. A frigid gust knocked his hat askew, exposing what was left of his ears to the cold, and George grimaced. “You going to invite me in, or should I make peace with death?” he asked, hunching against the wind.</p><p>She laughed and nodded for him to come inside. As he stepped through, she reached up, rapidly tugging her curls into a loose plait. Crookshanks was a streak of orange fury, bolting down the hall behind her.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” George said. He kicked his boots off on the tray by the door, then walked down the narrow hallway to enter her living room. Inside, she had a fire going, and he crouched, splaying his hands in front of it.</p><p>“What are you doing here so early?” Hermione asked, mirth setting her voice aglow. “Don’t you have to work today?”</p><p>“Shop’s closed today,” George said. “I had to bring your present by.”</p><p>Hermione paused. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said, sounding confused in the kitchen.</p><p>“But I did,” George called.</p><p>Hermione paced over. “You’re dripping on the floor,” she said, extending her hand.</p><p>“Sorry,” George said, wincing. He untucked his scarf from around his throat and handed it over. The fringe on it was coming unraveled, and Hermione eyed it, running her thumb over the snag.</p><p>He kept forgetting to fix it. He’d get to it.</p><p>“Coat too,” she added, hand still out. George sighed and shifted forward, his fingers numb and clumsy on the buttons as he worked them. Finally, he undid them all, but when he tried to tug the coat off, it stuck on the fabric of his jumper. George huffed. Hermione breathed out a laugh, grabbing hold of the back of the coat’s collar so he could more easily work his arms out of the sleeves. After she took it, she nicked his hat from his head.</p><p>“Thanks,” George muttered, swiping his hands through his hair to fix it as she went to hang his his things on the hook near his boots. George shifted onto his knees, reaching his hands back out before the flames. The fire had begun to seep into his bones, making everything tingle in a painful but pleasant sort of way.</p><p>Hermione crossed back to his side, watching. He bit back a grin. He could practically feel her impatience mounting.</p><p>“Well?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Yes?” George asked, unable to keep the merry lilt from his voice.</p><p>“You said you got me a present,” she said, uncertainly.</p><p>“I did,” he said. The fire snapped and popped.</p><p>Hermione fidgeted. “Well, what is it?” she asked. George cracked into a grin.</p><p>“It’s in my coat pocket,” he said. Hermione huffed and made to walk back over, but he held a finger up. “I’ll get it.” He snapped, and the coat zipped from around the corner, across the room, into his hand outstretched hand.</p><p>He pretended not to notice her curious eyes as he rummaged in the large, front pockets and removed two parcels wrapped in brown paper and string. As he drew them out, he snapped again, sending the coat back to the hook with a Depulso. The magic left him a little breathless, summoning and sending something a bit heavier like that, but the amused spark in Hermione’s eye was worth it.</p><p>“Right,” he breathed, sounding a bit winded as he held the parcels out—one in each hand. “Choose one, but only one.” Hermione’s brow wrinkled, and she eased onto the floor beside him, crossing her legs in front of her. Her eyes flicked over his face, then to the packages.</p><p>One circular and lumpy, the other a crisp rectangle. She was quiet for a moment, studying them like a puzzle. He grinned.</p><p>“Is that a book?” Hermione asked, nodding at the rectangle.</p><p>George raised his brows, bugging his eyes out as he shrugged. “You’ll have to pick it if you want to find out,” he said. A look of concentration came over her, and Hermione braced her elbows on her knees, propping her chin on her hands.</p><p>“It’s an important choice,” he said jovially. “You’ve got to pick the right one.”</p><p>She nodded, a hesitant smile slipping over her face. “Well, it’s the first birthday gift I’ve been given in a few years, so—”</p><p>George’s mind blanked. Of course. Of course.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Pressure’s on, Granger,” he said, pushing down the ache in his chest.</p><p>She was safe now. She was safe now.</p><p>“I feel like you’re expecting me to pick the book-shaped one,” she murmured. “Which makes me want to pick the funny-looking one.”</p><p>George began to laugh quietly, his shoulders shaking. “Fancy being unpredictable, do you?”</p><p>“A bit,” Hermione flashed him a smile.</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>“But I really want to know if it’s a book,” Hermione whispered. She started, looking up at him. “What are you going to do with the other one?”</p><p>“Toss it in the bin.” He shrugged. “Or stick it in the fire.”</p><p>“You can’t!” she said, her tone hiking.</p><p>He leaned in, grinning. “And you’ll never know what it was.”</p><p>Hermione made a small noise of protest. George grinned. He was having too much fun with this. She huffed.</p><p>“Alright,” she said finally. Her eyes skated back and forth a final time, and she snatched the rectangle out of his hands.</p><p>Curiosity over impulse.</p><p>Knowledge over defiance.</p><p>Fascinating.</p><p>George tucked the other one behind his back, watching her eagerly. She looked down, picking at the string, and he flicked his wand at the fire. It whooshed, burning large and bright for a few moments as though he’d tossed the other one in. At the sound, Hermione glanced up at him with a disapproving look and chucked the string at his face.</p><p>“Prat,” she said.</p><p>“Don’t be cross,” he said, smiling.</p><p>“What is it with you and fire,” she mumbled, turning the papered gift over in her hands, looking for the seam. She wouldn’t find one. He’d melded all of the wrapping together into one piece as a bit of extra fun. She turned it over again, confused.</p><p>George began to laugh.</p><p>“Honestly, Weasley,” she said, turning it over once more. “Diffindo,” she whispered, and the parchment severed.</p><p>She pulled the wrapper off, and her eyes lit.</p><p>“But this is—” the book slipped from the paper. A new sequel to that trilogy she’d been talking about when he helped her move. “I didn’t know she’d published it!” she said. On the cover, a girl fought a shadowed figure, wand raised against a snowy mountain. Hermione turned the volume over, and the gilded pages glinted in the firelight.</p><p>“After you mentioned it the other day, I did a little digging,” George said, shrugging. “I guess she had it printed during the war, but only did mail order, so—” He looked up from his jumper sleeves, pausing. Hermione’s eyes were bright, happiness spilling out of them, and George swallowed.</p><p>He watched, delighted as she cracked it open and scanned the table of contents. Then, she lifted it to her face, taking a long, slow breath from the center of the volume’s spine.</p><p>“It’s got that smell,” she whispered, holding it out to him. Halting, George brought it to his nose. Warm parchment, a hint of binding glue. He grinned, handing it back.</p><p>“This is wonderful,” she said, beaming at him. “Thank you, George.”</p><p>“S’nothing,” he said, ducking his head. “Happy birthday.”</p><p>He pulled the other gift back out. “Surprise.” He lobbed it at her, smiling.</p><p>Hermione caught it. “You said I had to pick one,” she said.</p><p>“I was lying,” he whispered, winking. Hermione snorted. He leaned in, tapping the parchment with his wand to unseal it.</p><p>The paper cracked open, and Hermione tore it back. A pair of thick, grey, hand knitted socks tumbled out. Socks were tricky. They’d be a bit big—he’d rather that than them be too small. He’d had to give it a few goes before the heel came out right, and the left one’s gauge was a bit off, but hopefully she wouldn’t notice.</p><p>Hermione was already rolling them onto her feet, the knitted material bunching around her ankles in soft waves.</p><p>“They’re so cozy,” she said. “Where did you get them?”</p><p>“Handknitted,” George said. Hermione paused.</p><p>“Are these from your Mum?” she asked, eyes going round.</p><p>“They’re from the Weasley family,” he said, dodging the question. Hermione blinked then leapt forward, throwing her arms around his shoulders.</p><p>George almost tumbled back, letting out a surprised “—oh” as she collided into him, catching himself with a hand against the floor.</p><p>“I love them,” she whispered, her breath warm against his shoulder. His insides turned to rockets.</p><p>“Good,” he said, giving her a little squeeze. He pushed down the sparks zipping through him. Then, he pulled away and ruffled her hair in what he hoped was a brotherly manner.</p><p>Hermione snorted and flicked her wand. A heavy volume drifted over from the shelf.</p><p>“What next?” he asked, watching it. “We can do whatever you like today.” The book’s spine read <em>“An Advanced Guide to Charms and Enchantments: Grade Seven.”</em></p><p>Of course she was going to do homework on her birthday. He bit back a grin.</p><p>Hermione blinked at him. “I usually read for a bit in the morning,” she said. A look of uncertainty crossed her face.</p><p>“Well, what would you like me to do?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“I can make you breakfast?” he suggested. Her face lit, and she nodded eagerly. “Right,” he said, brushing a hand on her head as he walked to the kitchen.</p><p>He was pulling jam from the fridge when Hermione began to read aloud. He stilled, then smiled. The cadence of her voice was warm and clear, punctuated by the cracking fire. Outside, the snow fell in large, thick flakes. Breakfast came together far too quickly, and George felt a twinge of disappointment as he laid the plate in front of her. But she didn’t stop, only scooped up a bite of eggs and kept going.</p><p>She read through the whole of breakfast, often stopping to make a comment or scrawl a note. She was partway through a paragraph about elemental charms when he interjected without thinking.</p><p>“Well, the limits they’re describing aren’t set in stone,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head. “If the charm is laid on the right material components, you can push right past that hurdle.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, scrawling his comment down beside her notes. Like it was important.</p><p>George blinked. “Does the quality of the material make a difference?” she asked, not looking up at him. George tugged at the scar of his ear.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said. “The higher the quality, the more likely you are to be able to push the charm to last longer, or to repeat itself.”</p><p>“Like the Whizbangs,” she said, scribbling another line down, unphased.</p><p>George stuttered. “Well, yes,” he said. “But mind you keep that to yourself. It’s a proprietary secret.”</p><p>“So, I shouldn’t write to Filibuster?” she murmured. George laughed.</p><p>After breakfast, she tossed him his warm things, and they headed out into the snow.</p><p>“Where to?” he asked. Hermione tucked her hand through the crook of his arm, and George nearly slipped on a patch of ice.</p><p>“Scrivenshaft,” she said. They moved north down the street, and George didn’t feel the cold one bit. Hermione pushed the shop door open, and he watched, bemused, as she poured over the writing supplies. Why didn’t they carry quills at WWW? That was something to ask Fred about. Maybe they could silly ones, with different sorts of ink or something. He mulled the idea over as Hermione took her time, testing every quill in the shop.</p><p>After she picked one, he tossed the coins on the counter.</p><p>“George—” she said, brow wrinkling.</p><p>“It’s your birthday,” he said. She hadn’t celebrated a birthday proper in years, and he was going to fix that today.</p><p>She rolled her eyes, but she let him. Then, she tugged him next door, into Gladrags.</p><p>“You want clothes?” he asked, looking over the mannequins in the window. Hermione shook her head, grinning.</p><p>“No, I’m going to pick something for you,” she said, smiling. “So, next time Alicia Spinnet stops by, you can ask her on a proper date.”</p><p>George laughed, but it was empty in his chest. “I’m perfectly happy as a bachelor, Granger, but thanks.”</p><p>“Mhm,” she said, studying the clothing racks.</p><p>“Really,” he said, more firmly. “You couldn’t drag me into a relationship. I’m quite content.”</p><p>Hermione turned, assessing him. “Alright,” she said. “But I still want to dress you up.”</p><p>“What for?” he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“Because it’ll be fun,” she said. George followed her, watching incredulously as she flitted through the store. Occasionally, she’d pull something out and hold it up to him, and he dutifully stood still. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was a bit unfamiliar.</p><p>With a start, George realized why it felt odd. He’d grown up with his mum buying his clothes, and then after they’d started the business, Fred sort of took over the activity, dropping pieces into George’s wardrobe that complimented his own. Then the war had happened, and new clothes weren’t a priority. Now, Fred was busy with Angelina, and George had never realized that this was one of those things that he ought to do for himself.</p><p>“This could be good,” she said, holding a pair of trousers up. George looked down at the size.</p><p>“Yeah, if I was still fifteen,” he said, gently taking them from her and pulling the correct fit from the rack. Hermione laughed and pushed him toward the changing booth. She shoved the articles into his arms.</p><p>“You’ll be dashing in this, trust me,” she said. George’s face flamed, and he ducked into the cubicle.</p><p>It was nothing novel. A corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows over a thick, cream colored jumper and some dark brown trousers. But when he pushed back the curtain, Hermione’s face lit.</p><p>“I was right,” she said softly.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The flush crept up his neck.</p><p>She smiled, stepping forward. She reached to adjust the jacket on his shoulders, then straightened the collar and lapels. George braced himself, keeping his expression neutral as she leaned close.</p><p>“You like this sort of thing?” George asked faintly. He blinked. It’d just slipped out as she tugged on the lapels.</p><p>But Hermione laughed. “Don’t be a prat,” she said. “You look very handsome.”</p><p>“As opposed to the usual, when I’m repulsive,” George said dryly. Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped away.</p><p>“I think it’s very nice,” she said. “But it’s your opinion that matters, George. You’re the one who’ll have to wear it.”</p><p>George looked in the mirror. It was rather nice, and he could use some extra warm things since it was so bloody cold in Hogsmeade all the time. Was it him, though?</p><p>He stared at the reflection, swallowing at the sight of himself. He looked like a grown-up—less weedy than he used to be, his hair blown wild by the wind. The jacket settled nicely along the line of his shoulders, and he lifted his arms like he was going to tinker. It didn’t restrict the movement. Granger’s eyes sparked as she watched him through the mirror, and the flush spread to his face. “I like it,” he said.</p><p>“Then I’m buying it for you,” she said, nodding firmly. George tipped his head back.</p><p>“Granger, it’s your birthday, not mine,” he said.</p><p>“You said we could do whatever I wanted,” she said. “And I want you to let me buy you that.”</p><p>George sighed. “I can buy it myself,” he said.</p><p>“Yes, but that would be breaking with our terms of agreement,” Hermione said, her tone going crisp and swotty. But then the mask cracked, and she grinned playfully. “Besides, every time you wear it, I’ll know that I got it for you, and that will bring me the greatest of birthday joys.” The last part was said in a silly lilt.</p><p>George caved. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head.</p><p>As they left the shop, the attendant promised to owl the parcel later that day.</p><p>After that, he thought she might be finished walking around, but she shook her head and pulled him down the street to Keddle’s Tea and Bakery, where she plunked him onto a couch in front of the fire and came back with scones and tea.</p><p>Hermione dropped onto the sofa beside him, handing him a scone. “You’re being a very good sport,” she said.</p><p>George shrugged and tucked into the treat. It was warm and sweet, and it fell to bits in his hands. “This is amazing,” he said, closing his eyes.</p><p>“I agree,” Hermione said. “And so much better than last year.” The last part was added quietly, but George caught it all the same.</p><p>He turned, watching her. Her eyes were watering, but her gaze was trained on the fire.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked. She bit her lips together, shrugging.</p><p>“In the muggle Britain, eighteen is sort of a big deal,” she whispered. “It’s like seventeen, for us.” She took a deep breath. “I spent it in a tent, with a horcrux. That night, Harry and Ron got into a big fight, and—” she paused, blinking. “Sorry. I don’t want to talk about it, actually.”</p><p>“That’s alright,” George said, concern filtering through him. “Whatever you like.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, biting into her scone.</p><p>She didn’t bring it up again.</p><p>#</p><p>That evening, George sat on the sofa, staring at the paper. On the cover, Vane was pictured beside several other men in suits. The article talked about the new witnesses who had stepped up to support Vane’s defense. He didn’t recognize any of the names. Some bloke named Clarke. A couple of wealthy Durmstrang alumni. He sighed and leaned forward, incinerating it with the tip of his wand.</p><p>Hopefully, the court would see sense.</p><p>The floo whooshed. “George—” Hermione’s voice called. “Ginny’s apparently masterminded a small gathering at my flat this evening?” George crossed to the floo. Hermione’s face flickered in the fire, and he could hear his sister laughing in the background. He crouched, smiling.</p><p>“Anyways, it’s supposed to just be a few of my best friends,” Hermione said, pushing Ginny away.</p><p>George paused, lifting his brows as he waited for the reason she’d called.</p><p>Hermione grinned. “That includes you, George. Get over here,” she said.</p><p>Something warm and wonderful flooded over his ribs.</p><p>“I’m one of your best friends?” he asked, blinking.</p><p>“Obviously!” Hermione laughed. “Come on!” Her face disappeared, and George jumped through.</p><p>Her flat was buzzing with life, and George’s eyes widened.</p><p>“The Mastery’s great so far, but we’re really just sorting which species that I might specialize—” Neville stopped mid-sentence in his conversation with Hermione, Luna, and Ginny, waving at George.</p><p>“George Weasley,” Neville said, smiling. “How’s life been treating you?” George walked up to the counter, thumping Neville on the back.</p><p>“Still going,” he said. Neville laughed. “Say, why aren’t you back with Hermione and—”</p><p>Neville shrugged, a small grimace twisting his face. “Sort of didn’t want to repeat the year,” he said. “I saw a lot of bad things, and I know some people are getting closure out of it—” he nodded at Ginny. “—but personally, I really couldn’t bear the thought of spending so much time there again so soon.” Neville rested the butterbeer on the counter with a soft clink.</p><p>“It’s a pity, because we had a whole thing going with Luna,” Ginny said, glancing over at the blonde, who was tracing snowflake outlines on the windowpane glass as she looked through. “They were calling us the silver trio, and it was pretty wicked.” She smiled at Neville, and Neville rolled his eyes.</p><p>Faint scars crosshatched the skin near Neville’s hairline, his eyes flickering with the same unquiet shadow that Ginny’s held. “Someday, I’ll come back and teach,” Neville said. “But I qualified for the Mastery program last year, since I was working ahead with Professor Sprout before things fell apart. So now I’m doing that and just working on me.”</p><p>George elbowed him. “You’ve earned the right,” he said. Neville smiled, his gaze flicking to the counter.</p><p>A rap sounded on the door, and the din in the room faded. Ginny pushed Hermione. “Get that,” she said, grinning.</p><p>Hermione’s brow wrinkled in skepticism, and she pulled it open. Then, she burst into tears.</p><p>“Molly’s got Teddy for the night!” Harry shouted, throwing his arms around her and shoving a large, wrapped box into her hands. George grinned.</p><p>“I can’t believe you’re here!” Hermione cried.</p><p>“Miss this?” Harry asked, his gaze flickering around the room. “Never.” His eyes halted as they landed on George, and he tipped his head, a look of mild surprise and confusion coming over him. It vanished when Harry blinked, then stooped to pull a large, cardboard box into the flat before closing the door behind himself.</p><p>George shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling a tiny bit more like a stand-in for Ron. Out of place.</p><p>“Hello Harry Potter,” Luna called from the dormer window, her Head Girl badge upside down on her robes. “You’re terrible at answering owls.”</p><p>“I answer the ones that have words,” Harry said. “But I’m not sure what you’d like me to do about the ones with bits of rubbish inside?”</p><p>“It’s not rubbish,” Luna said, her voice airy. “It’s crumbs from my day.”</p><p>Ginny had approached, helping Harry out of his coat and gloves. Harry swooped in, laying a kiss on her forehead. His grey Auror robes were rumpled, the Ministry insignia on his chest askew.</p><p>“Would you like some crumbs in return, then?” Harry asked. Luna nodded. Harry pulled a piece of lint from his pocket and held it out. Luna glided across the room and took it from him, smiling.</p><p>“Neville,” Harry said. “How are you holding up?”</p><p>“Eh,” Neville said, shrugging. “Switzerland’s nice.”</p><p>“Are you in the Alps or down south?” Harry asked, tugging his boots off.</p><p>“I’m everywhere I want to be, Mate,” Neville said, breaking into a grin. Harry laughed. “No, really, they’re quite liberal with the portkeys there! You can collect samples from a coastline, then be covered in snow not fifteen minutes later!” Neville beamed.</p><p>Harry turned to George. “Teddy misses you,” he said, crossing his arms. George grinned.</p><p>“Is he still a terrible racket?” George asked. Harry nodded, burying his face in his hands.</p><p>“Drop him by anytime,” George said. “Truly.”</p><p>Harry lifted his head. “You don’t mean that,” he said. George raised a brow.</p><p>“I’ve only got the one ear, Mate,” he said. “I’m ideally suited.”</p><p>The joke landed well, but quips about his missing ear usually did with this crowd. Harry turned to Hermione. “Open your present so we can play with it,” he said, eager.</p><p>Granger laughed, tearing off the paper. The flashy red text on the front caught George’s attention, and he set his bottle down.</p><p><em>“Nintendo 64: Atomic Purple Color.”</em> It was ridiculous and bright and there were buttons and wires and a box, and his dad leapt out in him as George’s hands itched to take it apart and put it back together wrong, just to see what would happen.</p><p>“What <em>is</em> that?” he breathed.</p><p>“A muggle game!” Hermione said, grinning. “Harry, you git.” Harry grinned. George meandered over, peeking over her shoulder.</p><p>“It’ll be a little glitchy this close to Hogwarts, but—” Harry pulled a television set out of the box, along with another contraption. Hermione bounded to the coffee table, pushing it against the wall. Then, Harry lifted the television onto it, plugging wires into the other thing. He hit a switch.</p><p>It buzzed to life, and Harry assembled the purple thing in front of it. Ginny seemed to understand what it was for, but George caught Neville and Luna staring at each other in confusion.</p><p>“Alright, there are four controllers, so we’ll take turns,” Harry announced, drawing some extra, smaller boxes from the larger, cardboard one that had held everything else. He looked around the room. “George, Hermione, Luna, and I will go first, then the two in last place will swap with Ginny and Neville?”</p><p>George crossed the room. Harry shoved the plastic into his hand and stuck a block into the top of what appeared to be the main unit.</p><p>“How does the game work?” George asked.</p><p>“You race cars,” Harry said. George grinned.</p><p>They did a few practice rounds just to sort the buttons and the rules, and Neville and Ginny brought over hot cocoa for everyone. The room was bright and warm, and it felt a little bit like their old D.A. meetings but better, since there was no threat of bloodquills hanging over them. George lost the first round, so he passed his controller to Neville while Luna (who had insisted on trying to drive the map backwards just to see what would happen) passed hers to Ginny.</p><p>The next round started, and George watched as Granger stared intently at the screen, muttering to herself. Harry’s car passed her, and her nose scrunched, and he bit back the quiet laughter. He’d forgotten how competitive she could get. As it turned out, watching her reactions was almost as fun as playing himself.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>Intentionally goading Granger couldn’t be topped.</p><p>It was light outside when they finally packed it in, and George took a moment to owl Fred about the system before falling into bed.</p><p>#</p><p>September 21, 1998</p><p>“I’m telling you, Mate, Dad would love it,” George said, following Fred through the Diagon Alley shop. “It was incredible.”</p><p>Fred nodded, checking the inventory on the shelves against his clipboard. “It sounds like you had a good time,” he said. Then, Fred paused. “What was your favorite part about it, again?”</p><p>“Well, you can put bananas down on the road, and every time Granger drove over one, she—”</p><p>“You shouldn’t buy one,” Fred said, pinning him with a strange look.</p><p>“Why not?” George asked.</p><p>“Trust me,” Fred said. He checked a box on his parchment. “Besides, Granger’s got one, doesn’t she? Just ask to play hers with her.”</p><p>It was painfully apparent what Fred was getting at, and George sighed, crossing his arms as he prepared to have it out with him again.</p><p>The shop bell dinged, and Fred called brightly, “Skiving Snackboxes sale today!”</p><p>“Freddie!” Angelina’s shout echoed through the room. Fred lifted his face. Angelina stood in the doorway, decked out in a Holyhead Harpies uniform, beaming.</p><p>“You’re joking!” Fred roared, chucking the clipboard. It hit the floor with a loud clap. Angelina did a spin, the professional-grade robe swirling around her. Fred exploded, launching across the shop, shouting. George grinned.</p><p>Fred hoisted Angelina into the air, spinning her around. “I knew it! I knew it!”</p><p>“Congratulations, Angelina,” George called. She flashed him a smile.</p><p>“I mean, how could they not?” Fred’s cry boomed through the aisles as he lowered her to the floor. “Best chaser in the league. In the world. In the whole, bloody universe—” Then, Fred got a heated look in his eyes and tugged Angelina in close, and George decided it was time for him to duck out.</p><p>#</p><p>September 29, 1998</p><p>He hadn’t seen her since her birthday. She’d owled, saying she was busy with schoolwork, and he hadn’t pressed the issue. Really, the first couple weeks she’d been in town had spoiled him.</p><p>He still looked for her through the window, though. Caught a few glimpses from time to time, but she’d been busy. Harried looking, always carrying books and striding fast through the street, and he didn’t want to add yet another thing to her load. He’d owled her back to let her know he was there if she needed anything, and he’d resigned to wait. That had been a week and a half ago.</p><p>So, when George waltzed through his flat door at six in the evening, he started at the sight before him: Hermione, bent over a stack of textbooks on the kitchen table, like it was the most normal thing in the world.</p><p>“Good, you’re here,” Hermione said, flipping through the pages. George broke into a broad smile. “Take a look at this.” She was distracted, intent.</p><p>“How’d you get in?” George asked, turning.</p><p>“Floo,” she said, not looking up. Then, her face flooded. “Was that not alright?” She blinked, staring up at him, horrified.</p><p>“Perfectly fine, Granger,” George said, laying a hand on her head on his way to the kettle. At this point, the sparks registered, but he’d grown accustomed to them, and he didn’t need to brace to keep from flinching. “Only wanted to make sure that I didn’t have some sort of terrible security breach.”</p><p>As he talked, he slipped the key from his pocket, contemplating. “Actually,” he said, tapping his wand to the key. It duplicated.</p><p>He tossed it onto the books. “Probably best you have one, in case of an emergency or floo malfunction,” he said. Then he knelt, opening the fridge. “I’m hungry.”</p><p>“Food later,” Hermione called, sounding a bit put out. “I need your eyes on this now.”</p><p>George straightened. “Alright, then,” he said, loping over. Hermione raised the book. The velum pages were brown with age. “What’s that remind you of?” The center of the page held a single, inked rune with a solitary word under it:<em> “Beneath.” </em>The way it was written on the page—the quill angles were all straight indents, except from one, slanted line.</p><p>George blinked. It looked like the rune on Aunt Muriel’s wardstone.</p><p>“It’s a rough translation,” Hermione whispered. “Beneath isn’t quite right.”</p><p>“What does it mean, then?” George asked, rubbing a hand over his jaw.</p><p>“Well, we think of ‘beneath’ as a direction. A preposition or an adverb,” she said. George furrowed his brow. Hermione’s eyes were fire, snapping with excitement. “But, this is carved like an action. A verb.”</p><p>“Like, go beneath?” George asked, leaning over her shoulder to look closer.</p><p>“Or access beneath,” Hermione whispered. “Bring beneath up.”</p><p>“You think there’s something there to bring up?” George asked. Hermione nodded.</p><p>The meaning jolted through him. “Biddy,” he whispered.</p><p>“We need to prepare,” she said. “We can’t walk into this without planning.” She bit her lip. “I’ll need to do some more research on the relevant runes and what we may need to prepare for if they’re disturbed. There’s also the matter of legality—I prefer to know what risks we’re taking, so I can mitigate those as well as possible.” She paused. “And we’ll need the right people to help.”</p><p> “I’ll floo Bill,” he said.</p><p>“I want Aberforth and Luna along as well,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Will Aberforth agree to that?” George asked, pausing.</p><p>Hermione nodded, staring down at the page. “If I ask him. I annoy him less than most people.”</p><p>George smiled.</p><p>“He feels the same about you, by the way,” she said. “Apparently, he and Percy chatted about you during the war, before the battle.” George tilted his head. “Percy talked you up quite a bit. Aberforth seems to have the impression that you’ve a very dedicated brother.”</p><p>“I didn’t know that,” he said softly. Hermione raised her head and gave him a small smile. George ducked his head, resolving to send Percy a note later that night. He cleared his throat, propping his wand under the volume.</p><p>“Where’d you get this, anyway?” George asked, tipping the cover up. It didn’t have a title.</p><p>“I nicked it from the restricted section,” Hermione said. “I found it crammed under one of the shelves, covered in dust.”</p><p>“You nicked it?” he asked, laughing.</p><p>“I was hoping you’d help me add it to the library,” she said, pulling a very worn cardboard box from her bookbag. The cardboard sides were starting to come apart, and the seams appeared a bit ragged.</p><p>She must have used it. A lot.</p><p>George stared at the daydream charm, then back up at Hermione. That familiar, warm pulse drummed against his ribs, and he couldn’t quite suppress his smile.</p><p>“I use it all the time,” she said, laughing. “You and Fred are so clever for making it. I was surprised to see that you haven’t been selling them!”</p><p>George blinked. That’s right. He’d said it was a prototype. “I’ll pass that feedback along,” he said, smiling. “Now, as for adding books—I’d be happy to.”</p><p>#</p><p>October 7, 1998</p><p>“I can watch things for a bit, honestly,” Hermione said, pinning her curls away from her face.</p><p>George bit his lips together. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he said.</p><p>“No, I want a tea as well,” Hermione said. She leaned over the counter and let herself into his till, tossing him a few Sickles. “And get yourself a pumpkin scone—on the house.”</p><p>George roared with laughter, snatching the coins from the air. “You’re a proper riot today,” he said, grinning.</p><p>He jogged down High Street to Keddle’s, ordering them a couple of Chamomiles and scones. There wasn’t much of a wait, which was abnormal for this time of day. The snow swirled through the air as he dashed back. He’d forgotten his mittens. Again.</p><p>As he pushed through the shop door, the most peculiar sound poured out like summer sun, drowning out the bell’s jangle.</p><p>
  <em>“But now it isn’t true, now everything is new,”</em>
</p><p>He strode to the counter and deposited the food.</p><p>
  <em>“And all I’ve learned has overturned, I beg of you,”</em>
</p><p>George turned, peering around shelves.</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t go wasting your emotion,”</em>
</p><p>He rounded the back aisle. Hermione danced, shelving product from a box he’d meant to finish up earlier.</p><p>
  <em>“Lay all your love on me.”</em>
</p><p>She grinned, lip syncing at the ceiling, spinning in place.</p><p>George tripped into the shelf and knocked a stack of Snackboxes from the edge. Hermione jumped, and George shoved his hands into his apron pockets. She laughed.</p><p>“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he said, voice loud over the music as he grinned. Hermione rolled her eyes. He stepped closer, tilting his head. “Tell me, Granger, what is this delightful muggle racket you’re playing in my perfectly respectable wizarding establishment?”</p><p>“Abba,” she said. “And this is a classic, George. Take a Muggle Studies course!” She pushed at his shoulder, her smile sparking with mischief.</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t go wasting your emotion,”</em>
</p><p>George’s eyes widened as she twirled, her curls flaring, bouncing on her toes as she sang.</p><p>
  <em>“Lay all your love on me.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione ricocheted like light through the shop, shouting the lyrics at the ceiling.</p><p>“Abba,” George repeated, swallowing.</p><p>#</p><p>October 29, 1998</p><p>The days passed rapidly, folding into weeks as they slipped into a comfortable but chaotic routine filled with runes research, cups of tea, the occasional game of Mario Kart, and plenty of watching the window. Sometimes, he saw her twice a day, bumping into her at the market after she’d already stopped by—sometimes with Ginny or Luna, sometimes alone.</p><p>When she did visit, she usually floo-called first, or at the very least, knocked. But, sometimes, she’d be distracted or excited and just drop right in without warning.</p><p>Those times were his favorite.</p><p>Other times, however, she’d become overrun with studies, and a week or two might pass between her appearances. George tried to take each day as it came, appreciating her presence when it came to him like a candle, hoping for its return when it was gone.</p><p>But, not too hard. Hoping too hard would be dangerous.</p><p>It was at the end of one of these particularly long gaps when George walked into his flat to find her already there. She stood, journal and quill propped on her left forearm, open books whirling through the air, orbiting her like stars. Her curls floated, the magic sparking and bright.</p><p>The breath left his lungs as the sight rocked him to his core.</p><p>Wild. Beautiful. A constellation of wonder.</p><p>Hermione turned, seeing him, and a smile lit her face. George’s mouth opened, but for a moment, no sound came out.</p><p>Finally, he mustered: “Extraordinary magic,” he said.</p><p>“It’s your spell,” she said.</p><p>George shook his head, pacing around her as he studied it. “No, I didn’t make this.” He’d never made anything that brilliant.</p><p>“You probably don’t remember, but you showed me a charm before fifth-year? The one for levitating books open at eye level,” she said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I used it as a foundation for developing this one.”</p><p>George’s voice was hoarse as he looked over the books, watching them dance. “Show me.”</p><p>She ended the charm, and the tomes floated down into neat stacks at her feet like soft snowfall.</p><p>Then, she lifted her wand. “Cognitas,” she whispered.</p><p>He recognized the initial wand movements, but she’d laced some new ones in, looping them together seamlessly. It was incredible. The sparks swirled in a sea of gold, and the books slipped up, as though the room’s gravity had been removed, replaced by a pull towards Hermione Jean Granger.</p><p>She tipped her head back and laughed, her warm, brown eyes shining.</p><p>A sweet fever slipped over him, and George let himself think, for only a moment, how wonderful it might feel to be hers.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Riptide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hope over fear, yes?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone!<br/>Happy Monday. &lt;3 </p><p>Thank you so much for the kindness and encouragement over Fever Fudge! &lt;3 Your taking the time to read means so much to me. </p><p>Our songs for this week are as follows: "Walk Home" by Stephen James Taylor, "Experience" by Ludovico Einaudi (for most of April 12), "Chiquitita" by Abba (you'll know), "One More Light" by Linkin Park (April 13), "Riptide" by Vance Joy (for the first bit of April 18), "Survivor" by 2WEI &amp; Edda Hayes (for April 18, after Harry starts talking with Hermione),  "Leaves from the Vine" by Atinpiano/"Fragile" by Kygo &amp; Labrinth (April 18, after she apparates).</p><p>Additional details: There's a chess match in this chapter, and it's modeled after Morphy's "Opera Game." If you'd like a visual, here's a link: https://www.chess.com/analysis/game/master/765</p><p>----<br/>Content Warning: This chapter includes substance use for medicinal purposes. [SPOILERS, for those who need them: The substance does not affect the character's psychological state, it is a potion to restore energy, and they have to take it regularly to be able to manage throughout the day.]<br/>----</p><p>This chapter is a ride. So, please grab a good snack this time (Maybe some oatmeal raisin cookies), and hot cocoa or strong coffee. I would also recommend your coziest jumper, for good measure. Remember: This isn't the end.</p><p>Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Five: "Riptide"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>April 11, 2003</p><p>Steam wafted from her cup of coffee, resting just to the side of her duvet-wrapped elbow. The sky was beginning to purple, and Hermione was laying on the floorboards of the living room, at the center of a system of books. The tomes spiraled outwards in every direction. The ones closest to her discussed diagnostic methods and advances in modern healing approaches. Beyond those were a thick ring of tomes discussing curses and curse treatment, and just beyond that were the distant, far-flung theory books. Methods that probably wouldn’t work, but that she’d be willing to try if it came to it. Most of the volumes were open, and some were marked with scraps of parchment to hold her place.</p><p>It was easier to think with everything spread out.</p><p>She took a draught of the coffee, peeking over at the study door. Inside, George slept. He’d insisted on dragging the sleeper sofa back to its original place after Fred and Angelina had returned to their cottage the day before. She tried to tell him to keep the larger bed, but he’d refused in the most irksome way, insisting that he’d rather have her take it.</p><p>As though she had use for it.</p><p>Hermione took a large gulp of the coffee and shifted her gaze to the window. The purple melted through the black, the barest hint of orange seeping into the horizon.</p><p>Hermione watched it, unmoving, and took another sip of her coffee. Then she inhaled deeply, rested the mug on the floor, and turned the page.</p><p>She read through the bits about diagnostic magic again, specifically the subsection on a fascinating practice called “Rune Tapping.” The book hinted at diagnostic spells that revealed deeper levels of runes—things that went beyond information about broken bones or scraped hands and into details about the state of the individual’s magical signature. The section was entirely too brief, and most of the information was relayed as theory rather than method. As it was a relatively new theory, the book only mentioned one wizard as a developer and practitioner—Edwin Bailey. The name was familiar. Bailey was littered throughout Ancient Runes textbooks, lauded for most of the advancements in the field since the 1930’s.</p><p>She’d written to Bailey once in sixth year to ask a question about his description of the unsteady bonds between Runes and older forms of magic. The man hadn’t replied.</p><p>Hermione firmed her jaw, thinking of the grey spiderwork on George’s forearm.</p><p>This time, however, she had the weight of her role in the war behind her, and as much as it turned her stomach, she’d laid it on thick for George’s sake, sending the envelop out in the dead of night, before she could convince herself otherwise.</p><p>Hermione took another pull of coffee, making a mark in the book beside the paragraph.</p><p>She’d figure out how to fix this if it was the last thing she did.</p><p>She pushed the text away and pulled the next closest one over. Perhaps she could puzzle out some of the method through re-examining the theory behind regular diagnostic magic.</p><p>Hermione dragged the duvet closer around her shoulders, staving off the chilled morning air, and leaned more heavily on her elbows over the book.</p><p><em>“Successful diagnostic spellcasting requires specific knowledge of the issue the healer is looking for. As Winthrop’s Law of Runic casting says, conjured runes are bound by the caster’s expertise and prior knowledge. In the absence of this knowledge, the magical readout will not register a condition, even if one is present</em>.<em>” </em>Hermione’s brow wrinkled. That was the crux of their problem. Investigative medicine was bound by the limitations of a Healer’s experience. Healers knew all about Dragon Pox and broken legs. Therefore, testing wouldn’t register much about unknown or mysterious conditions. But, Bailey’s method seemed to push the boundaries of this law—</p><p>A soft click drew her attention to the right.</p><p>The study door eased open, and George slipped through, his slight limp making the movement a bit awkward. His eyes were fixed on the ground. As she watched, he quietly pulled the door shut, gripping the handle and then releasing it as though he were holding his breath. Then, he limped down the hall, towards the loo. His hand brushed the bedroom’s doorframe on his way.</p><p>Hermione started, scrambling to clear everything. But George reappeared after only a few moments, tipping a vial back as he downed it. Hermione frowned. He slipped the glass into his pocket and turned. His gaze fell on the living room, tracing over the network of books, the duvet around her, and finally, the coffee.</p><p>A bemused smile slipped over his face.</p><p>“You’re up early,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. But then he tilted his head, turning it as he raised his brows. “Or late.” There was a bit of a reproof in the words, and he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Hermione’s mind blanked.</p><p>Rats.</p><p>Hermione dragged the duvet over her head, hiding from him.</p><p>His soft chuckle seeped through the cotton. There was a small thud. She peeked out. George had knelt and was stacking a few of the volumes on the edge of the network, careful to keep them in similar places. Hermione ducked back under the duvet. She should’ve packed everything up when she’d noticed the sunrise.</p><p>A few moments later, the edge of the blanket tugged up from her face, and George was there, laying on his stomach in front of her, occupying a narrow strip of path that he’d cleared through the mess. He propped his chin on his hands and smiled.</p><p>“Normally, I apparate past it, but um—”</p><p>Hermione exhaled, grimacing. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve thought of that,” she whispered.</p><p>George shook his head, a bemused look sparking in his eyes. “That’s alright,” he said. He lifted a hand, taking one of her curls in his fingers. “Is it possible for me to charm you into taking a nap?” he asked, tugging it lightly. Hermione’s face flushed. She’d felt a bit awkward since their kisses the other day. Unsure of how to proceed. Of what he might be expecting from her.</p><p>She was very new to all of this, and she realized she didn’t have much experience being a partner, rather than a simple friend.</p><p>George’s eyes flickered over her face, his question still poised in the air.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “This is sort of important,” she said. George sighed.</p><p>“It generally is, when the Chamomile turns to coffee,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But we both know you work best when you’ve slept.”</p><p>Hermione picked up her quill, not meeting his eyes.</p><p>George went quiet, shifting closer on his elbows until his forehead almost brushed against hers. He reached out, spinning the volume counter-clockwise to face him. Hermione watched as his lips silently mouthed the words of Winthrop’s Law of Runic Casting. He paused, his gaze flicking to the gauze on his arm. Then, he looked up at her, his expression guarded.</p><p>“Hermione Jean?” he asked, the rest of the question hanging in the air.</p><p>Hermione’s instincts cried out for her to dismiss it. For her to lie, and say it was for something else. To pack it all away, before he could grow worried and noble and irksome.</p><p>But then she remembered how he’d looked two days before, head in his hands as she struggled to explain why she’d lied. She swallowed. “Yes,” she said, turning the book back towards herself. George exhaled.</p><p>The flat settled around them, orange creeping over the floorboards.</p><p>“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.” He smelled like cinnamon and parchment as he leaned close, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “I consent to letting you play hero, if you agree to try to take better care of yourself.” The words were a soft rumble, tinged with mirth. His tone took on a swotty lilt, his face shifting in an uncanny impression of herself. “Besides, if we’re going to make it through this, you can’t be dead from exhaustion.” He nudged her elbow.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head and smiled.</p><p>“Right,” George said, clearing his throat. “I’ll fetch some things, and we can work through this mess together.”</p><p>George disappeared into the study, and Hermione gathered up some of the materials, clearing more space for foot traffic. “I can make some tea if you’d like,” she called.</p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>Hermione paced to the study. George hunched, his hands braced on his desk, staring into the drawer with a pained look on his face.</p><p>“George?” she asked. George started, straightening.</p><p>“Just remembered,” he said, tapping a thick tome on the desk with a knuckle. “I’ve got to sort the shop books.” He sounded distracted. Hermione crossed to his side, and he hurriedly shut the drawer.</p><p>But she’d already seen it.</p><p>His wand, tucked away, stuck between a glass cannister of Fizzing Whizzbees and what looked like the pieces of a battered, old Walkman.</p><p>“You can’t do magic, George,” she whispered.</p><p>“I know,” he said. He gave her a soft smile, but his mouth was thin and his shoulders were slumped. He scratched at the back of his neck before hoisting the large volume into his arms. He seemed to start a bit at its weight, and he blinked, looking down at it as though confused.</p><p>“You alright?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Yes,” George said lightly. He didn’t meet her eyes as he pulled a quill from the stand. His steps were slow on his way from the room.</p><p>#</p><p>The morning passed in a steady hum of activity. George worked over the shop records in the kitchen, and Hermione managed the ecosystem of books, condensing it into a few managed stacks and handling one book at a time. Notes slipped in and out the window and Calliope brought envelops back and forth to George. Between pages, Hermione snuck glances at him, the way his shoulders coiled tighter and tighter, his hands creeping up to his brow to rub there.</p><p>It was nearing 3 p.m. when the floo roared. Hermione looked up from her volume.</p><p>Bill and Percy stepped through the hearth, arms full of tomes.</p><p>“Heard there’s work to be done,” Bill said, resting his stack on the mantle. He reached for Percy’s and laid it beside his. Percy’s gaze flicked over the flat, his spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“You’re here to—?” Hermione trailed off, confused. She glanced at George. George smiled, a bit tired but amused.</p><p>“Help with the research, obviously,” Percy said, waving a hand. “We’ve got some rare ones here that should be of use.” His hands plucked at the sleeves of his Oxford, adjusting the cuffs on his wrist. “Where’s your board?”</p><p>“What board?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Where you’ve got the notes hung up,” Percy said, nimbly leaping between volumes to reach the center of the mass.</p><p>“I haven’t started it yet. I’m still brushing up,” Hermione said, face flushing.</p><p>“Right—” Percy said. “We’ll get that going, then. What are the best leads?”</p><p>“Not in the kitchen,” George said, voice calm and measured while Percy turned from wall to wall, as though looking for something.</p><p>“But it’s the best one,” Percy said.</p><p>“Not in the kitchen,” George said, voice lower. “We need a fire like a hole in the head.”</p><p>“Fine,” Percy muttered. “Windows?”</p><p>“Black them out first,” George said. “The whole of Diagon doesn’t need to know we’re in crisis.” He snorted, as though the thought were amusing.</p><p>“You going to help, Mate?” Bill asked.</p><p>“I’d planned to, but this is taking longer than expected.” George’s voice was a bit strained, and he blinked down at the record book. Bill’s eyes flickered over George’s posture, and his mouth tightened.</p><p>“Probably go faster if you’d wear your—”</p><p>“No,” George said. “It wouldn’t, but thanks.” George stood abruptly, heading to the loo. Bill shrugged, then turned to help Percy with the charm work on the windows. After a few minutes, George returned, a slight jitter in his hand as he took his seat. Hermione’s gaze flicked to the bandage. The line still held. She made to move toward him, but he waved her off, pointing at his brothers.</p><p>Together, Bill, Percy, and Hermione reorganized the books, clearing paths from section to section. Percy took charge of the note board—a network of parchments stuck to the living room walls, between bookcases. It was broad, grouped into zones for general topics. Bill took to marking passages he thought she’d need, working their collection into her own.</p><p>As she watched, Bill reached the bottom of the stack, pausing over a folded sheet of parchment that had tumbled from the stack. His face drew together, eyes darkening. He looked up and caught her watching. Bill extended the parchment over the coffee table. “I thought you should know,” he said, his voice grim.</p><p>Hermione unfolded it and read <em>The Resonant’s</em> headline.</p><p>
  <em>“Goblin Made Knife Responsible for Attack at Quidditch Match”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“According to Auror Clarke at the Ministry’s Auror office, the knife responsible for the infamous attack was made by goblins. ‘We’re quite certain of it,’ Clarke said as he exited the Ministry yesterday evening. ‘We’d already suspected as much, given the underhanded nature of the attack. Goblins have always perpetuated random acts of violence against the wizarding community, and this falls directly into that pattern of behavior.’ When asked for details on avoiding potential danger, Clarke recommended travelling in groups and being aware of one’s surroundings.”</em>
</p><p>Of course they’d blame it on the Goblins, and Winky had been just about to return. It was a ghastly move. Wizards had been stealing goblin-made artefacts for millennia. Hermione stared hard at the parchment, then thrust it into the bin, frustration mounting. Bill didn’t acknowledge the article any further, choosing to return to his earlier task of sorting the material.</p><p>They settled into the work with an uncanny smoothness, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if they’d done something similar before.</p><p>#</p><p>After several hours, Percy glanced at the clock and paled. “Terribly sorry, but I’ve got to—” he said, pulling out a pocket watch, as though double checking.</p><p>“Go,” George said calmly, looking up from the table. Percy nodded, and Bill stood to leave with him. On their way to the floo, Percy glanced at George’s hunched form and ducked towards Hermione.</p><p>“He’s got reading glasses, but he doesn’t like wearing them,” Percy whispered, sounding annoyed.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Talk some sense into him, won’t you?” Percy muttered. “The prat.” He stepped into the floo. It whooshed.</p><p>Hermione looked up at George, catching him mid-grimace. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. He looked worn. Hermione swallowed, crossing to him. George lifted his face, and it became a mask of neutrality as she approached.</p><p>“Alright?” he asked.</p><p>“Mhm,” Hermione said, coming to stand behind him. The writing in George’s book was cramped and tiny, the numbers in the columns scratched out and rewritten. The bottom line was blank, as though he hadn’t sorted the equation yet. George watched her, a line between his brows as she studied the figures.</p><p>She finished the tally in her head. There was a number for the bottom row, but it was negative. The shop was in the red. A cold burst of anxiety twisted through Hermione’s chest.</p><p>“I’ve got it,” George said, but his shoulders were rigid. He pressed his knuckles into his temple, trying to veil the action like a casual gesture, but his wrist flexed as he pushed in, harder than normal.</p><p>She reached up, settling her hands on his shoulders, working her thumbs into them. George exhaled in a sudden rush, blinking. “It’s hard for me to focus when I get headaches,” Hermione said lightly.</p><p>George seemed at a loss for words, turning a bit in his seat to look at her as she worked on him. “I thought you might have one, by the look on your face,” she said, focusing with intent on the tightness in his muscles.</p><p>George nodded slowly.</p><p>“Do you get them often?” she asked. The magic had opened up like a glow in her fingers, swirling slowly.</p><p>“Not um—” he cleared his throat, shifting. “Not usually. Mostly when I’m doing paperwork.” Hermione nodded, pressing a bit harder. He tipped his head back against the chair and sighed. “You don’t have to do that,” he mumbled.</p><p>“I know,” she said, not stopping as she peered over his shoulder at the book. “Do you think you might need reading glasses?”</p><p>George’s eyes flew open. “Bill should mind his own business,” he said flatly, pulling away from her and hunching over the table. “Or was it Perce? Git.”</p><p>Hermione sighed and knelt at his side.</p><p>“Why don’t you want to wear them?” she asked. George shook his head, turning towards the book.</p><p>“They’re a pointless bother,” he said. His entire demeanor had shifted, tension clipping his words.</p><p>“How?” Hermione asked, folding her hands on the arm of the chair. George’s glance skittered over to her, then away again. His cheeks took on a pink tinge.</p><p>“I don’t need them,” he muttered.</p><p>“Can I at least see them?” she asked. George shook his head.</p><p>“No,” he said. “I’d rather you not.”</p><p>“Why?” Hermione asked. George huffed.</p><p>Hermione snorted. “What’s got your wand in a knot?” she asked, incredulous.</p><p>George started, coloring more violently. “I’m not—” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Leave it, Hermione,” he said.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, watching him. George’s gaze remained trained on the book, but he hadn’t written anything. Finally, he glanced over at her. His shoulders tightened, and he looked away. Hermione rested on her heels, waiting. It took several minutes, George’s eyes flickering between her and the volume. Finally, the silence broke.</p><p>“How long until you drop it,” he mumbled, running his finger along the rows.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Eternity,” she said. George exhaled and laid the quill down.</p><p>“They make me look—” he stopped, wincing, and a look of grim resignation fell over his features. He waved his hand through the air, as though the gesture was enough.</p><p>Hermione barked out a laugh. George’s jaw went tight.</p><p>“Hold on, wait,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “That can’t be it.”</p><p>George didn’t answer, not meeting her eyes.</p><p>“George!” Hermione said. “You’re joking!"</p><p>George shrugged. “I mean, my dad uses reading glasses, and I’m—”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “His son?”</p><p>“—not that old,” George finished, sounding a bit put out.</p><p> Hermione laughed. George crossed his arms.</p><p>“Why does that matter?” she asked, incredulous.</p><p>George turned away, suddenly fascinated by the windows.</p><p>“George?” she asked, tugging on his sleeve.</p><p>“Percy sent them last year after I complained about a headache while reading,” he muttered. “So, naturally, they make me look like a fossil.” Hermione smiled. George didn’t seem to notice. “They don’t even help that much, really.”</p><p>“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “We’re close to the same age.”</p><p>As the comment slipped out, she realized the issue. Physically, they were, but—</p><p>The tense look on George’s face was explanation enough.</p><p>George shrugged again, but then he swallowed. “I didn’t want it to put you off,” he said quietly.</p><p>Hermione stood, and George turned, a vulnerable look in his eyes. “You’re not going to put me off with a set of reading glasses,” Hermione said. “Don’t be thick.”</p><p>George scratched the back of his neck. Hermione lifted her wand and caste the summoning charm, focusing on the idea of them. A clatter sounded from the bookshelf, and a small box toppled as a pair of copper wire frames zipped towards them. George grimaced.</p><p>Hermione propped them on his nose and stepped back.</p><p>The lenses were round and not very thick. They looked a little out of place on his face, now that she’d grown used to it without them. George swallowed, watching her expression. Hermione stepped back and studied him. It was a rather sweet picture.</p><p>“Very charming,” she said, smiling. George cleared his throat.</p><p>“Not old?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “It only looks like you with reading glasses,” she said.</p><p>Relief flowed over George’s face, and he nodded. “Brilliant,” he said. He paused, watching her, as though to ensure she really felt that way.</p><p>Hermione tucked her index finger under his chin and lifted it. “Very handsome,” she whispered. Then, she pressed a soft kiss beside his mouth. George stilled, exhaling in a short burst.</p><p>That was a bit forward of her. Or was it not enough? Panic lanced through her, and she turned, staring over the book.</p><p>George’s gaze had fixed on her face, unblinking. Heat crept up her neck.</p><p>She’d said it without thinking. Obviously, she’d meant it.</p><p>But sometimes, she got the feeling that the things she said carried more weight than intended, and it was unnerving—like the other Hermione had loaded extra artillery behind her words, and she was firing without knowing how it would land.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip, searching the columns. Surely, there was a way to shift the numbers around. There was always a way.</p><p>“Hermione?” George whispered.</p><p>There. Right there, in the third row—. Hermione grabbed the quill and slid into the chair beside him. “This here,” she pointed. “What’s this?” George blinked, looking down at the book.</p><p>“We’ve got to bring in extra help each term to put the Snackboxes together for the exams rush,” he said, but he didn’t appear to care one bit about the numbers. He paused, as though waiting for her to chime in, but she didn’t, so he continued. “I allocated a bit more, since my magic’s—” his voice trailed off, something dejected entering his tone.</p><p>She hadn’t meant to remind him.</p><p>“Right, so, we’ll call the family in to get some help,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice bright. She grabbed an extra sheet of parchment. “Then, we’ll need to do something to increase sales, particularly at this location. Maybe some sort of promotion or—” She chattered on, throwing ideas out as she formed a quick list.</p><p>“Mhm,” George mumbled, biting his lips together in concentration. He wasn’t looking at the book. Hermione scratched down another bullet point, avoiding his gaze.</p><p>“Listen, why don’t I grab your record book from downstairs so we can see last year’s sales?” she asked. “We can use those figures for estimates.”</p><p>George tilted his head, concern flickering over his face.</p><p>“Are you alright, Granger?” he asked quietly. Hermione paused.</p><p>“I’m okay, I think,” she said, twisting her sleeve in her hands.</p><p>“So, the anxiety on your face after you touched me just then—that’s coincidental?” he said, something raw in his voice as he pulled off the glasses and rested them on the table. Hermione stopped.</p><p>He was so bloody observant that it was unfair, sometimes.</p><p>Hermione exhaled, a nervous laugh working its way out of her mouth. “This is sort of new,” she said. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”</p><p>George nodded, the furrow between his brows deepening.</p><p>“I think I’m a little overwhelmed, honestly,” she said. “I can’t um—can’t—.” she paused. “I can’t figure out what you’re expecting from me.”</p><p>He leaned forward, over the table.</p><p>“Allow me to clarify, then,” he said, tilting his head. There was something urgent in his look. “When it comes to this—” he gestured between them. “I have many hopes, but only a few expectations. Expectations are messy and complicated, and this situation isn’t built for them.” He paused. “First, I expect you to be honest with me, as best you can. Second, I expect you to move at a pace you feel comfortable with, not the pace you think I’d like.”</p><p>He tipped his head towards her, pinning her with a frank stare. Hermione’s face flooded.</p><p>“But, that’s not really fair to you—” she said, her brow wrinkling.</p><p>“I think I can decide that for myself, thanks,” George said, lifting the quill again. “You seem to be laboring under the assumption that I may be suffering in ways that I’m not.” He turned to face the book.</p><p>George dipped the quill in the ink, the line between his brows deepening as he made a note in the margin. “See, being with you has always felt a bit like dancing. Slow songs, fast songs, happy, sad—whatever.” His voice was a bit distracted, preoccupied as he scanned the list she’d made. “Hermione Jean, you put that record on, and I’ll be perfectly content with whatever music you’d like to play. It’s all beautiful, to me.” He shrugged.</p><p>The flicker in Hermione’s ribs ached.</p><p>“Do you mean that?” she asked. George put the quill down and fixed her with a serious look.</p><p>“Whole heartedly,” he said.</p><p>Hermione took a deep breath. She twisted her hands together, her face growing warm under his gaze. “Was I better at this the first time around?” she asked.</p><p>George chuckled softly. “No.”</p><p>Hermione sputtered in protest.</p><p>“But neither was I,” he said warmly, laying a hand on top of her head.</p><p>“Somehow, I doubt that,” Hermione said dryly. George’s eyes twinkled, and she really, really wished she could see the memories playing out in his mind.</p><p>“I’ll get that record book,” she said, shaking her head at him. George nodded, pulling the glasses back on as his gaze dropped to the book. Hermione opened the flat door then glanced back. George stooped over the volume, his shoulders tightening once again, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow. Hermione swallowed and headed downstairs.</p><p>#</p><p>As she pushed through the shop door, Angelo’s screech of laughter rang through the aisles. Hermione smiled, making her way between customers. Fred knelt in front of Angelo, his wand working as he summoned a small ball of fire. Angelo reached out to touch it, and Fred swooped forward, ending the charm as he pretended to swallow it. Angelo collapsed into laughter again.</p><p>“Gotta be faster than that, sir,” Fred said, shaking his head. Verity rang someone up behind the counter, watching them in amusement.</p><p>“Again!” Angelo shouted.</p><p>“So demanding.” Fred grinned and repeated the performance. Hermione laughed, and the two of them turned. Angelo trotted forward, Fred forgotten, as he reached for her. She acquiesced, pulling him up and onto her hip. A rogue thought crept in: what it might be like to happen upon George with a—</p><p>She pushed it aside. Angelo had a bit of jam on his face, and she wiped it off with her thumb.</p><p>“I get a limited amount of time to teach him nonsense over my break, Hermione,” Fred said, crossing his arms. “I won’t have you cutting into that with reason and logic.”</p><p>“I’ll try to keep it to myself, then,” Hermione said, grinning at Angelo as he babbled. Fred hopped onto the counter, watching her. “I’m only here to ask a quick question, really.”</p><p>“Ask away,” Fred said, smirking as Angelo grabbed a fistful of Hermione’s hair and pulled.</p><p>“Careful,” Hermione said lightly, detangling the curls. “I need last year’s record book,” she said.</p><p>Fred cocked his head to the side and gestured for her to follow him to the back room. He stopped at George’s desk, pulling open a drawer, then another. “Bugger—he usually handles this sort of thing,” Fred muttered.</p><p>“Why?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Fred shrugged. “George has always had a bit more patience for it,” he said. “I mean, last time I signed off on a contract without him—” he paused, his face tensing. “We learned that it’s better if I handle the verbal agreements, and he tidies up the paperwork after.” He didn’t clarify any further, only moving to yank open a third drawer. A stasis charm broke, and a handful of chocolate frogs leapt out. Fred replaced the charm, then kicked the door shut, crossing his arms.</p><p>Angelo reached for the candy, arms flailing. “Use a summoning charm?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Fred sighed and headed into the storage shelving. “Don’t want to knock over anything reactive,” he muttered.</p><p>Hermione watched as Fred darted between shelves, checking under boxes and around glassware. Finally, he shouted. “Got it!”</p><p>A heavy tome floated out, Fred following it. Wordlessly, they traded—Hermione handing Angelo off as she grabbed the book.</p><p>“George and I were talking, and we think it might be good to do the Snackboxes ourselves this year,” she said, reading the numbers on the spine. Fred turned.</p><p>“How’s he going to manage that with his arm?” he asked, the question a blunt blow.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “I thought we could ask family?” she said. Fred stared out the window, thinking as Angelo pulled on his ear. Hermione lifted the record book under her arm.</p><p>“I’ll send some owls,” he said.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Thanks, Fred.”</p><p>She was near the door when his question reached her.</p><p>“Do I need to move some more Galleons around?” he asked, watching the window.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “We’ll make it,” she said. Grim lines carved Fred’s expression, and Hermione backed out of the workroom.</p><p>The stairs were quick under her feet on the way up. “I’ve got it,” she called, slipping through the door. There was no answer.</p><p>Hermione stopped. George hunched over the table, his head buried in his arms. Hermione darted over, concern lancing through her. His shoulders shifted with his breath, his eyes closed.</p><p>He was asleep. Maybe he’d pushed himself a bit too hard, too soon. She bit her lip. The quill dripped ink over his sleeve, dangerously close to his cheek. Hermione pulled it away, casting a quick Tergeo.</p><p>He flinched at the touch, mumbling.</p><p>“Georgie,” Hermione said, laying a hand on his arm and giving it a gentle push. George blinked, taking a sharp breath.</p><p>His eyes were wild and a bit glazed over as he took her in.</p><p>“I wasn’t gone very long,” Hermione said, kneeling. She drew her fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. His skin was hot to the touch. George looked confused, tracing over her features again and again. “Are you tired?” she asked.</p><p>His eyes moved over her face, lost. “A bit,” he whispered.</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione said. “Why don’t you lie down?” Slowly, George nodded. He pushed away from the table. She walked with him. When they reached the study, he paused at the door, turning to her.</p><p>His mouth opened.</p><p>But then he shut it.</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked, leaning in. He shook his head, his features contracting. He pressed a hand to his forehead, blinking.</p><p>“Don’t let me sleep for too long?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded. George looked worn as he collapsed onto the sleeper sofa. Hermione watched him, a line between her brows. Her eyes flicked to the bandage. The white line held above it.</p><p>She’d let him sleep till morning. That wasn’t too long.</p><p>#</p><p>Eventually, Hermione crashed. The network of books spilled across the living room, pressing her into the wall beside the cracked study door, and it was there that she tipped over. The light rumble of George’s breath filled her ears as she finally caved to the steady pressure behind her eyes.</p><p>#</p><p>April 12, 2003</p><p>A loud rap on the door broke Hermione from the dreamless sleep, and she lurched forward. Through the crack in the door, George lifted his head, blinking slowly. His eyes widened as they landed on her.</p><p>“Sleep,” she mouthed. George’s mouth opened, his brows drawing together. The rap sounded again.</p><p>“Hold on!” she called, stumbling to her feet.</p><p>Rats. She jumped between stacks, tripping as her foot caught on a particularly thick volume. The door shook with another loud knock.</p><p>“I’m coming, would you just—” Hermione muttered. She whipped the door open.</p><p>Ron stood in the hall, a wooden box under his arm, and a brown paper bag hanging from his hand. “Mione,” he nodded. “Figured we should all strategize. Harry’s on the way.” Hermione blinked. Ron. Here. To strategize. Ron’s eyes darted over her shoulder, into the flat. “How’s he doing?” he asked quietly.</p><p>“Better,” Hermione whispered. Ron shoved his free hand in his pocket, digging around.</p><p>“Hermione?” George called.</p><p>“One moment,” she yelled back.</p><p>“That’s good,” Ron said, drawing out a scrap of parchment and clearing his throat. “Um, listen, about—”</p><p>“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, leaning to look at the paper. Ron’s chicken-scratch handwriting covered it, in two different colors of ink. Ron snatched it to his chest, face reddening.</p><p>“Would you let me finish?” he sputtered. Hermione crossed her arms.</p><p>Ron huffed. Then, looking down at the parchment, he read aloud: “Mione, I don’t think you’re a child. I shouldn’t have said that. Also, I’m sorry for being a bit rough in Mungo’s. I was only trying to help.” He crumpled the paper and shoved it back in his pocket.</p><p>“You wrote it down?” Hermione asked, incredulous.</p><p>Ron stared at her. “D’you have a problem with that?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Did you mean it?”</p><p>“Yes,” Ron said. “Now, are you going to let me in?”</p><p>Hermione hesitated.</p><p>“Granger?” George’s voice rang, closer this time. She turned as he made his way across the living room floor, gently pushing volumes aside with a foot. “Did you sleep in the hallway?”</p><p>Ron tilted his head at her, his face contorting. “Did you?” he mouthed. Hermione rolled her eyes and nodded for him to come in. Ron ducked through. George paused.</p><p>“You have a visitor,” Hermione said, closing the door. George took an unsteady breath and his eyes flicked from Ron to Hermione.</p><p>Ron tripped over the maze of books, heading to the kitchen. “You’ll want to a clear a path from the floo,” he called. “Mum sent food.” There was a pause. “You both look terrible, by the way.” Ron busied himself unpacking the bag on the counter.</p><p>George and Hermione looked at each other. George shrugged, bugging his eyes out.</p><p>“Are you feeling any better?” Hermione whispered. The mirth slipped from George’s face. He tilted his head, his mouth a thin line.</p><p>“You shouldn’t have let me sleep for so long,” he whispered. “I meant to come back out and help you.”</p><p>He hadn’t answered the question. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she watched him duck into the hallway to the loo.</p><p>“Got any crisps?” Ron asked.</p><p>“Pantry,” Hermione said, watching for George’s return. A few minutes later, he emerged, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets.</p><p>A heavy clack sounded on the table, and Ron unfolded the chess board. “Sit down, George,” Ron said.</p><p>George groaned, staring at the table. “Haven’t I suffered enough?” he asked, shuffling over. His shoulders were slumped, but his limp was smaller, barely a hitch dragging at his steps. That was something, at least.</p><p>“Honestly?” Ron said. “No.”</p><p>“Ronald,” Hermione snapped, her hands tightening into fists. Ron turned, pointing at her.</p><p>“See, this is what I was talking about,” he said dryly. “Yelling at me.” He pointed to the seat across from George, on the other side of the chessboard. “Make sure he doesn’t cheat.”</p><p>Ron began to pull a sandwich together from items in the paper bag, waiting for George and Hermione to settle over the board.</p><p>“You first, Mate,” Ron said.</p><p>George rolled his eyes, shrugging. “Pawn to f3.”</p><p>Ron snorted. “Alright.” He didn’t look up, slathering mustard on the bread. “Pawn to e5.” There was no hesitation.</p><p>The marble piece scraped along the board. George propped his head on his hand, rubbing at his temple. “Pawn to g4.”</p><p>Ron scoffed. “Stop being a git,” he said. “Queen to h4.”</p><p>The queen slid across the board, and George’s pieces started yelling at him. Suddenly, the queen lunged forward, slicing through the king piece. Hermione winced. Wizard Chess was too violent for her taste. She’d learned the game after the chessboard first year because it had seemed like a useful skill to have. But she much preferred the muggle version.</p><p>“Oh, would you look at that,” George said dryly, watching the pieces grumble at him. He sounded a bit tired. Still.</p><p>“Reset it,” Ron said, still poised over his sandwich. Hermione bit her lip and shifted to a stand. She carried her chair around the table, settling it beside George’s. George looked at her, confused.</p><p>“We’ll beat him together,” she said, leaning in.</p><p>Over the kitchen counter, Ron took a large bite of his sandwich and rolled his eyes. “Right, sure. Get on with it,” he said.</p><p>Mild surprise flickered over George’s features. Hermione scooted closer.</p><p>“Okay,” she said, looking at George with wide eyes, laying it on thick. “How do the pieces move?” To her delight, George snorted, the corner of his mouth twisting up.</p><p>Ron spoke through the food, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Knock it off and play.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged, leaning over the table. “Pawn to e4.”</p><p>Ron didn’t stop chewing to answer. “Pawn to e5.” The opposing soldier met hers, scowling.</p><p>“This ought to be good,” George muttered.</p><p>Hermione steepled her fingers, staring over the squares. She’d never beaten Ron at chess—at least, not that she could remember. But here he was, in their kitchen, looking at the two of them with something other than resentment, presenting an activity like an olive branch, and she wasn’t about to waste it.</p><p>“Let him have it,” George whispered, the words brushing over the rim of her ear. “He’s the best in the family.”</p><p>A fire opened up in Hermione’s chest, and she played the moves over in her head. “Knight to f3,” she said, and the white horseman leapt over the frontline, one row before the pawns towards the center.</p><p>Ron was wholly unbothered, opening their fridge to look for a drink. “Pawn to d6.” His soldier shot out one square. He hadn’t even stopped to think about it. Hermione wrinkled her brow.</p><p>“Pawn to d4,” she said.</p><p>Ron barked out a laugh. “Bishop to g4.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head up. “What?” she asked.</p><p>Ron shook his head, pouring himself some milk. “The nerve,” he said.</p><p>Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Pawn to e5,” she said crisply, and her white pawn smashed into Ron’s grey one, sending it to pieces.</p><p>Ron set the glass on the table. “Bishop to f3,” he said. Oh. The bishop swooped in, hacking the horseman to bits.</p><p>“Muggle chess is better,” Hermione said, staring grimly at the board. Ron rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Queen to f3,” George said, his voice low. Hermione started, and the white queen sailed over the squares, blade drawn. She cut the bishop down, and the marble cracked in two.</p><p>Ron snorted and directed his pawn to take another of hers.</p><p>George’s hand came up, bracing warm on her shoulder. As he stared at the board, his thumb stroked a small line up the side of her arm. Hermione blinked, distracted, and said, “Bishop to c4.”</p><p>Ron lifted his brows. “Knight to f6.” He cracked open an aluminum tin, taking out a biscuit.</p><p>“Queen to b3,” George said smoothly. The queen floated over.</p><p>Ron paused. “Queen to e7,” he said, biting into the treat. In response, Hermione moved the other knight out to c3, and then Ron shuffled a pawn to c6 as the game unfolded, the center of the board coming into play.</p><p>“Bishop to g5,” George said. Hermione blinked. She’d been just about to say that move. It was as though he understood the strategy she was going for. Ron moved another pawn out to b5, and George’s hand slipped from Hermione’s shoulders as he leaned in, spotting the opening.</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile.</p><p>“Knight takes pawn on b5,” George said, eyes flashing.</p><p>Across the counter, the corner of Ron’s mouth tipped upwards. Hermione leaned back in her seat, watching them both.</p><p>“Pawn takes knight on b5,” Ron said, plucking another biscuit out. George’s jaw firmed as the small pawn cut down the horseman.</p><p>“You know what—” George said, sounding a bit put out. “Bishop takes pawn on b5.”</p><p>“Oh, does it?” Ron drawled. “Knight to d7.” Hermione’s mouth opened. Ron’s smile had spread to the other side of his mouth as he looked right at George. “I know you want to. Do it, Mate. It’s as close to a checkmate you’ll get.” The knight taunted George’s bishop, the king hiding just diagonal from it. To the side, the grey queen crossed her arms.</p><p>George took a slow breath, and then he castled, sticking their king on c1 and rook on d1.</p><p>Ron shrugged. “Lost opportunity,” he said. “Rook to d8.”</p><p>It’s as though George were waiting for it, the way the words burst out of him. “Rook takes knight on d7,” he said.</p><p>Ron began to pace, lacing his fingers behind his head. The floo whooshed, and Harry stepped through. Ron didn’t turn. “Rook takes rook on d7,” Ron said.</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione called, remembering the article. “I’d like a word about the piece in <em>The Resonant—</em>”</p><p>“Oh, I let Clarke have it,” Harry said, a dark look flashing over him. “He promised he’ll owl the paper to make a correction, but I doubt they’ll print it.” Harry rolled his eyes and stepped around the stacks of books. Hermione sighed.  </p><p>George stared at the board, silent. Harry crossed, watching the scene in amusement. He stepped behind George’s shoulder, stooping low to whisper.</p><p>“Yeah, I know, Mate,” George huffed. “Rook to d1.”</p><p>Ron took no time to pause between turns. “Queen to e6.” He tossed the biscuit up, catching it in his mouth.</p><p>“Bishop takes rook on d7,” George muttered, his face a mask of concentration. “Why does Clarke still have a job?” he added.</p><p>“His dad’s on the Wizengamot,” Harry muttered. “Head of the department won’t fire him.”</p><p>“Typical,” George whispered, his gaze darkening.</p><p>Ron cleared his throat. “Knight takes bishop on d7.” The spark in Hermione’s ribs flared as she saw the opportunity. Finally, the strategy had panned out.</p><p>George balked, looking at him. His eyes narrowed, and he paused.</p><p>Hermione ducked in. “We should sacrifice the queen,” she whispered. George shook his head.</p><p>“No, I rather like her to stay in play,” he murmured back. Hermione tilted her head, incredulous. This was the move they’d set the board for, and George wanted to toss it away?</p><p>“That’s very sweet, but I’d rather win,” Hermione said, taking his hand under the table. George jumped.</p><p>Hermione darted forward. “Queen to b8—check.” George started, staring at her with some sort of accusation in his eyes. Hermione nodded at the board.</p><p>Ron didn’t stutter. “Knight takes queen on b8.” George’s shoulders tightened as the grey knight trampled the queen piece.</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin. “Rook to d8,” she said. George went still as the rook put Ron’s king in checkmate. “Sometimes,” she whispered. “You’ve got to use the queen.”</p><p>“We could’ve won a different way,” he said quietly.</p><p>“She’s right,” Ron said lightly, popping the lid back onto the tin of biscuits.</p><p>George shot to his feet, staring hard at Ron. “You let that happen,” he said quietly. “You let us win.”</p><p>Ron shrugged. “Reset the board,” he said.</p><p>George was stiff. “No,” he said, his jaw working. “I don’t want to play.”</p><p>Ron folded his arms. “Unfortunately, you haven’t been given a choice, Mate.” He crossed, signaling the pieces to reassemble themselves. “And so far, your opener’s been pretty weak.” He stared pointedly at George’s arm.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>“Pawn to e4,” Ron said. George hadn’t moved, and his eyes stone as he watched Ron.</p><p>“They know you’re weakened,” Ron said. “They’ll strike hard, where we aren’t expecting. We’ve got to hit back first.” Ron’s gaze flicked to Hermione.</p><p>“What are you getting at,” George’s voice went dangerously low.</p><p>“We’d like to put Hermione in a controlled environment to draw them out of hiding,” Ron said quietly. “It’s only a matter of time before they get access to her again, and we’d like it to be on our terms.”</p><p>“She’s a person, Ron, not a chess piece,” George said, the words cracking through the space like a bolt of lightning.</p><p>“She’s also the only person who consistently provokes them to action,” Ron snapped. “We’ve been tracking them for months, but we haven’t found anything!”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” George said. “No.”</p><p>“She wouldn’t be alone for a single second,” Harry said quietly. “It’s low risk, or we wouldn’t have asked.”</p><p>George didn’t respond, his jaw working.</p><p>“We may be able to bring some perpetrators in, and they might know more about—” Harry glanced at the bandage on George’s arm. George huffed, tugging the sleeve down.</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. George turned to her, something desperate in his eyes. At her expression, his face contorted.</p><p>“Please don’t,” he said. “Please, Merlin, don’t.”</p><p>Harry cleared his throat and slipped a thin file onto the table. “Perhaps the two of you should discuss this alone,” he said. “The details are here. Owl us.”</p><p>He nodded to the floo. Ron turned to follow him, but he stopped at George’s shoulder.</p><p>“You didn’t see the way she flew over that railing,” Ron said. “No hesitation.”</p><p>George shoved his hands in his pockets.</p><p>“I had to see a healer to fix the damage to my throat—” Ron said, striding across the floor and stepping into the floo. He finished the sentence as he turned in the hearth. “—that she left when I tried to hold her back from you.”</p><p>George blinked, his eyes skating to Hermione.</p><p>“Use your queen,” Ron said.</p><p>The green flame rushed.</p><p>#</p><p>George hadn’t spoken since the others left. He sat, silent on the sofa, his eyes trained on her as she tidied the stacks of books. Rain pelted the window, and despite the early hour, it was dark outside.</p><p>“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” he asked, voice tight. Hermione rested the books on the coffee table. His voice echoed through her mind, a faint memory from months ago—</p><p>
  <em>“I suppose I’m used to talking things through together, before we make big decisions.”</em>
</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said. “I thought we should talk about it before I made any decisions.”</p><p>George paused. “D’you mean that?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded, straightening as she watched him. “I’d want the same from you, if Harry and Ron asked you to act as bait,” she said. George flinched at the word “bait.”</p><p>“It’s not the first time you’ve done something dangerous, obviously,” he said. “But it’s harder with you like that, and me like this.” His gaze dropped to his hands.</p><p>Hermione crossed, sitting at his side. “We could take some time to read over the plan, then discuss the pros and cons after?” She reached out, slipping her hand into his. George closed his eyes, interlacing their fingers. He dragged a breath in, then gave her hand the slightest squeeze.</p><p>“Alright,” he said. Hermione leaned forward, summoning the file from the table. George watched her as she fell back against his shoulder, quiet.</p><p>“Why don’t we sit here for a while,” Hermione said lightly, not letting go of his hand. Their arms were tangled, her cheek against his shoulder. George shifted, pressing a light kiss to her brow, and it sparked faintly.</p><p>“I’d like that,” he said. She flipped through the parchments, skimming the contents. The plan wasn’t complicated—she’d infiltrate a club in Knockturn Alley, and two teams would accompany her under the stealth of polyjuice. A small one along her side as she tried to draw attention from the perpetrators behind the string of attacks, the other around the perimeter, guarding the location. As she read, she made a few notes. At first, George made small noises of agreement or tension each time she made a mark, depending on the contents. But, after a bit, he fell silent.</p><p>She’d only turned the page twice when she felt him slip off.</p><p>Sleeping. Again.</p><p>Her brow wrinkled, and she tugged at his sleeve, checking the bandage. The cursemark hadn’t moved.</p><p>#</p><p>She hadn’t fallen asleep, but she had drifted off, her thoughts swirling as she stared out the window. When George sucked in a breath, she started.</p><p>“Bugger,” he whispered. “My head—”</p><p>Hermione looked up at him. George was grimacing, pressing the heel of his right hand into his brow. Suddenly, he flinched, his eyes going to the bandage. She didn’t have time to ask before he pushed off the sofa and stumbled down the hall. Hermione followed him, quietly pushing through the loo door.</p><p>George’s hands were shaking as he pulled the gauze off.</p><p>He hissed as the stitch work met the air. Hermione’s stomach turned. It didn’t look like it had healed at all—still bright and angry with the dark spiderwork crawling through it.</p><p>“George!” Hermione said. He’d taken over changing the bandage out himself, and now, she was wondering if there’d been a reason why. George started at her voice, then winced at the look on her face.</p><p>“I’ve been owling with one of Marcus’s attendants,” George said, turning it away from her. “They said it’s normal.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t move, anger uncoiling in her. Clearly, the attendant hadn’t read the owl very carefully, because a reaction like this wasn’t listed anywhere in the file.</p><p>He knocked the cabinet door open, bottles tumbling into the sink as he groped through the items, then finally, drew out a potion. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and knocked it back.</p><p>“It’s fine—” he said, something frantic working into his tone. “I know it looks bad, but it’s fine.” Hermione picked up the bottle. The tiny script read “<em>Stamina</em>.”</p><p>“George,” she whispered.</p><p>“It just takes a lot out of me to keep the charm going sometimes,” he said, shrugging, speaking rapidly. “But I’m managing it.”</p><p>Hermione’s brow furrowed, and alarm lanced through her. “It shouldn’t be requiring that much at all,” she said. George shrugged again, watching the stitches. A jitter worked its way into his left hand.</p><p>“Is this the first time you’ve taken a stamina potion for this?” Hermione asked quietly. George shook his head, gritting his teeth.</p><p>“How many?” she asked.</p><p>“Per day, or—?” George asked. Hermione’s eyes widened.</p><p>“George!” she gasped. George reached up, rifling through the cupboard again.</p><p>“I’ve got it managed,” he said. He pulled another vial out, downing it. Hermione snatched it from his hand. “<em>Replenishing Potion</em>.” Hermione lowered the bottle.</p><p>“This is meant for emergencies,” she said. George hummed noncommittally, staring down at the line on his arm. She saw it hit him—the stale, green sparks lighting his eyes, his shoulders slumping. He exhaled.</p><p>“How long?” she asked, watching the shoddy magic replacement work through him.</p><p>George’s voice was a distracted mumble. “Until what?” he asked.</p><p>“Until you’ve got to take another one,” she said. George closed the cupboard doors, ignoring the mess in the sink.</p><p>“It’ll last for a while,” he said. Then he turned and headed out of the loo, brushing past her as he gripped his arm. The line strobed a bit—brightening and dulling. Something was wrong.</p><p>“We’re going in,” Hermione said. The terror coiled tight in her ribs, spinning faster and faster, into a tempest.</p><p>“No, we’re not,” George said, the words taut.</p><p>“I didn’t follow you off a balcony for you to give up like this,” Hermione snapped. George turned, his features opening up in surprise. He exhaled a short puff of air, something like disbelief wrinkling his brow.</p><p>“I won’t play that game with you, Granger,” he said. “Believe you me, the life debts between us would stagger you.” His voice was quiet, but an edge of hurt crept through. “Please don’t use that sort of thing as leverage.”</p><p>Hermione stilled. It had just leapt out in her anxiety, and it wasn’t a fair thing to say. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I am worried, though—”</p><p>George’s grip on his forearm tightened, and he sucked in a breath.</p><p>“George?” she asked.</p><p>“Sorry—it’s just gotten a bit hot,” he said, wincing. “It’s hard to focus right now—I—” his eyes seemed to flicker for a moment—a flash of grey, and he stiffened.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted, lurching towards him. George shook his head, but she reached for his face anyway. The skin burned, damp with sweat.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he wheezed. “It’ll settle.”</p><p>“Has this happened before?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“When I’m knackered, yeah,” George mumbled, watching the line. The spiderwork hadn’t moved. “Give the potion some time to work.”</p><p>“I think we should tell Marcus,” Hermione whispered, blinking rapidly.</p><p>George looked from his arm to Hermione’s face. He gave a long sigh, and then he nodded.</p><p>#</p><p>They waited in the lobby for an hour before a familiar attendant, Nurse Sam, called them back. George’s hand was heavy on her shoulder after he stood, and he paused, blinking before he pulled away to follow the attendant to the exam room.</p><p>“Is there a problem with the charm?” Nurse Sam asked, closing the door behind them. George sighed.</p><p>“It seems to be draining me a bit more over time,” he said, dropping into the chair with a thud. He’d disguised the movement as impatience, but Hermione knew better. The walk from the lobby had worn him out. “I thought I’d be feeling stronger after the Anaesthenium wore off, but things have been—” he cleared his throat. “Deteriorating.”</p><p>Hermione’s ribs constricted as the attendant made a note.</p><p>“Can we see Healer Marcus?” Hermione asked, watching the door.</p><p>“Unfortunately, he’s not available,” Nurse Sam said, looking through the parchment on her clipboard. Despite the late hour, her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Not a single strand out of place. “But I can take a look.”</p><p>Hermione firmed her jaw. If this attendant had been the one owling George, she didn’t trust her judgement. But George extended his arm anyway, pulling the wrappings back. Nurse Sam appeared unphased, not flinching at the inflamed skin.</p><p>“It gets rather cold,” George muttered. “And then the charm line becomes hot and it flashes, and then I usually have to lie down.”</p><p>“That means it’s working,” Nurse Sam said, making a note.</p><p>Hermione’s brow wrinkled. “There wasn’t anything about that in the file,” she said.</p><p>“Defensive magic is warm,” Nurse Sam said, speaking slowly and not looking up from her notes, as though Hermione were a small child. “When a spell like this is working harder, it’ll heat, and it may become brighter.”</p><p>At her tone, George’s arm came up, stretching along Hermione’s shoulders.</p><p>“Thank you for clarifying,” he said coolly. Hermione leaned forward, anger snapping through her. Nevermind that it was George’s appointment. They weren’t going to brush him off like this.</p><p>“But what about the cold feeling? And why aren’t the stitches working?” Hermione prompted. Nurse Sam’s lips thinned.</p><p>“I assure you, we’re doing our best to sort it,” she said. Hermione folded her arms. “I can fetch the preliminary test results for you after this.” Nurse Sam’s tone had turned brusque as she wrapped a cuff around George’s arm.</p><p>Hermione swallowed, staring at the magic readout dial.</p><p>The needle trembled, barely ticking past the dark “zero” mark. Nurse Sam made another note. George cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to the needle, then the ceiling, then back to the needle again. Hermione’s hand shot out, taking his and squeezing it tight. The skin was cold, the sparks absent. She blinked. She’d taken the cursed hand.</p><p>“I’d recommend you take some potions,” Nurse Sam said. “Maybe Stamina and Replenishing.”</p><p>George swiveled his head to Hermione, pinning her with a dry look.</p><p>“He already has been,” Hermione said, her voice going hoarse.</p><p>Nurse Sam didn’t look up from the paperwork. “Then up the dosage.” She slid the quill into the slot and headed for the door. “Make sure to get plenty of sleep as well. That’s the best way to replenish magic.” She took the handle. “This is all we can do for now. I’ll be back with those test results.” The door swung wide as she left.</p><p>“Bloody waste of time,” George muttered, tugging the bandage back into place. His hand had slipped from hers, and Hermione stared at it, dread sucking away at her insides.</p><p>Nurse Sam returned with a file. It contained a thin stack of parchment, and Hermione flipped through. Each was headed by a different counter-curse, enchantment, or spell. Each had a line of boxes left unchecked, save for the last one: <em>Unresponsive</em>. Each carried the same set of initials for the head healer and nurse along the bottom—D. T. and S. S.</p><p>Hermione skimmed the test titles. <em>Reparifors, Malitia Emendo, Deletrius, Finite Incantatem, Ariditas, Glacius, Partis Temporus, Salvio Hexia, Skurge, Specialis Revelio, Incendio, Reducto, Ridgeback Antidote—</em>they’d started with the most likely guesses. All negative. The traces hadn’t reacted to any of them.</p><p>Hermione stared at the initials as they blurred together.</p><p>“And the curse wasn’t comparable to anything you have on record?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“I oversaw these tests personally, along with Duncan Thickey—the head of Cursework,” Nurse Sam said. “We didn’t miss anything.” She sounded affronted. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.</p><p>“There’s plenty more to investigate, and we’ll keep looking,” Nurse Sam said. “In the meantime, let us know if the charm breaks or it needs recasting.”</p><p>The door snicked shut.</p><p>That couldn’t be it.</p><p>Hopelessness coursed through her, a cold riptide, snatching at her center.</p><p>“There must be something we can do,” Hermione said. “Something more. Surely.”</p><p>George was quiet for a moment, rubbing at the back of his neck. He opened his mouth, but then he closed it, dropping his hand and staring at his fingers. The shadow in his eyes darkened, and then he turned away. “Give it time, Granger,” he said, a defeated note entering his voice. The sight of him so drained and empty struck sparks against the steel wall in her mind, and something molten blossomed in her ribs.</p><p>No. They weren’t helpless. If Mungo’s wasn’t getting anywhere, they’d take matters into their own hands.</p><p>“I’m doing the mission,” she said. George exhaled. “It’s the best chance we have—” she started, but then, to her surprise, George nodded.</p><p>His head thudded against the wall. “If you must,” he said, his tone weary.</p><p>#</p><p>She didn’t sleep, and her nerves turned to electricity and steam as she reviewed the file contents and Harry’s owl. Later this week, they’d move. Ron had refined the plan since the chess game, including a provision to involve George in the base team at the pub, and he’d loaded a few extra aurors into the perimeter group. Soon, they’d find out what enchantments they’d have to pass to infiltrate the club. They’d be using little communications devices fitted to their ears to stay in contact. If the perpetrators took the bait, Harry’s team would spring into action, and Hermione would apparate out.</p><p>Nothing too tricky. Hermione swallowed.</p><p>There’d been no owl from Bailey thus far. Nothing from Mungo’s, either, but that wasn’t a surprise. George’s tense mumbling emanated through the crack in the study door, punctuating the silence. The sleeper sofa creaked as he tossed and turned. Hermione crawled to her feet, leaving the file behind.</p><p>She eased through the study door and knelt, laying her hand on George’s forehead. At the contact, he calmed, and his mumbling faded. But his skin was hot to the touch, the sparks dull and faint.</p><p>Anxiety pressed against her ribs, slowly inflating. Rain struck hard on the windowpanes, and George’s outline was faint in the light from the living room, almost fading into the black of the study.</p><p>The fragility of it all swept over her, and she blinked at the strength of the fear—like dark, frigid, perilous water, closing over her head.</p><p>George’s breath was light and warm on her wrist.</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, and she began to sing the well-travelled words, the melody spilling out in a shaky whisper.</p><p>
  <em>“Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong—”</em>
</p><p>She sang through the night, her voice breaking like the flame of an unsteady candle.</p><p>#</p><p>April 13, 2003</p><p>George slept on the sofa as Hermione set a scrubbing charm on the dishes. She didn’t have time to do things the muggle way today. George hadn’t eaten much of lunch. Or breakfast. The flat was jarringly empty, the parchments and notes taunting her as she burned through hours.</p><p>The trouble with the research was that there was so much of it, and every moment she sunk into one avenue was a gamble—potentially taking time from the real solution. The Rune Tapping had been a dreadful waste of hours, as she’d heard nothing from Bailey. If they didn’t get any leads from the mission—Hermione grimaced. There was always the <em>Magical Tradition</em> book and tracking down families with known ties to the Death Eater movement or blood supremacy, but they’d be unlikely to speak with her. She couldn’t very well owl them. It would require surveillance—more than they had the ability to employ. Meanwhile, George’s waking hours were condensing—tighter and tighter as the Protego required more sleep.</p><p>They didn’t have that kind of time.</p><p>“This better work, Ron,” she muttered, reading through the notes again. She compared the plans to the book open in her lap—the D.A.D.A. textbook from NEWT year, flipping to the next chapter.</p><p>A small heart was scribbled on the page’s top, right corner in faded, purple ink.</p><p>It wasn’t her handwriting. One side was too scrunched, and it was a bit lopsided.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes flicked to George. She put her fingers on the heart, then shifted to read about partnered defense tactics.</p><p>She’d been reading for a half-hour when the floo rushed.</p><p>“Dear?” Arthur Weasley’s voice boomed through the flame.</p><p>“Yes?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Mind if we come through? Molly’s got a bite of Sunday dinner for you both,” Arthur said.</p><p>“Alright!” Hermione called.</p><p>George twisted away from the fire, mumbling as he turned into the sofa’s back. Hermione bit her lips together, stepping to check the cursemark.</p><p>The flames whooshed. Mrs. Weasley emerged first, holding a large, glass bowl that she sent zipping towards the counter with the flick of her wand. Then she turned, her gaze working over the room, and finally, Hermione’s face. Something she saw there registered, and Molly’s expression softened as she pulled Hermione into a tight hug.</p><p>“My girl,” she whispered, rocking her a bit. Hermione blinked. “You’re doing so well.”</p><p>Hermione’s throat closed, and she let herself unravel, if only a little, into the hug. Mrs. Weasley didn’t pull away for several minutes, and Arthur knelt at the sofa, running a hand over the back of George’s head as he stared at the parchments affixed to the walls.</p><p>Finally, Hermione stepped away, sniffing, and Mrs. Weasley crossed to George.</p><p>“Bill said it was a lot,” Arthur murmured, backing away to make room for her. He rounded the sofa, approaching Hermione.</p><p>“Mum?” George’s voice came out in a groggy croak, and Mrs. Weasley whispered over him. Hermione swallowed back the lump.</p><p>“He’s sleeping so much,” she said. Arthur sighed, turning to glance at George. The sight seemed to knock into him, and he hurriedly spun, facing the walls again.</p><p>“Getting worse, is it?” the question was soft, but Arthur couldn’t quite keep the fear from his tone.</p><p>Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth, nodding.</p><p>Neither of them spoke for a moment. They weren’t looking at anything of much use—a diagram of wand movements for a diagnostic spell.</p><p>Finally, Hermione worked up the courage to add: “The charm is sapping more of his magic. It’s um—eating all of it away, and he’s struggling to keep up.”</p><p>Arthur exhaled in a rush. He was quiet for a moment. “Lucky you can share, then,” he murmured, glancing over the wall.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>“What?” she asked.</p><p>Mr. Weasley turned, but he seemed a bit distracted as he peered over the books littering the space. “You know—” he said. Hermione shook her head slowly. Arthur’s brow drew together. “Through the bond?”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened.</p><p>Mr. Weasley opened his mouth and closed it, a nervous look flashing over him. “You—you did know about the bond between you, yes?”</p><p>“The magic one?” Hermione asked. Arthur nodded.</p><p>“Yes, that one,” he said. His face took on a pinched look as he glanced at George, who had already fallen back asleep. “He didn’t mention that you could share magic through it?”</p><p>Hermione blinked rapidly, a sharp pinch radiating in her chest. “No,” she said. “He didn’t.”</p><p>“Oh dear,” Arthur murmured.</p><p>“How?” Hermione asked. Arthur looked between her and George, conflict warring over his features. Finally, he nodded to the kitchen. There, he summoned a spare bit of parchment, and began to walk her through the details. Hermione listened carefully, not allowing herself to look in the direction of the sofa.</p><p>He’d known, and he’d kept it from her.</p><p>Hurt surged like a current in her ribs</p><p>#</p><p>April 14, 2003</p><p>She got ready early the next morning, hair pulled back into a neat plait, notes from Arthur in her jean pocket. It was simple, really. In fact, she may have already done it once, when she’d kissed him the other day—though Hermione hadn’t brought herself to say this when Arthur explained. It was a matter of directing the sparks through, focusing on the other person as a landing point. The whole time they talked, George had slept. Arthur left her with one warning on his way out: <em>“Mind how much you send, because it takes a fair bit out of you.”</em></p><p>Hermione firmed her jaw as she wiped the steam from her shower off the mirror. Then, she nicked a bit of Pepper-up from one of the potion racks on the top shelf, downing it. Why George hadn’t asked for help—hadn’t even brought it up when the Protego was eating away at him, she couldn’t imagine. He hadn’t even given her a chance to try to help. She lifted the rack with the Stamina and Replenishment bottles from the cabinet, staring at it as she remembered the clink of glass hitting the sink. The way George had frantically rifled through. It felt sad and heavy in her hands, hidden away like a dark secret.</p><p>Maybe it would be less terrible in the kitchen. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to use them as much, but they would be more easily accessible there if he did.</p><p>The potion swirled in her chest like hissing steam. The rain outside seemed to have seeped into the flat, placing a chill in the air, so she looped back into the bedroom, looking for something warmer to layer over her t-shirt. On a whim, she grabbed a thick, cream colored jumper from his side of the closet.</p><p>Pepper-up buzzing through her veins, she checked on George. He slept on, hair stuck to his brow with sweat. So, she sorted and re-sorted the books. Then, checked on George. He’d turned in his sleep, the blanket tangled in his legs. She made coffee. Then, thought better of it and made Chamomile, so he wouldn’t worry.</p><p>It was nearing a quarter past ten when the sleeper sofa squeaked, and George stumbled out of the study. She watched as he turned to the loo, his steps heavy and expression pinched.</p><p>He was gone a few minutes. She paced into the hall, leaning against the doorframe as she took a sip from her mug, waiting. Through the loo door, she could hear the cupboard click open, glass rattling. She took another drink.</p><p>“Alright Hermione—” he called. “Where are they?”</p><p>“In the kitchen,” she said, loud and clear. “I won’t stop you from taking them, but I want to talk about it first.”</p><p>She could hear his muted “bugger,” through the door. He didn’t come out. Instead, the shower flicked on. Hermione bit her lips together, the pepper-up whistling softly in her ears.</p><p>When George emerged, his face was scrubbed pink, and water soaked the collar of his muted, grey flannel. He tugged the gauze on his arm back into place, securing it with a strip of spellotape that he pulled from the pocket of his brown trousers. “Can you hit me with a drying charm,” he muttered, rolling the sleeve down.</p><p>Hermione nodded and waved her wand. The gust of warm air swirled around him. “Thanks,” he said, tone clipped as he ducked back into the loo. What was he doing now?</p><p>George hadn’t met her eyes once, straightening his hair, then fidgeting with products on the counter.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere, Weasley,” she said softly. George paused.</p><p>“Haven’t called me that in a while,” he said, staring into the mirror.</p><p>“You call me Granger,” she said. George snorted and turned. His eyes widened.</p><p>“You’re wearing my jumper,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s face heated. “Is that okay?” she asked. She hadn’t thought to check.</p><p>George sighed. “You’re not allowed to be cross with me while you’re wearing my jumper,” he said. “It’s an unfair distribution of power.”</p><p>“How so?” Hermione asked, incredulous. George stepped forward, his look warming.</p><p>“Because it turns me to goo,” he said. Hermione breathed out a laugh. George tipped his head back, crossing his arms.</p><p>“So, if we’re going to be having it out, you’ve got to change,” he said. “Preferably into something that makes you look like a troll.” He lifted his brows, tipping his head toward the bedroom. “May I?”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. He brushed past her, heading for the dresser. Hermione followed, bemused as he dragged the drawers open, then pushed them shut. He was procrastinating, putting on some sort of play, but that was alright.</p><p>They’d get there.</p><p>George dragged the closet open, pacing up and down. “Rubbish,” he muttered. “You’re lovely in all of this.”</p><p>He lifted a Slytherin-green cardigan from a hanger, held it up, then shook his head. “Bugger.” He returned it. “Y’know, maybe Mum has something—” he started.</p><p>“I should’ve asked her when we talked last night,” Hermione said, lifting her mug to her lips. George paused.</p><p>“Yeah?” he asked, but then he resumed the search, tugging through hangers on his side of the space.</p><p>“But I was a bit busy, chatting about other things with your dad,” she said. George’s hands slowed. “You know, he knows a fair bit about old magic, and he was explaining some things.” George faltered.</p><p>“What would those things be?” he asked finally.</p><p>“The bond,” Hermione said. George bit his lips together, and a mask slipped over him as he nodded at the wall. Suddenly, he reached up towards the top shelf.</p><p>“Maybe something up here—” he muttered.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hermione asked. George grimaced.</p><p>“This is exactly what I didn’t want,” he said. “You feeling beholden and pressured and—”</p><p>“So, you’d rather chug potions and sleep half the day?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Yes,” George said flatly.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “But I’ve already accidentally done it once,” she said. “Haven’t I?”</p><p>George exhaled, closing his eyes. “Yeah, well, I thought you meant to at the time,” he whispered. “It wasn’t until after, when you didn’t say anything about it that I realized it wasn’t on purpose—” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I felt rotten, but I knew if I brought it up, you’d feel obligated with me like this, and—”</p><p>“Wait.” Hermione held her hand up. “First, you should know that I did mean to; I just didn’t realize what exactly was happening.”</p><p>George shrugged. “Same difference,” he said. Hermione shook her head.</p><p>“Second, if I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t,” she said, setting the mug on the bedside table. George huffed.</p><p>“It’s not a permanent solution,” he said roughly. “The mission—I don’t like that, but I can see the use in it.” His voice was strained. “This, though—” he gestured at the bandage, face contorting. “It’s like a void. It sucks everything dry. All it would do is eat through whatever you sent, and it would tire us both out, and I won’t have you wasting your magic on it.”</p><p>“But it would probably help at least a little,” Hermione said. She stepped towards him, and he shook his head, backing away.</p><p>His eyes flickered, a grey shadow passing through them. “Or something terrible could happen, and you could be left without enough magic to defend yourself,” he said. Hermione tilted her head, reaching for his arm.</p><p>“George, please,” she whispered.</p><p>“Granger—” her name was tense on his lips. As she neared, he ducked out of reach, striding into the bedroom and towards the kitchen.</p><p>“We talked about it,” he said tersely, searching through the back of the cupboards as she entered the room behind him. “I’m taking the potions.” He huffed as his search net no results. He swayed a bit, catching himself on the counter’s edge and closing his eyes. “Where are they?”</p><p>Wordless, Hermione paced past the countertop, opening the pantry and pointing. The rack of potions squatted in plain sight, on the shelf just beside the door. George cleared his throat and reached over her, nicking two bottles from the slots. Hermione closed her eyes and swallowed.</p><p>The tip of her nose ached, and a lump formed in her throat. She didn’t look as he tipped them back. The rush of water in the sink sounded, and she still didn’t move. Finally, George reached over her again, his hand trembling as he slotted the empty vials into the rack.</p><p>“All better,” George said lightly. Hermione didn’t move.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked. Hermione lifted the hem of the jumper and tugged it over her head. Then, she turned, pushing the bulky fabric into George’s hands, against his chest.</p><p>“It’s your choice, George,” she whispered. “But I need some time.”</p><p>The pepper-up steamed through her as she strode from the room, down the stairs.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione stalked through the store, eyes stinging. Fred paused at the counter, doing a double-take as she headed for the workshop, but the customer kept him in place.</p><p>The room smelled faintly of gunpowder, but also like parchment. Angelina sat at Fred’s desk, bouncing Angelo on her lap.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said, stopping short. She couldn’t halt the sniff that shuddered through her, and her hand crept up, swiping at her cheeks.</p><p>“Alright, Angelo, how about some time with Daddy?” Angelina whispered, grinning broadly. Angelo shouted. Angelina opened the door, calling “Fred, I’m taking Hermione.”</p><p>Fred nodded, flashing an old Quidditch hand signal for “got it.”</p><p>“I can’t,” Hermione mumbled. “George is alone upstairs.”</p><p>“Fred will handle it,” Angelina said. She flicked her wand, and a Quaffle zipped into her hand. “Come on, then.” She tugged Hermione into the floo.</p><p>They emerged in the couple’s cottage. Angelina gestured for Hermione to follow her outside. The spring wind was bracing, but a little chilly, so Hermione muttered a warming charm.</p><p>Angelina stood in the grass, her feet shoulder width apart. “Sometimes, when life is too much, it helps to just let it out,” she said. She pulled her arm back, then whipped it forward. The Quaffle shot into the distance.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. Angelina summoned it back and handed it to her.</p><p>“Try,” she said.</p><p>“I’ve never really thrown a Quaffle,” Hermione said.</p><p>Angelina smiled. “You have, but you don’t remember. We usually do this when Fred or George are being gits,” she said. “Last time, it was because Fred tried to tackle one of the Falmouth Falcons after a game and nearly got me suspended.” Angelina’s smile morphed to a grin, and she handed over the red ball. “Bloke had plowed right into me, almost knocked me from my broom, and Fred wasn’t having it. To make matters worse, he refused to apologize to the league on principle. Said that suspending me for something he’d done was rubbish.”</p><p>“That’s a fair point,” Hermione said, tracing her fingers over the ball’s stitching.</p><p>“That’s what you said then as well,” Angelina said, pointing at her with an amused look. “But I wanted to be able to play the Appleby Arrows the following week, and I didn’t much care about the implications.” Angelina paused and lowered her hand, studying Hermione. “So, what’s George done?”</p><p>“Been a git,” Hermione whispered, eyes stinging.</p><p>The leather ball was heavy in Hermione’s hands. The lightness in George’s voice as he’d replaced the empty vials flashed through her, and she reeled back.</p><p>She shouted as she threw it. She hadn’t aimed right, and it smacked into the dirt, a handful of yards away.</p><p>Angelina laughed. “Again.” She didn’t try to correct Hermione’s form, and she didn’t openly tease her for how poorly Hermione was doing. She only summoned the Quaffle, right back into Hermione’s hands after each toss.</p><p>Hermione’s chest heaved, and her arm burned, but it felt good. Like with every extension, she was venting some of the hurt and stress. She threw it again and again, until the whirlpool in her chest calmed to still waters.</p><p>#</p><p>An hour later, Hermione emerged from the floo, breathless and blown wild from the wind. Her plait was a mess, but she didn’t really care. Angelina patted her on the shoulder and went to put the Quaffle away.</p><p>Hermione exited the workshop.</p><p>Fred leaned over beside the till, speaking with a younger customer. George sat in a wooden chair behind him, head tipped back against the countertop. His eyes were closed, a cream-colored bunch of fabric clutched to his chest.</p><p>A small ache flickered in Hermione’s chest. As the workshop door clicked shut, Fred’s gaze lifted, and without breaking conversation with the customer, he reached back, prodding George’s shoulder. George blinked, turning.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, staring at her. He pushed out of the chair and rounded the counter slowly. It was strange. She’d gotten used to him vaulting over it.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together as he approached. “Would you like to talk?” she asked. George nodded, exhaling a little. She moved slowly, careful not to tire him out, but they were halfway up the stairs when George’s grip on the railing tightened, and he had to stop. He bent over.</p><p>“Hold on,” he muttered.</p><p>“Alright?” Hermione whispered. George nodded, so she waited. Eventually, he sucked in a breath and continued, as though nothing had happened. He was pale when they reached the top of the staircase and entered the loft. His eyes flicked to pantry.</p><p>“You can if you want to,” she said quietly. “I can’t say I understand, but I won’t get upset.”</p><p>George’s jaw firmed, and he swallowed. “Okay,” he said, still staring at the kitchen. He didn’t move.</p><p>“I wish you had told me,” she said softly. “You said me you want me to be honest, and you couldn’t be honest with me about this?”</p><p>George closed his eyes. “I know,” he breathed. “At first, I didn’t know how to explain it without putting all this pressure on you, so I was trying to wait for the right time—and then, it-it became something more loaded with all of this, and I didn’t want to put that on you, but—” he hung his head. “Every time I almost said something, I sort of froze, like thinking about all the terrible things that could happen, and some of them didn’t even make sense, but some of them did and—bugger, I’m not making any sense—” he blinked hard, shaking his head and grimacing. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Hermione brushed her hand against his.</p><p>“I’m cold,” Hermione whispered. “Would you mind, um—” she pointed at the jumper.</p><p>George turned. He glanced down at the jumper, then back at her. He swallowed, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly, and he extended it. She tugged it on, and the fabric tumbled over her shoulders, the hem falling to her thighs. George watched her and his expression softened to something wistful.</p><p>“Come here, Georgie,” she whispered, reaching up for him. George lurched forward, dragging her into his arms. His hands tangled in the jumper’s fabric on her shoulders as he squeezed her tightly.</p><p>“I didn’t want to pressure you, but I should’ve been honest,” he murmured into her neck. “You deserve that.”</p><p>“I want you to trust me with things like this,” she said softly. “You get to make the decision to accept my help, but I’d like to have the information needed to offer it.”</p><p>George exhaled. “Alright,” he said. It was quiet for a moment before he asked. “Granger?”</p><p>“Yes?” she replied.</p><p>His voice was faint. “While I’d rather you not share your magic, I do appreciate you offering.”</p><p>Hermione hugged him closer. George shifted, leaning against the wall for support, but he didn’t let go. The sparks were faded but steady, humming up and down her sternum.</p><p>A minute passed and neither moved.</p><p>“Merlin, you smell like Quidditch,” he sighed. His hands tightened around her back.</p><p>“Like a Quaffle?” Hermione asked. She hadn’t noticed it.</p><p>“No,” George murmured, something reverent in his tone. “Like wind.”</p><p>#</p><p>April 18, 2003</p><p>“Here’s your earpiece,” Ron said, pushing the small, tan device into her palm. It slotted into her ear, and she laced the wire down the back of her turtleneck, then plugged it in. The power pack was a small box, strapped to her hip like a decoration on her belt. The device had been adapted from the Extendable Ears, honed by the auror office for use in the field. The dank, stale air in the inn room at the White Wyvern reeked of Fire Whiskey—but then, so did most of Knockturn Alley.</p><p>George watched, his arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t put it near metal,” he said. “Terrible screeching noise.” He cleared his throat and reached forward, adjusting the heavy cloak on her shoulders. She pretended not to notice the tremor in his fingers. “Got to get it secure,” he whispered. He was taking far too long with the clasp on her shoulder, like he didn’t really want to let go.</p><p>“Very important,” she whispered, fixing him with a meaningful look. George’s cheeks flushed.</p><p>“Yes,” he said, watching his hands.</p><p>“Honestly, we can’t have it flying off, now can we?” she asked softly. George nodded, his fingers pausing. “Better double check it—just to be sure.” He nodded, stepping closer.</p><p>“You know,” Hermione murmured, playful sarcasm sparking over her tongue. “I don’t know how I managed to dress myself before you came along.” George stilled for a moment, but then he snorted, shaking his head.</p><p>“Don’t make fun of me, Granger,” he whispered, but a grin seeped over his face as he straightened the fabric one, final time. After, however, his hands remained, resting in place above her collarbones. Her insides warmed, and Hermione moved closer, as though swept in by a current. “We used to go on missions sort of like this together—” George murmured, playing at brushing a piece of lint from the wool material.</p><p>“Did we make a good team?” Hermione whispered. George’s gaze dropped to her mouth.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>She was rising, up onto her toes, pulled by the tide. Suddenly, George cleared his throat, and his face went red as he stepped back, eyes flicking around the room.</p><p>“You just make a pass at me, Granger?” he mumbled, glancing down at her. His tone was bemused and a bit incredulous. Hermione’s cheeks heated. George’s eyes sparked, and he tucked a curl behind her ear. “Highly unprofessional.”</p><p>Ron approached, brusquely reaching between them to extend an earpiece to George. George faltered, stepping back as he took it.</p><p>“Been over the plan again,” Ron said. “We received a new tip on the property—they know the name of everyone who crosses the threshold. If we send in a full team, they’ll be less likely to bite. So, we’re going to use two aurors with Mione, and more on the perimeter.”</p><p>George’s look went hard, his hand jittering. “That wasn’t the plan,” he said, looking back and forth between them. Hermione bit her lip. George turned to her. “How do you feel about it?” The question was hesitant. Anxious.</p><p>“It’s still property under Ministry law. They can’t up and murder you or anything,” Ron said. “At least, not without serious consequence.”</p><p>“Yes, both things that have stopped them in the past,” George said, the sarcasm a bit clipped as he shrugged and bobbed his head rapidly.</p><p>“I can manage, George,” Hermione said, laying a hand on his shoulder. George winced.</p><p>“I’ll be with her the whole time,” Ron said.</p><p>“Promise?” George asked, and the look that passed between them was not insignificant.</p><p>Ron nodded firmly.</p><p>“How many do you have on perimeter?” George asked, huffing and fitting his own earpiece into his right ear. As it connected, a small burst of static popped in Hermione’s, his words rushing in.</p><p>Oh. Had the others been able to hear them that whole time? She blinked, trying to count the earpieces visible in the room. Too many.</p><p>Harry spoke from across the room. “We’ve got four watching the entrance and five lining the street, making sure that no one castes an anti-apparition ward,” he said. “And that’s in addition to everyone waiting in the White Wyvern.” As Harry spoke, Ron gestured for her turn, and she did.</p><p>“When you’re not in the field, these do have an off-switch,” Ron muttered, his tone dry as he caste a concealment charm on the gadget. Hermione’s face burned.</p><p>“Have we considered what happens if they apparate Hermione out?” George said, staring at the ceiling, the words pinched. Harry paused.</p><p>“She’s smart,” Ron said. “Don’t let them get close enough to touch.”</p><p>“One cough for yes, two for emergency,” Harry said. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Two aurors is—two is less than we talked about,” George mumbled. His breath came fast through the speaker.</p><p>“George,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“M’fine,” he said faintly. “So long as you’re okay with it.”</p><p>Hermione glanced at his right hand. “Yes,” she said firmly.</p><p>“Alright then,” he said, not looking away from the ceiling. His jaw worked, his hand jittering against his arm.</p><p>Behind Harry, a team of aurors passed vials, grimacing at the taste of Polyjuice. It was their second dose, the first being given before they’d arrived on site. George leaned heavily on the wall. His face was white, his breathing ragged.</p><p>“Darling,” Hermione whispered, edging closer. George shut his eyes.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he said. “You need to focus.”</p><p>“Just sit down, Mate,” Ron said, shooting him an annoyed look.</p><p>“I said I’m fine,” George snapped. But he turned away, ducking a hand into his pocket, and Hermione blinked as she heard the cork pop from the glass. Fear coiled tight, rushing under her sternum and into her ears.</p><p>“Mione,” Harry said. Hermione turned. He’d crossed to her, and she hadn’t even noticed. Harry put his hands on her arms, glancing over her shoulders at George before centering his look back to her. “Take a deep breath.”</p><p>Hermione inhaled. Harry lifted his brows.</p><p>“Exhale,” he said.</p><p>Hermione let it out.</p><p>“Repeat after me,” Harry whispered. “Okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione’s whisper shook, her hands cold and clenched tight.</p><p>“This isn’t the end,” Harry said, his eyes boring into hers.</p><p>“This isn’t the end.” Hermione’s voice hiked. The witches and wizards milling about the room quieted, and eyes turned to them at the sound of the auror’s oath.</p><p>“And though I may tire,” Harry said firmly, not paying them any mind.</p><p>“And though I may tire.” Hermione repeated, pushing her shoulders back. Harry nodded.</p><p>“When darkness comes—” he started.</p><p>“We’ll light a fire.” Hermione said, the words ringing through her like a windchime. A cool steel filled her chest, and she lifted her chin.</p><p>George watched her, transfixed. “Godric.” His whisper was tinged with a metallic echo in her earpiece. “That was something.” He folded his arms as he watched her with that familiar, pained smile.</p><p>“Save it,” Ron’s mutter cut over the line. “I don’t need to hear you flirting.”</p><p>Harry squeezed her shoulders, then grabbed his own earpiece, thrusting it in. “You ready?” Harry asked.</p><p>“Almost,” Hermione whispered. She crossed the floor. George’s arms unfolded as she approached, his hands shaking from the potions. Hermione gathered his lapels up in her fists and dragged him down to her.</p><p>George let out a soft noise of surprise as she buried her face in his neck, hugging him close, but then he returned the embrace.</p><p>His skin burned, the sparks faint.</p><p>Hermione’s blood turned to iron. The storm in her chest came unbridled, and she let it.</p><p>Tonight, she would find them. Harry’s team would take them in.</p><p>And they’d never touch George again.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione tugged her cloak’s hood low. The rickety cobblestone clicked under her feet as she crossed the lane towards The Spiny Serpent. The storefront was barren, save for a set of large vases. A front for an exclusive club, patrons had to be able to get past the thick spellwork on the entrance to come inside. This week’s enchantment was clever—saying one’s name with conviction while nonverbally casting an Alohomora strong enough to overcome the defenses.</p><p>One of the aurors slid forward, wand hidden in his robe sleeve as he worked it over the handle. He paid no mind to Hermione, muttering under his breath. The door turned transparent, and he stepped through. Before she could follow, it solidified.</p><p>“Alright, they’re open,” Harry said in the earpiece. “Circle the building. Dagforth, wait inside. I want you within six feet of Hermione.”</p><p>“Whenever you’re ready, Mione,” Ron drawled. He stood, ten feet back in the alley, waiting for his turn.</p><p>Hermione paused, leaning close to the glass serpent that coiled around the doorframe. The maw was positioned just over her head. “Hermione Weasley-Granger,” Hermione said firmly. She flicked her wand, sending the spell singing into the glass. The door shuddered, but it didn’t budge, and a cold feeling washed through her.</p><p>But—</p><p>She tried again, and this time, the cold sent a small, painful jolt through her.</p><p>“It’s not working,” she hissed, gripping her wand.</p><p>“And you did it right?” Harry asked, uncertainty leaking through his words.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione whispered. A rush of static filled the earpiece, and then George spoke.</p><p>“Try the old one.” His voice was heartbreakingly soft.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “But—”</p><p>“It’s alright,” George said, his tone a bit too light and casual. “Give it a go.”</p><p>Hermione blinked hard. “Hermione Granger,” she said, moving her wand. The door liquified, and she stepped through.</p><p>“Did it?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione coughed once, hating the response for the way it probably made him feel.</p><p>George went silent. The room was barren, torches lining the wall. A single staircase led down. The shimmer of magic sparked behind her, and a set of heavy footsteps echoed over the stone.</p><p>“Down the stairs,” Ron whispered.</p><p>Hermione coughed.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Harry said. “Move. Dagforth, keep a close watch.”</p><p>Hermione headed down. Intersecting lines etched the walls, giving the appearance of scales. As she reached the bottom, the ceiling opened up, and she crossed between a set of fangs, approaching the mouth of the snake. Just through the opening, booths lined the walls, and patrons crowded around a long stretch of black, crystalline bar top. Slow violin music pulsed through the air, but it was nothing Hermione recognized.</p><p>As she crossed the threshold, cold sparks cracked over her skin.</p><p>A hissing filled the air, and Harry shouted into the earpiece. “Anyone here speak Parselmouth?”</p><p>There was no reply.</p><p>Harry sighed.</p><p>Heads swiveled.</p><p>“Mudblood,” someone shouted, and the people closest to them chortled.</p><p>“Alright, Granger?” George whispered. Hermione coughed.</p><p>“Recognize anyone?” Ron’s voice was quiet.</p><p>Hermione didn’t cough. The room was dimly lit, and few people had their faces on display. The dark stone interior closed in on her. Everything smelled sharp and cold.</p><p>“Head to the bar and order a Fire Whiskey,” Harry said. “Let the barkeep see your face.”</p><p>Hermione coughed and moved through the crowd.</p><p>“Excuse me,” she said.</p><p>Harry snorted. “Don’t be polite,” he said.</p><p>Right.</p><p>The employee ignored her, topping off an older woman who faced the opposite direction, as though Hermione wasn’t worthy of her gaze. The woman’s neatly curled, short grey hair shifted as she extended a hand, holding out her flute. The barkeep tipped a foggy bottle, and a dark, pink liquid poured out. Mist spiraled off the top of the rim.</p><p>“Try again,” Harry prompted.</p><p>Hermione stared out from under her hood. “Give me a drink now,” she said. The barkeeper didn’t respond, and the patrons grouped at the opposite end erupted into laughter.</p><p>It was like the worst parts of Hogwarts all over again.</p><p>“You have eyes on her, Ron?” George asked. Ron coughed over the line.</p><p>Someone brushed her elbow, and Hermione started. A tall, crooked shouldered man with a close-cropped beard that greyed on the edges.</p><p>“Shyverwretch,” Dagforth muttered into the earpiece. The name was familiar—it was stamped on the Venoms and Poisons shop sign down the lane.</p><p>“Bit far from the Ministry for the likes of you,” the man said, pointing at the whiskey behind the bar. The barkeep nodded, passing over Hermione as he plucked a whiskey glass from the shelves. Shyverwretch’s voice was cold and slimy, and he smelled bitter—a bit acidic, his breath reeking with alcohol.</p><p>“Proceed,” Harry whispered.</p><p>“I’m a powerful witch,” Hermione said calmly. “I go where I please.”</p><p>Shyverwretch laughed, and the sound pierced her eardrum like a sharp spike. “No,” he said. He took the drink from the barkeep and walked away.</p><p>“Follow,” Ron said.</p><p>Hermione bristled, following him. He slid into an empty booth.</p><p>“Not interested, Mudblood,” he said, sipping from his glass.</p><p>George muttered in the earpiece, and Harry made a shushing noise.</p><p>“Get him curious,” Ron whispered through the line. Hermione glanced back. Ron leaned against the bar, staring over the glassware displayed on the wall behind it. Hermione pulled back her cloak, slipping a heavy sack from the tie on her hip. The man’s eyes followed the movement. Hermione leaned over table.</p><p>“I’m looking for information,” she said. “And I’m willing to pay for it.” Shyverwretch took a long drink.</p><p>“I don’t do business with your sort,” he said.</p><p>“Any movement outside?” Harry asked.</p><p>“Negative,” one of the aurors replied.</p><p>“Galleons,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione dropped the sack of Galleons, and it thudded loudly on the table.</p><p>“Have you touched it?” Shyverwretch sneered, his voice slick and cold like oil. “I don’t take dirty money.” Hermione’s chest went cold, but she didn’t flinch.</p><p>“It spends just the same,” she said.</p><p>“Not in my circles,” Shyverwretch said.</p><p>“Give him the offer,” Ron murmured.</p><p>“There’s more where it came from,” Hermione said. Shyverwretch paused. “A lot more.”</p><p>“What do you want, Mudblood?” He sneered.</p><p>Someone huffed in the earpiece, shooting a rush of static into the speaker.</p><p>“Settle down, George,” Harry muttered.</p><p>“My husband, a pureblood, was attacked by something I believe to have been acquired at an establishment not unlike your own,” Hermione said lightly, lacing what she knew about the man into the conversation seamlessly.</p><p>“Nice,” Harry murmured. The Shyverwretch scoffed.</p><p>“I know who you are,” he said, slicing the bag open with a severing charm. The gold spilled across the table. “And your husband’s no pureblood.” The man twisted a gold piece between his index and middle finger. “Don’t know what they put on that knife, but it should’ve been stronger, if they really wanted to do the job right.” Hermione’s hands tightened into fists, but she didn’t respond.</p><p>“Any movement, Dagforth?” Harry whispered.</p><p>No cough.</p><p>“Ron?” Harry whispered.</p><p>No cough.</p><p>The man dropped the Galleon back onto the pile.</p><p>“I don’t help blood traitors,” he said coldly. “Try the embalmers up the way.” He tipped his chin towards the entrance, a cruel smirk flitting over his mouth.</p><p>Unquiet fire pressed against her sternum.</p><p>Hermione counted to keep her breath even. “Five hundred Galleons,” she said.</p><p>The man didn’t respond.</p><p>“Up the offer,” Harry said.</p><p>“A thousand,” she said.</p><p>The man didn’t respond.</p><p>“Offer protection,” Harry said. “Perimeter team, any movement?”</p><p>No cough.</p><p>Hermione clenched her fists tighter. “I can keep the aurors off your back,” she said.</p><p>Shyverwretch spat. “Now, now,” he said. “I don’t have need for that. My business falls within the boundaries of Ministry law,” he said.</p><p>“I know you’ve been smuggling dragon venom,” she said. A shot in the dark, an impulse.</p><p>“Careful Mione,” Harry murmured. Then: “Bloody right, though.”</p><p>Shyverwretch slid out of the booth, and Hermione stood firm, unflinching. He towered over her, the slope of his shoulders jagged. Then, he neared, crowding her against the wall.</p><p>Where was Ron? Hermione’s hand flew to her wand.</p><p>Shyverwretch smiled. “You trying to blackmail me?” he whispered, leaning into her ear. Hermione pulled back, shifting to the side, but she bumped into the other patron. She sucked in a breath. Another man, staring down at her with cold eyes. They’d crept closer sometime during the conversation.</p><p>“Harry—” George hissed.</p><p>“Only making conversation,” Hermione said, forcing her voice to stay even. “Two thousand Galleons.”</p><p>A loud pop echoed over the stone, and someone yelped into the line, static crackling. “Oi!” Ron’s voice rang through the speaker. Panicked, Hermione glanced around.</p><p>Ron was nowhere to be seen.</p><p>“What’s the situation, Ron?” Harry said.</p><p>Shyverwretch shook his head, a slippery smile creeping over his jaw. “Now, I know your pockets aren’t that deep these days,” he said. “Unless you’d like to open them and show me.” His eyes dragged over her body.</p><p>“Harry, get her out of there,” George snapped.</p><p>Heavy breathing filled the earpiece. “They’ve booted me,” Ron wheezed.</p><p>“You’re not with her?” George’s voice went cold. She blinked and straightened her shoulders. So what if Ronald wasn’t there. She was capable.</p><p>“Hardly,” Hermione said crisply, facing Shyverwretch, wand secure in her hand. “How about I keep what I know to myself, and in return, you point me to someone who might be able to help, since you’re wholly incapable.” She threw all of her steel into it.</p><p>“Perimeter team, move in,” Harry said. “Hermione, it’s time to go. We’ll try again another time.” Hermione’s jaw firmed. They hadn’t found anything yet.</p><p>But Harry was running point. Fine. Hermione coughed and turned on her heel, but something cold slammed into her chest, keeping her in place. She yelped at the jolt.</p><p>“She hasn’t apparated, Potter,” a new voice cut over the line. A stream of curses filled the earpiece.</p><p>“Going somewhere?” Shyverwretch said. He swiped his hand forward, and Hermione tried to dodge, but the other man pressed in. Shyverwretch gripped a handful of her curls in his fist, and she choked as the sharp pain lanced through her head. He dragged her, and she lurched forward, gripping her wand.</p><p>“Don’t touch me,” she spat.</p><p>The earpiece erupted into chaos, something cracking like lightning, shouting.</p><p>“I do what I want,” Shyverwretch said.</p><p>Hermione pulled back, trying to apparate again. The aurors could peel the slimeball off of her outside. But the cold slammed into her again.</p><p>Another way, then.</p><p>“I’m afraid apparating isn’t permitted from inside the establishment,” a cool voice said. Hermione whirled.</p><p>Magnus Vane stood, arms folded.</p><p>“You think you can walk in here and threaten me?” Shyverwretch asked, yanking at her hair. “You’re all alone, Mudblood.” He hissed in her ear. “Where’s your Weasley? He too weak to help himself?”</p><p>Hermione</p><p>burned.</p><p>Hermione twisted her wand, sticking it under Shyverwretch’s chin, all pretense faded as she lit.</p><p>“I’ll bury you,” she said, molten through gritted teeth. The magic snapped at the end of her wand, and the Confringo stuttered there, held by a single sliver of control. Shyverwretch paused, hesitation flickering in his eyes.</p><p>“Now, now,” Magnus said, his voice low and smooth. “No need for unpleasantries. I’m sure Miss Granger was only seeking some refreshment.” He paused. “Or was it Mrs. Weasley-Granger? The portrait seemed unsure.” His eyes flicked to the threshold.</p><p>“Call them off, Vane,” Hermione said, tilting her head at the crowded shoulders around them.</p><p>Vane smiled. “These are only patrons, Miss Granger.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed. Magnus leaned in, and a sickening ring split through the earpiece.</p><p>“I don’t believe you intend to purchase anything, however,” Vane said, his hand deft as he plucked the earpiece from Hermione’s face. “And I don’t appreciate sneaks in my businesses.” His tone was light and bored as he crushed the device in his fist. “Get out.”</p><p>Shyverwretch shoved her away, and she stumbled, hands hitting the stone. Wand drawn, Hermione tripped backwards, up the stairs, then dashed into the street. The auror team swarmed, blocked off by the doors.</p><p>“We’ve got her!” someone cried, and they closed a hand around her arm, apparating with a sudden pop.</p><p>They appeared in the White Wyvern room, but it was abandoned. Black scorch marks seared the walls, and yelling boomed from the cobblestone below. George’s yelling.</p><p>Hermione pushed through the aurors, racing down to him. The dim streetlamps illuminated the scene. Harry held his hands up, shouting, and George flailed on top of Ron, swinging blow after blow as Ron twisted away, trying to pry him off.</p><p>George’s sleeve was smoking, right at his elbow, a bright light flickering and strobing through the fabric. His shoulders heaved.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted, rushing toward him, but he didn’t hear her. Didn’t react.</p><p>The strobe in George’s sleeve blinked out.</p><p>“You left her!” George yelled hoarsely, and his voice was unrecognizable. His eyes flashed with grey.</p><p>No.</p><p>Ron’s shouts clanged on the cobblestone.</p><p>“I’m alright!” Hermione cried. But George was lost to the world, submerged in fear. He turned, and his gaze was cold. Dark of all hope. All light. A familiar, eerie despair swirled grey in his irises like the hem of a ragged cloak in the wind. And then she saw it—the spiderwork crawling up, around his collar.</p><p>“No—” Hermione choked.</p><p>The curse tore through him like a riptide.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Pine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Did you know that trees look after each other?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello and welcome to this week's edition of "Treesap got too excited over Hogsmeade." Please forgive me. It's holiday season, and my birthday week, and I sort of let myself run away with it. This chapter is 28 thousand words long. If you'd like to break it into multiple sittings, I recommend doing so at November 11 and December 11. :) </p><p>Please forgive any errors--I've been editing all night, and I'm certain I missed some. </p><p>Thank you so much for taking the time to read and/or comment or offer encouragement. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 You all are so kind and wonderful, and I am frequently left speechless by you all. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or these characters. </p><p>This week's playlist: "A Kindling, Of Sorts"/"Cold" by The Oh Hellos (for October 30), "Pure Imagination" by Rook1e (for October 31), "Outlaw" by The Phantoms (for the first two scenes of November 7), "Enter Sandman" by Metallica (for the third scene of November 7), "A Little Bit Yours" by JP Saxe (for the last scene of November 7 through November 10), "Torches" by The Oh Hellos (for November 11 through November 16), "Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling"/"Constellations" by The Oh Hellos (for November 17-November 21). "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now" by Starship (wedged in the middle of Nov. 21 but you'll know), "I Know Places" by Taylor Swift (November 22), "Winnie the Pooh" by Coverkid (the piano version? I know it seems weird, but trust me on this. For December 1 and December 2), "The Wisp Sings" by Winter Aid (for December 3 through December 5), "I Don't Wanna Love Somebody Else" by A Great Big World (for December 6-December 7--thank you to the reader who introduced me to this song!), "The Wisp Sings" (again, for December 8), "O Christmas Tree" by Kenny G (For December 11 through December 17), "Smoke Rising Like Lifted Hands"/"Boreas" by The Oh Hellos (December 20-December 23), "Mistletoe and Holly" by Frank Sinatra (for the first part of December 24), Cozy song of your choice/"Snow" by Bing Crosby etc. (the one from White Christmas--for the second scene from December 24), "I'll Be Seeing You" by Billie Holiday (You'll know), and FINALLY "I'll Be Seeing You" (again)/or "A Kindling, Of Sorts" (again), or "evermore" by Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver for the final scene.</p><p>Alright. With that, grab your snack (I recommend gingerbread or pumpkin pasties), your drink (it's a coffee week, for me), and your coziest jumper (maybe a pine green one). Let's dive in.</p><p>--<br/>Mild Spoiler/Content Warning: This chapter includes detailed descriptions surrounding a magical flu/cold. If that content is not something you're comfy with, skip Dec. 3-7)<br/>--</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Six: "Pine"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>October 30, 1998</p><p>“That’s not right,” Hermione muttered, adjusting the angle on her chisel. She hit the blade again, and a light “tink” echoed through the flat. Small stones littered Granger’s coffee table, stuck between books and parchment. The pile of untouched rocks at her side dwindled with each try. She’d been practicing for hours—carving and altering the same set of runes pertaining to family, ties, and property.</p><p>George scrubbed a hand along his jaw and bent further over the thick text on his lap, searching for information on ancient defensive systems. If things went poorly on the trip to Muriel’s, the knowledge could prove handy.</p><p>Bill had sent over the book after George asked about what to expect, should the wardstone have deeper enchantments attached to it. <em>A History of Magical Strongholds</em> held only one chapter on protective enchantments and boundary magic, and the only mention of keystones was couched inside of a paragraph on the development of warding techniques. Nothing new.</p><p>But the subheading about deterring thieves was a little more interesting. The top of the page held a rather graphic portrait of a wizard clutched his head, black liquid pouring from his nose. To the side, a second wizard lay dead, a white dragon crouched over it.</p><p>Lovely.</p><p>
  <em>“Once the perimeter magic discovered Gablehaven’s intent, it disposed of the pesky intruders through unrelenting, magical attacks on his mind and body. The wizard and his squire perished after an extended bout of suffering. A common approach at the time, before the refinement of warding provided a more precise and tidy means to keep strangers out and family in.”</em>
</p><p>He turned the pages, flipping to search for more, but there was only a long list of potential downfalls that the duo might’ve faced—burning, drowning, melting—the usual. Nothing novel. George bit his lips together and rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose. Figures. Old wizarding families were rather cagey about innovation. Many of them prided themselves in using the same defenses that their ancestors had. Publishing details about that would be counter-intuitive, from their perspective.</p><p>Granger huffed, and the chisel rang again. George peeked up at her. She flexed her hand, shaking it. She could probably use a break.</p><p>“So, Babbling thinks we’ll find more?” he tried, continuing their earlier conversation.</p><p>“She’s not certain,” Hermione said. She blew at a stray curl that had dropped into the center of her forehead, then gave up, flipping it back with a huff before returning to her chisel. “But she did mention that burying runes in layers was a common practice in older forms of magic. We may unearth more hidden on the wardstone, we may not.” She bit her lip. “But, the rune we found makes me hopeful—‘beneath,’ you know. It seems to be referring to that potentiality.”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“But if we do, I’ll be ready,” Hermione said, training her gaze on the stone. “It’s taken more time than I wanted, but I’ve transcribed the relevant runes, sorted out how to edit each mark to shift the magic’s aims, and then checked over the solutions with Babbling.”</p><p>“And—” George hesitated, watching her. “That’ll work?” Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>“Sort of. It’s called ‘Rune Breaking,’ and it’s not a new process. Unfortunately, we haven’t found any, single rune that will reverse the whole of the enchantment that we expect is to exist. But if we uncover the right runes, we can make a series of changes that will alter the magic’s hold on Biddy and hopefully free her without provoking the enchantment into hurting her.”</p><p>“Right,” George said, dropping his gaze to the book. “Rune Breaking.”</p><p>“It’s a start, at least,” Hermione said faintly.</p><p>A rap sounded on the door.</p><p>“It’s probably Aberforth,” Hermione said. “He usually brings me a fresh set of stones before the weekend.” George glanced at the clock. It was nearing 8 p.m., and the streets outside were already dark. Probably for the best since they were trying to go undetected.</p><p>Hermione crawled to her feet and stretched before making her way around the corner and down the hall.</p><p>The fire snapped in the hearth, and George leaned back over his book. Maybe he’d missed something.</p><p>“Oh!” Hermione’s soft, surprised cry filtered from the entryway, and George paused.</p><p>Aberforth’s heavy steps echoed behind her, and the duo emerged. A third, small figure crouched on the older man’s shoulder, grey hood pulled low. A wide belt cinched the brown tunic beneath the cloak, and leather armor peeked out from under the grey fabric. Their boots twisted up in a curl at the toes.</p><p>“Winky wanted to come along,” Aberforth said, lowering a burlap sack onto the floor. It thudded, rock grinding as it landed.</p><p>George’s eyes widened.</p><p>Winky pulled her hood back, and her long ears poked out, flopping to the side. She’d changed in the years since he’d last seen her—taking on a harder appearance. Her gaze flitted over the room, narrowing as it settled on George.</p><p>“Winky remembers you,” she whispered. “Always in the kitchens with the other.”</p><p>George swallowed. At the time, he’d thought far too little of the elf’s reaction to being given clothes—the butterbeer she’d clutched on the stool by the fire, the way Dobby had hovered over her, concerned. He’d bought into the same, old lies all too eagerly. Shame crawled up his neck, hot and uncomfortable.</p><p>Winky snapped, and her apparition was almost soundless as she popped onto the sofa over his shoulder. Her armor creaked as she leaned in, gazing at his book and the runes littering the floor. “Dangerous for humans,” she said, glancing at Aberforth. “Too breakable.”</p><p>“We’re still going to try,” Aberforth said.</p><p>The elf huffed. “Then Winky shall have to go as well,” she said.</p><p>“Is that safe?” George asked, looking from Aberforth to Winky, remembering the way Biddy had shook in the attic, straining against the magic.</p><p>Winky’s nostrils flared. “Elves can protect themselves,” she said. “Winky has been doing so since Dobby died.” Winky drew herself upright, staring down at him with disgust.</p><p>“Right, sorry,” George said, dropping his eyes to the book.</p><p>Winky’s index finger poked at his head, pressing at the scar of his ear. “Better listening with fewer of these, it seems,” she said. George’s face flushed, and he ducked out of the way. Winky slid down the sofa back, into the seat beside him and pointed at the illustration.</p><p>“Besides, Weasley,” she said. “Winky knows more about—” suddenly, she choked, doubling over.</p><p>“Winky!” Hermione cried, dashing across the room. The house elf held up a hand. Slowly, she lifted her face, and a trickle of dark, red blood flowed from her nose.</p><p>“Winky is not to talk about it,” she said, a wry smile ghosting over her features. George pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and offered it to her. Winky blinked at it, then swiped it over her bloody nose. “But we can trick it, just the same.”</p><p>The elf tucked the handkerchief into her vest pocket, staring George in the eyes like it was a challenge. “Winky doesn’t give clothes back to humans anymore,” she said.</p><p>Then, she snapped, popping onto Aberforth’s shoulder. “Send Winky an owl with the plans.” The last command was directed at Granger, who’d been watching with wide eyes.</p><p>Hermione nodded. The two left without another word.</p><p>“Did you know she was—?” George asked, staring at the hall’s entrance after the front door slammed shut.</p><p>“No,” Hermione whispered. “I haven’t seen her once around Hogwarts. Until Luna mentioned her in passing, I didn’t realize she’d survived the war.”</p><p>“Well, she wasn’t in the kitchens when we evacuated them,” he murmured, concentrating. He would’ve recognized her.</p><p>“That was you?” Hermione asked. George froze. “We were going to head down to do it ourselves, but Flitwick stopped us and said someone else already had.” Her voice had gone soft.</p><p>George scratched at the back of his neck, ignoring the question. “I wonder if she left, after Dobby passed.” Hermione tilted her head.</p><p>“Maybe,” she said. Then she crossed to the kitchen. “Want some hot cocoa?”</p><p>George exhaled. “Yes please.”</p><p>After a few moments, she brought a steaming mug over and placed it on the side table next to his elbow. George gave her a quick smile before turning back to the book. Her footsteps padded across the floor, into her bedroom, and then she re-emerged, a swath of fabric in her arms. He didn’t pay it any mind until the soft, blue, knit blanket descended around his shoulders, smelling faintly of Chamomile and Lavender.</p><p>Hermione’s hand grazed the top of his head, and George stilled.</p><p>She didn’t speak as she walked away. Eventually, she returned with her own drink and blanket, nestling into her spot on the other side of the coffee table.</p><p>They worked long into the night.</p><p>#</p><p>October 31, 1998</p><p>George worked the spatula through the glass bowl, bringing the dry ingredients into the wet ones with a slow fold. A few miles off, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna would be enjoying the feast in the Great Hall. Probably had loads of pudding and Pumpkin Juice, and the giant, floating pumpkin lanterns that flickered in time with the noise ratcheting around the tables.</p><p>The flat was quiet.</p><p>George stood alone in the kitchen.</p><p>He’d invited Fred, Angelina, and Lee over, but the couple wanted to do something just the two of them, and Lee was opening for The Weird Sisters in London. So, he’d decided to make the best out of it, tinkering, letting his mind wander, and fixing whatever suited his fancy.</p><p>And George fancied Pumpkin Pasties, just now.</p><p>It wasn’t altogether bad. The Jacket Potatoes had turned out well. He’d fiddled with some quill bits, piecing them together out of curiosity. Then, he’d knitted for a while, but he hadn’t been certain of what he was making, so he’d unraveled it.</p><p>Something about the arc of the string flowing through his hands had made him think, and suddenly he’d been pouring over wires and metal and books with his wand in his teeth.</p><p>The bits and pieces on the workbench held a spark of promise. George looked over the bowl, eyeing the invention in progress. Once finished, the bracelet would allow the wearer to shoot a line of sparks through the air by snapping like a small, reusable firework. For now, it was little more than the shard of an idea, but it had caught in his chest. It would come together.</p><p>He only had to keep working at it. George sprinkled a little more flour into the bowl, staring at the workbench across the room. As for now, the parts weren’t taking the enchantments correctly, and he’d burned his fingers a few times.</p><p>Hence the baking break.</p><p>The floo whooshed. “I’m coming through, is that alright?” Granger shouted, and George spun. He dropped the bowl on the counter and snapped his fingers. The knitting zipped under the bed.</p><p>“Alright!” he shouted, lifting the bowl again. Granger jumped out. At the sight of him, she started laughing. Hard. Ash stuck in her curls and coated the gilded prefect badge on her cardigan. Her shoulder bag thudded on the hardwood floor.</p><p>“You’ve got flour all over you!” she said. George blinked, looking down. White powder streaked across his grey jumper. It must’ve flown out of the bowl when he dropped it.</p><p>“Oh—would you look at that,” he mused. Hermione practically bounced across the floor, dragging her bag with her. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from the cold. As she approached, a blue mitten tumbled from her coat, onto his floor.</p><p>“I’ve brought you something,” she said, her voice a singsong.</p><p>George quirked his brows and spilled the dough out on the counter. “Careful, Granger, you’re losing bits.”</p><p>Hermione ducked down, nicking the mitten and stuffing it into the side pocket. Her smile didn’t falter.</p><p>“Ginny mentioned how much you loved the Hogwarts Pumpkin Juice, so—” Hermione knelt, flipping open her shoulder bag.</p><p>“You’d better not be teasing,” George said, raising his brows. “It’s been ages since I’ve had—” Granger withdrew a large thermos. George broke into a grin.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” he said, tone awed.</p><p>Granger threw her head back, and her laugh jingled through the room. She crossed to his side, pulling open the cupboard door and removing two glasses. The juice splashed into the cups, and she held one out to him.</p><p>It was sweet and cinnamon and pumpkin, and for a moment, George felt like he might be twelve years old again. “Bloody brilliant,” he said, downing another large gulp. “Every other Pumpkin Juice is a mere facsimile.”</p><p>“What if I told you I made this at home?” Hermione asked. George plunked the glass on the counter, shocked.</p><p>“Did you really?” he asked.</p><p>“No, it’s from the feast,” Hermione said, breaking into more laughter. George shook his head, smiling at her. “So, what are we making?” Hermione asked as she hopped onto the counter, across from the dough.</p><p>“We,” George emphasized the word, tipping his head towards her as he flashed her a derisive smile. “are making Pumpkin Pasties, which I expect you’ve already had your fill of tonight.”</p><p>“No, actually,” Hermione said. “I didn’t eat much; I only stopped by for the juice. I had too much work in front of me to stay for the full meal.” She sighed heavily, eyeing the dough.</p><p>George dumped the pumpkin puree, cream cheese, sugar, spice, and egg into the second mixing bowl. “These will take another forty minutes or so,” he said. “D’you have time for that?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “Probably not,” she said. “I need to finish twenty-four inches of parchment for Minerva, and then I have to review the final batch of notes from Babbling on the wardstone runes. I need to double check a few things.”</p><p>George nodded. He cleared his throat, tipping his head as he watched the bowl. “Could always work here,” he said lightly, beating the sugar into the pumpkin paste.</p><p>“You wouldn’t mind?” Hermione asked, hopping down from the counter.</p><p>“No,” George said lightly. “I’m working on something myself, and I always find it easier to tinker or drudge through the shop books when I’ve got Fred or someone near.” He tucked the pumpkin paste on the counter’s edge, next to the dough and rolled his sleeves up. “It’s what I’m used to.”</p><p>“I have quite a few books,” Hermione said. “It might get in the way.”</p><p>“Oh, well that changes things,” George said dryly. He nudged her, grinning.</p><p>“It would be helpful to have you near,” Hermione said, hesitating. “I was also hoping to finalize the plans for the trip.”</p><p>“Have at it then,” George said, rolling the dough out. “There’s a jacket potato in the fridge if you want it. Go on—take the table—and the floor, if you need.”</p><p>Hermione broke into a smile, and suddenly, her arms swooped up, around his shoulders. “You’re the best,” she said, giving him a quick hug from behind. George tipped back, thrown off balance.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>She had a peculiar habit of surprising him with friendly affection, and he wasn’t quite used to it yet.</p><p>“Yeah, well—” George muttered, his face flushing. He cleared his throat, unable to think of a clever retort. “It’s no problem, really. Glad to have the company.” Hermione gave him an extra squeeze. Then the embrace was over, as quickly as it had begun.</p><p>But the glow lingered, warm in his ribcage as she unpacked her books and made herself at home.</p><p>#</p><p>November 7, 1998</p><p>Hermione braced her hands on the worn table in Hog’s Head, her hair pulled into a snug plait. She wore a sturdy, black jumpsuit with a black turtleneck layered underneath, and a small pack was strapped to her thigh, containing her carving tools. The bag on her back looked light, but he’d helped her stuff countless Ancient Runes reference books into it earlier—just in case.</p><p>“Let’s review,” she said crisply. “After arrival, Luna and Aberforth will set concealment and protective charms. They will act as watch while we work.” Luna nodded and Aberforth crossed his arms.</p><p>“Biddy will be called by the House to stop you,” Winky said, tightening the laces on her hood. Hermione nodded. “Winky will take care of that.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Hermione said softly. Winky didn’t respond, the look on her face darkening as she examined the faded, leather bracers on her arms.</p><p>“Bill and George will engage the Wardstone, as it’s less likely to react negatively due to their blood relation to Muriel.” Hermione raised her brows, nodding at Bill, and Bill nodded slowly in return. “The two of them will manage any defense systems that the stone holds—”</p><p>Winky’s short scoff cut through Hermione’s speech. The group paused, but Winky didn’t say anything further. Hermione swallowed. “If we manage to reveal anything of note, I’ll see if I can modify any of the pre-existing runes to free Biddy.”</p><p>Hermione’s gaze flicked from Winky to George, and she began to pace. Her rubber boots thudded on the floor. “In case of emergency, we will transport Biddy to the nearest facility capable of providing her with care.” Hermione crossed her arms. “Unfortunately, St. Mungo’s does not extend service to beings classed as ‘non-human,’ so Winky has advised Hogwarts for this facility.”</p><p>“Does McGonagall know?” George asked.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said, but she nodded twice as she said it.</p><p>“If Biddy is freed, Winky can use the hospital wing to look after Biddy,” Winky said. “And then Winky will take Biddy someplace secret and safe.”</p><p>Hermione strapped her wand against her wrist. “This is old magic. It is often unpredictable, so stay alert.”</p><p>“No such thing as a house elf,” Winky whispered. “Only elves that are tied to houses.”</p><p>George blinked, looking at her.</p><p>“Remember, Luna’s currently got a Mandrake leaf she’s working on, so she will be casting nonverbally. Look at her for confirmation if needed,” Hermione said. “Finally, if we are compromised at any point, we will leave and wait until the next time Fleur, Fred, and Angelina can get Muriel to leave the house.” They’d invited her to dinner. In France.</p><p>“Have you decided if we’ll be flying from the Burrow?” Bill asked.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. “We’ll be driving.”</p><p>The small sigh of frustration that escaped Bill didn’t go unnoticed, and Hermione ducked her head. George kicked Bill under the table, shooting him a look. If Hermione didn’t want to fly, they would drive, and that was the end of it.</p><p>Bill shrugged.</p><p>Hermione tugged the dark, knit cap over her head. “Ready?” Her eyes flitted to George’s, the smallest question in them. He nodded.</p><p>#</p><p>His parents were absent when they floo-ed in—invited along to the dinner. In case of any legal complications, they needed Mr. Weasley to have evidence of deniability due to his connection with the Ministry. So, the older Weasleys had not been told of the plan. On the way to the door, Bill nicked the keys from the hook. A large, paper sack with postage mark rested on the ground beside the entryway, and Bill grabbed it.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Bill murmured. “Wasn’t sure if he’d send them in time.”</p><p>The group slipped out to the yard. As they moved, Bill reached into the bag and began to pull out bundles of black fabric. He tossed the first at George, and it smacked hard into his chest.</p><p>“Put it on,” Bill said, voice hard.</p><p>“What is it?” George asked, confused.</p><p>“Protection,” Bill said, tossing the next bundle to Hermione, then Luna, then Aberforth. The last of the bundles was smaller, and he lobbed it to Winky, who stepped back, allowing it to hit the ground.</p><p>“Winky doesn’t give clothes back to humans,” the elf said, staring hard at Bill. Bill nodded.</p><p>“It’s a gift from my brother,” he said. “Charlie pulled some strings.” George’s eyes widened, and he untangled the bundle.</p><p>It was a black, hooded long coat with dragonleather padding stitched up the arms and over the chest. He pulled the garment on. The heavy wool unfurled, twisting around his calves in the late autumn wind, and the collar crept high up his neck, skimming his jaw. The magic hissed through the scales as the garment shifted to fit him. The silver clasps on the front clicked together, in the shape of a dragon’s maw, one side the head, the other the flame.</p><p>He turned. Luna already had hers on, the silver moon clasps down the front waxing and waning. Hermione was still working to fasten hers, and the hood piled softly around her shoulders. Her fasteners were different—like the crests of a wave.</p><p>“Did Charlie commission these?” George asked, his voice faint as he stared around the group. Bill made a grunting sound as he worked the wolf head over his breastbone.</p><p>“I handled the metalwork with some fellows at Gringotts, then I sent them to Charlie, and he did the cloaks,” Bill said.</p><p>“How did you know to get Winky’s?” George whispered. Bill nodded at Aberforth.</p><p>Aberforth looked more than a bit put out by his fasteners—they were shaped like a handshake, and the older man grimaced as he clicked them together.</p><p>Winky had yet to put hers on. She held the garment aloft, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. George rounded.</p><p>Winky’s clasps were shaped like a wand.</p><p>“Drodkin insisted on that design,” Bill said. Winky swallowed, looking from Bill to the garment.</p><p>“Winky?” George asked. Winky’s face hardened, and she pulled the coat on. The metal clicked over her chest like a chime.</p><p>Winky smiled.</p><p>“Onward,” Bill said, pointing to the Station Wagon. A small smile pulled at the corner of Hermione’s mouth as she looked at it.</p><p>“Flying would be faster,” Aberforth muttered.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head, her face reddening. George cleared his throat.</p><p>“Happy to strap you to the roof, if you’d prefer?” George said, shooting the other man a wink. Aberforth did not prefer, and the look he got in return was nothing short of shriveling. Bill climbed into the driver’s seat, and Aberforth took the passenger while Winky wedged herself between Aberforth and the door.</p><p>The vehicle hadn’t been expanded to allow for more room, and George’s knees almost hit his chest as he crawled into the backrow. Hermione pressed into his arm, Luna on her other side.</p><p>The car roared to life.</p><p>Ragtag but determined.</p><p>Hermione’s bluebell flame illuminated the cabin as she reviewed the texts—cramming for the wardstone’s exam.</p><p>#</p><p>Aberforth and Luna’s wand work was rapid, building a glowing, blue dome over the group and the Wardstone that cut away, just narrowly missing the curvature of the ward’s boundaries around the rock. The wind snapped at them while they worked, tearing at their hair, yanking their cloaks.</p><p>Winky nodded at Hermione and pointed at the house, then disapparated with a pop.</p><p>Bill stretched his arms over his head, his gaze fixed on the runes. He popped the knuckles of his left hand, then the right, and dropped to his knees before the stone.</p><p>“Ready, Mate?” he asked, glancing at George. He nodded, crouching beside Bill.</p><p>George raised his hand, and in the eerie light, he could barely make out the faint ghost of the old, white lines on the back: “<em>I will not break rules</em>.” George gritted his teeth and slapped his palm to the wardstone. Then, he lifted the other, resting it on Bill’s forehead.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Hermione piped up, curious behind him. George’s hand faltered.</p><p>Bill turned to George, surprise flickering through his gaze. George shook his head. Bill’s expression was unreadable.</p><p>“It’s-it’s form of Occlumency,” George said, finally. Granger didn’t follow up with a second question, but he could feel her eyes on him, watching closely. George swallowed. He couldn’t be distracted.</p><p>One breath.</p><p>Two.</p><p>“Occluprotego,” George whispered, letting the spell build in his chest before he released it. It suspended him between the rock and Bill’s mind, blending the metaphysical and physical realities before him. He was still anchored in his body, but more aware of the currents of thought and magic running along the wire of his arms. He could draw and stop the flow, if needed.</p><p>As he spoke, the magic coated his voice, giving it a strange echo. “Now, Bill,” he said.</p><p>Bill’s gaze narrowing as his wand unleashed.</p><p>The magic stirred at once, the rock buzzing and curious under George’s fingers. As he watched, the “Beneath” rune’s lines lit, one by one. The centermost etching strobed, and the stone rumbled, rising from the ground. A hazy, blue line appeared on the ground, fanning out and into the distance, curving around the estate, illuminating the hedges that were planted above it.</p><p>It was a keystone, then.</p><p>Bill and George stood, rising with the stone, hands steady on the surface until the rock stopped, cresting a foot over their heads. Bill’s wand faltered.</p><p>“It wants a key,” Bill hissed, gazing over the glowing symbols. “Do we have a key?”</p><p>“No,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>Bill swore. George braced.</p><p>The old magic lunged at them, dark and furious at being disturbed.</p><p>It tethered up his arm like lighting, and George lurched against the rock, the breath leaving his lungs. “It’s strong—” he choked, pushing back against it, restricting it to his fingertips. “Keep going.” Bill worked rapidly, digging deeper, under the beneath, and George could feel it—the sea under it all, expanding downward endlessly.</p><p>There was so much.</p><p>Bill’s cursebreaking landed like a hook in the water, drawing out one of the most superficial enchantments, and the magic scorched at George’s fingers. A singular rune appeared, fresh on the stone’s face. “Further,” George snapped, bracing. He felt Bill’s surprise.</p><p>Bill’s face was lined in concentration, incantations pouring off his tongue, and it was as though his brother had cast a net down, deep into the waters. The defenses flared, blistering, and George sucked in a breath.</p><p>Then, Bill began to drag it up, and the old magic turned to cold and terrible fire. It blew past George’s fingers, blazing over his forearm in a tight spiral, lighting his scar with agony, and he shouted aloud.</p><p>Hermione started forward.</p><p>“No, Hermione!” George yelled. Hermione froze. George gritted his teeth, building the layers of wall between the hungry darkness and the path it sought, pressing it back. Bill’s net dragged upwards, and George saw white, blinded with pain as the old magic obliterated his defenses, crushing through layers of occluded rock, the pressure building, building, building, along his shoulders.</p><p>His scar burned, his magic clumsy and cracking around him like lighting. Wind slashed at him, and the enchantment’s cold fire raged up his throat.</p><p>He’d fancied himself a Master Occlumens, and it was tearing through him like flimsy parchment.</p><p>“Hurry, Bill,” he gasped, shaking, his hair flying back from his brow at the storm. Bill’s mind flared with fear on the edge of George’s right hand, and for a moment, Bill thought of a similar experience.</p><p>One that had happened in Egypt.</p><p>“Don’t think about that!” George shouted, but it was too late. The darkness had gotten too close. It had sensed it. He spared a glance.</p><p>The earth thundered, groaning. Like a nightmare, figures crept from the unquiet ground.</p><p>He could feel, distantly, the register of Aberforth, Luna, and Hermione’s defensive magic like stones, landing in a pond. Blinding blue strobed behind him, and George held tight.</p><p>It found her in his mind—groping outwards, registering her position, her blood status. He felt it grow cruel and eager. It gathered back, drawing together in the stone. George heard himself inhale. Then, it lunged out, like the cord of a dark whip, visible in the air as it streaked towards her.</p><p>George threw what was left of himself in its path.</p><p>The sound he made was unhuman.</p><p>It cleaved him in two, cracking wide the doors of the Great Hall in his head and heart.</p><p>The years of golden fire escaped—for Hermione, for his brothers and Ginny, for his family.</p><p>George flinched, his body stiffening as his head was thrown back. His mouth opened, and flames rushed out, twisting with a fury. It was molten in his throat, mangling him.</p><p>George buckled. It splashed over his lips and through the air, against the stone, consuming the dark wave that sought Hermione like it was</p><p>flimsy</p><p>parchment.</p><p>Distantly, he felt the ping of the keystone slam shut, the ocean disappearing, morphing into a shallow, iron basin as it locked them out. The runes they’d dragged up began to weaken and weaken, their connection to and command over the magic beneath fading slowly.</p><p>“Now, Hermione!” George shouted, collapsing onto his back in the grass beside the stone, his hand a tremor on the stone.</p><p>Like a miracle, she was there. Through the spinning sky, George could see her chisel and wand flying over the marks as she read them.</p><p>He tipped sideways, drying heaving into the ground as he tried to maintain his magic’s connection to the rock, fighting to keep it all from slipping.</p><p>“How much time do I have?” she asked, the question tense like a livewire.</p><p>“Few minutes, maybe,” George gasped. “Hurry.” Panic flared in Hermione’s gaze, and she sucked in a breath, eyes working over the stone frantically. George shook, gritting his teeth together, his fists clenched as he tried to help slow the runes’ fade. She had to have enough time. Only a bit longer, if he could just hold out. Only a bit—</p><p>Dull sparks popped around him as he strained.</p><p>“Careful, George!” Bill’s voice was sharp, alarmed.</p><p>George forced the words through his teeth: “I can—” His voice hiked, cutting out as his stream of magic sputtered with a sickening jolt.</p><p>Then, George hit empty, his magic snapping like dry tree branch.  He couldn’t feel the enchantment in the rock.</p><p>It had all gone numb—the swirl of possibility, the kinetic energy that always rested under his ribs. Bill’s shout sounded foggy and far. A thick glaze covered the world, his eardrums ringing.</p><p>He turned his head. Where was Hermione? Slow, blurry shadows.</p><p>Bill appeared over his head and a dull wand tip hit his sternum. It flared, and the sound clicked back into focus. George gasped.</p><p>“Keep going!” Bill yelled. “He’s fine!” George blinked.</p><p>The sky was dark above them, the shield charms a bubble over their heads. The smoky figures that had emerged from the ground had gone, but Aberforth prowled, watching the grass.</p><p>Luna knelt beside Hermione, flipping open books for her to reference.</p><p>George felt his mouth. It smarted terribly, but it wasn’t melted like he’d thought it would be. Finally, he turned, checking on Bill.</p><p>Bill’s hair tie had come loose, his eyes piercing George’s with a knowing look. “You’ll feel that tomorrow,” he said. “Probably won’t be casting for a week or two.”</p><p>George swallowed. His insides were so hollow.</p><p>“There are some missing,” Hermione said. She spoke rapidly, but disappointment laced through her voice. As George watched, her gaze flicked towards him multiple times, a line deep between her brows. “I can’t sever her relationship to the family house, but if I move quickly, I can at least sever her tie to Muriel, so she doesn’t have to do what she says.”</p><p>“What does that mean?” George asked, trying to clear the underwater feeling from his head. Everything seemed sluggish, the sound of his words reaching him several moments after he spoke. His left arm was soaked, aching at his side.</p><p>“She’ll be able to come and go, but if an heir were to rightfully claim the property, they could re-establish control over her,” Hermione said, lifting her chisel, her eyes dark and angry.</p><p>Frustration slammed into his ribs. He’d failed.</p><p>Hermione stuck her wand her teeth, laid the file to the bottommost rune, and drew the hammer back. The world rocked as it struck.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley!” Biddy apparated with a crack. “This magic is not safe! You cannot be here!” She stared down at George with glassy, frightened eyes.</p><p>Hermione didn’t turn, etching away.</p><p>Biddy flinched as the chisel carved. Hermione hit the chisel again, finishing out the line, and something in Biddy’s gaze sharpened. Granger pressed on, hesitating over some runes, glancing back and forth at Biddy, referencing the book. As she continued, she began to shake, like every blow was a monumental effort.</p><p>She was in pain.</p><p>He had to do something. George struggled, reaching up to the stone.</p><p>“No, George!” Hermione shouted, not looking at him, and he fell back. Finally, she began work on a second one, her arms quaking, the emotion building and flaking and building in Biddy’s eyes.</p><p>When chisel cracked through the final line on the second, Biddy’s frail body dropped.</p><p>No—</p><p>George lurched, dragging himself forward, but Luna was faster.</p><p>She was there in moments, crouching over the elf, her wand steady as the healing spells lit the field aglow.</p><p>“We need to move her. Now.” The mandrake leaf slipped from Luna’s mouth as she spoke, fluttering to the ground.</p><p>Hermione’s tools thudded. George twisted his head. The runes had faded, and Hermione gripped the stone, gasping, her face contorted as she spun from the rock to look at Biddy, panicked.</p><p>Winky popped into the air, wheezing as she smacked white sparks from her cloak. “Biddy—” her eyes widened as she saw the elf’s crumpled form.</p><p>“Take her—hurry—to Hogwarts,” Hermione choked.</p><p>Winky reached Biddy, her hand closing around the other elf’s arm. The air cracked, and the two snapped out of existence. The keystone crunched, sliding back into the earth, and Hermione fell over, into George’s side.</p><p>The group sat, stunned.</p><p>Wind tugged over his skin, but he could hardly feel it.</p><p>Hermione began to cry. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt her,” she gasped. “It wasn’t supposed to—”</p><p>It was hard to think. To process.</p><p>George gripped his arm, and his hand came away wet and red. He blinked, then wiped it away on the grass. His hands trembled.</p><p>On the return ride, George clutched his arm tight to his stomach, his head tipped against the window. Hollow.</p><p>#</p><p>The Burrow sat, silent.</p><p>He wanted to sleep. Bill, Luna, Hermione, and Aberforth murmured in the kitchen in low voices, scrawling out a note to his mum and dad.</p><p>So tired.</p><p>George pitched against the mantle.</p><p>Thoughts turned to fragments, the world unspooling.</p><p>He needed to lay down.</p><p>Now.</p><p>Powder in his hand.</p><p>Diagon Alley.</p><p>Green heat.</p><p>George swayed. Dark workshop. Not quite right.</p><p>Hogsmeade—yes, Hogsmeade.</p><p>Trembling, creeping fingers into floo powder bowl. It tipped.</p><p>Glass on stone.</p><p>Almost there.</p><p>His voice, mumbling the Hogsmeade shop.</p><p>Powder floating from his fist. Down to the hearth, spiraling sand.</p><p>He blacked out as the flame roared.</p><p>He didn’t feel it when he hit the shop’s floor.</p><p>#</p><p>November 8, 1998</p><p>Everything was fuzzy, and a set of familiar, pinstripe pants walked past.</p><p>“Yeah, I agree, he’s an idiot,” Fred’s voice boomed. George blinked, slowly turning his head. He lay, sprawled on his bed. Red on his sheets, his jumper sleeve pulled past the elbow, something rough stuck to the skin. His eyelids felt heavy.</p><p>“I dunno,” Fred snapped. “Hold on—”</p><p>Shoes clicked across the floor, and suddenly, there was a glass vial at George’s mouth. Fred spared George a withering look as he tipped his chin back, and the blood replenishing potion hit the back of George’s throat like copper. George gagged, but Fred rolled his eyes, jogging the glass until the rest of it went down.</p><p>“Well, he makes a habit out of that, doesn’t he,” Fred said, tucking the muggle phone under his ear, pointing furiously at George and shaking his head, his jaw a tight line. George’s eyes traced over the device.</p><p>George blinked slowly, and something in Fred’s face softened. He stuck a hand over the receiver.</p><p>“D’you want anything from the market?” Fred asked.</p><p>No, he would go himself, and maybe Granger would be there.</p><p>George opened his mouth, his tongue slow and clumsy.</p><p>“Granger,” he whispered. Fred grinned.</p><p>“Yeah, he’s asked for a Granger? Y’know anything about that, Hermione?”</p><p>George’s brows drew together. Fred knelt, propping the phone to George’s ear. “It’s for you,” he whispered, adjusting the small radio receiver fused on the back of the plastic.</p><p>“George?” Hermione’s voice poured through the speaker. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>He tried to sort the words, but they were a nonsense melody. Everything was sluggish, but the sound of her voice was so wonderful. He smiled. “I lo—” Fred swiped the phone away, eyes widening.</p><p>“Yeah, sorry, he dropped it,” Fred said, staring down at him. George frowned.</p><p>Fred whipped his wand from his back pocket and pointed in at the blankets. “Tergeo,” he whispered. The magic pulled the red from the blanket, clearing it.</p><p>“Right—right—” Fred said. “Whatever you get will be fine.”</p><p>Fred paced to the kitchenette. “Well, you could always study here,” he said, dunking his hands into the sink. “He wouldn’t mind. Take the table—it’s not like he’ll be using it.”</p><p>George’s eyelids were heavy.</p><p>#</p><p>The next time he opened them, Granger sat at the kitchen table, bent over a pile of textbooks, chewing on her quill. Fred had his feet propped on the bed, tipping back in another kitchen chair. His arms were folded across his chest.</p><p>“Then he just starts heaving and shouting over the stone, sound so loud it almost blew my head off—” Bill’s whisper filtered through the faint buzzing. George looked up. Bill stood there, wearing a rumpled, black longcoat. What were they talking about?</p><p>“Merlin’s Beard,” Fred said. “I’d love to stick that in a Snackbox.”</p><p>“I’ve never seen a human make that sort of noise,” Bill said. “Like a bloody dragon. Wasn’t natural, Fred. This magic’s dangerous. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”  </p><p>George tipped his head forward, wincing. The cold pinch in his chest felt like it was sucking the life out of him. Odd.</p><p>Bill’s eyes flicked to him at the movement, and he shifted over, dropping a hand to George’s forehead.  He didn’t break in the conversation with Fred, wandering over to the workstation, where he pulled a stoppered vial from the full rack.</p><p>“Look, I’ll handle Mum and Dad, alright?” Fred whispered back, his voice barely audible despite his close proximity to George. “Granger’s got—”</p><p>He stilled, seeing George’s gaze. His face flushed, and he flicked his wand, severing a Muffliato charm. The buzzing stopped.</p><p>“Oi—” Fred ducked low, anger flashing over his features. “What’s the matter with you?” he said, his volume growing. “Angie and I get home, and there’s red all over the mantle, floo powder bowl shattered, and Hermione’s calling us through your fireplace, sobbing.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“I wasn’t sobbing,” Granger called from the table, her voice cool and unaffected. “I was surprised.”</p><p>“A natural response to the scene we were greeted with,” Bill said, fixing George with a stern look.</p><p>What were they on about? George strained, trying to remember the events from the night before, but it was a frustrating blank, and everyone was being so bloody cryptic. He shook his head, face contorting.</p><p>“What’s Granger doing here?” George whispered, glancing back at Fred.</p><p>Hermione stilled. “Pardon,” she said, tilting her head and raising her brows at the parchment before her. “I thought you’d want a friend after that ordeal.” Merlin, was she worried over him? That was rubbish.</p><p>“I’m fine, Granger,” George said, incredulous. He shoved himself up on his elbows, blinking hard as the room spun. There was some misunderstanding. Granger nodded stiffly, her shoulders rigid. His brows knit together. What was she—</p><p>“Right,” Granger said, snapping her book shut. “Well, I should go.” She stood suddenly, and the chair scraped against the floor as she snatched her things from the table. “Honestly—” her tone was tight as she bit her lips together. She strode to the floo, glancing at Fred. She opened her mouth. But then she closed it and stepped into the hearth. The green flames twisted around her, and then she was gone.</p><p>George swallowed, turning from the floo to Fred.</p><p>“I don't understand?” he asked.</p><p>“After the trip to Muriel’s—” Bill started, and at the words, it all came rushing back. The stone, the old magic, the feeling of fire.</p><p>George’s head spun.</p><p>“Hermione came through first,” Bill said. Fred wouldn’t look at him. “You were sprawled on the floor, and there was quite a lot of blood.” Bill’s look was steel. “I found her, frantically murmuring healing spells over the words on your arm, but no matter what we did, it wouldn’t fade—”</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut.</p><p>“Yeah, no, it’s um. Old.” He swallowed, trying to come to terms with what he’d just heard. “Cursed,” he said.</p><p>Bill nodded. “Fred told me.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“Did you tell Granger?” George asked, faint.</p><p>“No,” Fred’s voice rang, frigid and hard. “But I should’ve.”</p><p>George exhaled.</p><p>“Bleeding’s stopped now,” Bill said. “And Biddy’s stable as well, but Winky won’t let us in to see her, so—” his voice trailed off.</p><p>More silence.</p><p>“What’s Granger doing here?” Fred mimicked, crossing his arms. The question sounded far more abrupt and cold, coming out of Fred’s mouth.</p><p>“I didn’t say it like that,” George mumbled. Bill’s mouth thinned. George faltered. “D-did I?”</p><p>Neither answered.</p><p>#</p><p>November 10, 1998</p><p>“Hermione,” George called, rapping on the door. Flurry dumped from the sky in white, tumultuous streaks. His hands were raw from the wind, the hollow ring in his chest aching. The door cracked open, and Granger stood, wrapped in a robe, quill behind her ear. She swallowed, something vulnerable flashing in her eyes. And then she was steel.</p><p>“My Potions assignment is going to kill me,” she muttered, staring at his boots. George hunched, unsure as the snow came down on him. Hermione shifted, rubbing at her arm. “Do you want to come in?” She wouldn’t look at him.</p><p>“Hermione,” George said. Snow dripped from his hair, into his eyes as it melted in the glow from her flat.</p><p>Hermione took a breath. “You really frightened me,” she said, small and quiet. “And I know that I’m not Fred or Bill, but I still care, but-but, well, if I overstepped a bit, I’m sorry—” Her shoulders rose, and she folded her arms.</p><p>She thought he was upset that she’d tried to help?</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>The need to hold her burned in him—so hot it was painful.</p><p>“Granger,” he said.</p><p>Merlin, look at him. If she would just look at him.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“You didn’t overstep,” he breathed. “You’re one of my best friends, too.”</p><p>Hermione exhaled.</p><p>Then, she leapt, launching off the ground and into his arms, not bothering over his wet things or the snow or the cold outside. George tumbled back into the railing, clinging to her, burying his face in her neck. Her grey socks were suspended, just over the frozen stairs as she held him.</p><p>“Good,” she said, her voice catching on a short sob.</p><p>“Family, right?” George asked faintly. His insides tugged, a small flutter of sparks coiling in the narrow reserve he’d built over the last two days.</p><p>“Absolutely,” Hermione said. “Now come and help me sort this Potions equation.”</p><p>#</p><p>November 11, 1998</p><p>George fiddled with the metal band, twisting it. He couldn’t finish the charm yet, but once his magic was fully back, he knew the exact combination he was going to try.</p><p>A twist on the Periculum charm—tamping it down to a more moderate flare, and if the bracelet were forged from a higher quality blend of metals, he could make the line of sparks longer.</p><p>He could likely manage a bit now, but the pinched feeling was just starting to fade, and he didn’t want to strain it.</p><p>But it wouldn’t take that much. Just a little. George turned the band over, debating.</p><p>The bell jangled, and he straightened.</p><p>“How can we manage your mischief?” he said, laying the bracelet on a shelf under the till.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley!” a familiar voice called. “Just the man I was hoping for!” George turned. Professor Flitwick dusted a thick sheet of snow from his robes, smiling.</p><p>“Whatever you’re here about, I had nothing to do with it,” George said, pointing.</p><p>Flitwick nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said, turning in the shop, a broad grin stretching over his face.</p><p>A small glimmer of pride lodged in George’s ribs as he watched his former teacher admire what he and Fred had built.</p><p>“This is quite something, George,” Flitwick whispered, marveling over the back of a Basic Blaze Box. George cracked into a grin.</p><p>“Want to try some?” he asked, launching over the counter. Flitwick laughed.</p><p>“Maybe another time,” Flitwick said. “I’m here on Hogwarts business.”</p><p>George stopped, hesitating. Was he actually in trouble?</p><p>“See, Minerva and I were speaking,” Flitwick said, plucking another product from the shelf. “And we were hoping you might pay my classes a visit next week.”</p><p>“Pardon?” George asked.</p><p>“An accomplished Charmsmith like yourself could do quite a lot,” Flitwick said. “They see the theory of it, the basic building blocks every day.” The other man turned, smiling up at George. “But, if you come in, and have a bit of a romp, they might find that inspiring. Start making some things of their own.”</p><p>“You want me to teach them how to prank?” George asked, incredulous.</p><p>“The best learning is done through play,” Flitwick said, giving a little shrug. “Maybe don’t use the word ‘prank’ in front of Minerva, but we’d like them to see a wider range of possibilities.”</p><p>George fell silent, stupefied.</p><p>“Some of them have had a rough go of it,” Flitwick said, more softly. “Last year—” he stopped. Flitwick sighed, adjusting his glasses. “More than a few times, I walked into the classroom to find older students telling the younger ones about you and Fred. The boys who escaped?”</p><p>Flitwick’s voice was always light, but at the question, it almost dropped off.</p><p>George stilled.</p><p>“They need to play,” Flitwick said, placing the box back on the shelf.</p><p>“Alright,” George said, giving a firm nod. “I’ll bring the lot.”</p><p>“Excellent!” Flitwick jumped. “We’ll start at your portable swamp, and then we can do the more explosive bits in the courtyard?”</p><p>George nodded. “Brilliant,” he said.</p><p>Flitwick pulled his bowler hat low on his head. He paused at the door. “By the by—Biddy sends her best,” he said.</p><p>#</p><p>November 16, 1998</p><p>The castle stone was light under his feet, and George strode eagerly through the hall, Weasley &amp; Weasley case in hand. It was early yet, and the students would still be eating breakfast. The familiar storm of magic was back, whirling in his ribs. He’d worn the outfit Granger had chosen from Gladrags—it fit the weather, and besides, it seemed appropriate for the day’s activity.</p><p>He felt good.</p><p>Better than he had in a while.</p><p>George grinned, skimming a hand along the wall. The stone was warm.</p><p>“Miss me?” he whispered.</p><p>The wall rumbled, and George laughed. He spun, heading toward the staircases, picking his way through the tangle of railings with ease as he headed to the second floor to meet McGonagall and Flitwick.</p><p>He approached the Gargoyles. He could always knock, but that wasn’t any fun.</p><p>“Seeker,” he whispered. The Gargoyle stared back at him.</p><p>Hm.</p><p>“Chaser,” he tried again. Nothing.</p><p>Someone cleared their throat. George turned. Flitwick watched him, brows raised.</p><p>“She was a spy during the first wizarding war,” Flitwick said.</p><p>“Really?” George asked.</p><p>Flitwick stepped up to the Gargoyle. “Snitch,” he said, and the stone ground.</p><p>“Oh, I’d have gotten there eventually—” George said, heading up the staircase after him.</p><p>“I’m sure,” Flitwick said, good naturedly.</p><p>They reached the top, and George blinked, turning in a circle. Tartan hung on the walls, in between the headmaster portraits. Where there had once been a substantial, glass case, there now stood a solid, wooden hutch. Black streaked the stone just behind it.</p><p>A large cabinet squatted behind her desk, where McGonagall stood, straightening a stack of parchment. And it was her desk now—gone were the glass ornaments, the bits and bobs that Dumbledore had calmly instructed them not to touch. The only remaining fragment of the other headmaster was the candy dish—though it appeared barren at the moment.</p><p>Under Minerva’s tenure, the desk was laden with photos of Quidditch teams, former students, and a smiling, black and white muggle picture of a man in plaid, standing with his arm around what looked like a young McGonagall. George leaned in to take a closer look, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of the wizarding photo behind it. It was him, roaring in laughter beside Fred. It’d been taken for the paper, just after they opened the store in Diagon Alley.</p><p>She’d—she’d clipped it and framed it.</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>He’d hug her, but she’d hate that.</p><p>So, instead, he swept the flatcap from his head and bowed low. “Professor McGonagall,” he said, voice lilting. “An honor, as always.”</p><p>“Not this errant fool!” Phineas Black called. George smiled.</p><p>“Quiet, Phineas,” McGonagall said. She sighed, looking around, then propped her hands on her hips. “Mr. Weasley.” She didn’t smile, but McGonagall almost never smiled with her mouth.</p><p>It was in the eyes, with this bird. Just now, they were friendly and warm as she took him in.</p><p>“How’ve you been, Professor?” George asked, resting his case on the ground. He fished a hand into his pocket, drawing out a container of Giggle Grams.</p><p>“Busy,” McGonagall said, watching him.</p><p>“May I?” George asked. “Looks a bit sad when it’s empty.”</p><p>“By all means,” McGonagall said, raising her brows.</p><p>George tipped the container into the candy dish, and the small, yellow gumdrops bounced around.</p><p>“Mind you don’t eat any while you’re telling someone off,” he said, winking. “It won’t have the same effect.”</p><p>Minerva tilted her head. “I see,” she said. She straightened her robes. “Mr. Weasley, I am not under any ignorance about the things you pass through these halls. Products designed to interrupt the classroom environment have been and will continue to be confiscated.”</p><p>George grinned. “When you can find them,” he said.</p><p>Minerva didn’t acknowledge the quip. Her eyes shut, and she lifted a hand to her brow.</p><p>“Today, I am willing to put that aside,” she said, each word measured. “Provided you act with care.” Minerva lowered her hand, and her eyes were shrewd as they landed on him. “Do I make myself clear?”</p><p>“Abundantly,” George said.</p><p>“They’ve seen more than they should,” Minerva said. “Be gentle.”</p><p>#</p><p>The lot of second-years fidgeted, quiet beside the roped off swamp. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws with round eyes, pink scar lines on their hands. Faces, even. George’s chest tightened. None of them spoke.</p><p>“Alright class. Today, we have a special guest,” Flitwick said. Heads swiveled, silent, and George suddenly felt out of his element. Usually, children were loud. Squirmy. Fun.</p><p>George’s throat stuck together.</p><p>“Some of you may know him or have heard about him, perhaps?” Flitwick prompted. “George Weasley.”</p><p>A few heads nodded.</p><p>“George?” Flitwick said.</p><p>He took a breath, studying them. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Smarts and sweets.</p><p>“Would anyone like a sugar quill?” George asked, kneeling at the case. The latches popped open under his hands, and he raised the lid. No one answered. “Bugger,” he said, sighing. “I’ve got far too many, and I was hoping you lot would take them off my hands.”</p><p>Slowly, a few hands raised.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said. He plucked the jar out. “Raise your hand high if you’d like one, please.” He spoke in a calm, clear voice, and marvel of marvels, more hands shot into the air. George grinned, handing them down the line. With each quill, he gave a firm “Name’s George, but what can I call you?” The students murmured their names back, taking the candy. Near the end of the line, a small whisper snagged him.</p><p>“Emmeline.”</p><p>George stilled, his hand freezing in the jar. The classroom, the werewolf, and Collin Creevey’s open throat flashed through his mind. He sucked in a breath and looked up.</p><p>Emmeline watched him, wariness radiating in her gaze.</p><p>“That’s a good name,” George said lightly, digging into the container. “Never met an Emmeline who wasn’t excellent.” He plucked two quills out, sticking them together so the others wouldn’t notice. “Here you are.”</p><p>Emmeline blinked, but she took them. George stood back.</p><p>“So,” he said, rounding to the front. “Professor Flitwick tells me you all are studying Arithmancy?”</p><p>A hand shot up, near the front.</p><p>“Yes?” George asked, tucking the glass jar under his arm.</p><p>“It’s Charms, actually,” the boy—a small Ravenclaw named Newton—said.</p><p>“What—” George turned, putting on a show of being confused. “I bet my wand he said Arithmancy.”</p><p>Flitwick snorted.</p><p>George shrugged sadly and pulled his wand from behind his ear, pressing it flat to the jar glass under his arm as he stared at the group. “Well, there’s the whole lesson plan scuppered, I’m afraid. I can’t teach you anything useful about Charms.” He caste a nonverbal locomotion charm, and the sugar quills danced out, spilling into another container in his case. He pretended not to notice, turning to Flitwick.</p><p>“Really? Charms?” he asked, feigning skepticism. Without looking down, he layered a snowflake-making charm into the jar, building a little snowglobe. He lit it with a silent Bluebell, and released it, sending it floating over their heads.</p><p>He caste a nonverbal Evanesco, and the jar popped out of existence. The snow floated down.</p><p>A soft giggle came from the front of the group.</p><p>“Shame,” George said, folding his arms. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I was really looking forward to all that math.”</p><p>A few hands shot up.</p><p>George pointed to the one in the back.</p><p>“Did you make that?” The Hufflepuff asked, pointing over George’s shoulder at the Portable Swamp.</p><p>George whirled. “That?” he asked. “Maybe.” He grinned, looking back at the group. “Hard to say.”</p><p>He pulled his wand out of his pocket. “Specialis Revelio,” he said, and the Portable Swamp’s magic unlocked at his touch, the Runes spinning in the air. The class erupted into whispers.</p><p>“Well,” George said, crossing his arms. “Whoever did put this together seems to have done some tinkering with the Aqua Eructo charm, amongst some others.”</p><p>“I know that rune!” Newton said, pointing. “That’s the one for permanent sticking!”</p><p>“Five points for Newton’s house, Flitwick,” George said, pointing at the boy. Flitwick nodded, watching the class with a satisfied grin.</p><p>“Would anyone else like to make an educated guess as to what might’ve been included?” George asked, tucking his wand behind his ear and strolling along the group. “I’ve got a chocolate frog for the next volunteer, whether you’re right or not.”</p><p>Hands crowded the air.</p><p>“Louisa!” George called, tossing the cardboard packaging over. “Have at it. What’s your guess?”</p><p>“Impervius Charm? For the boundary?” the girl asked.</p><p>Footsteps echoed around the corridor behind him.</p><p>“Very good!” George said, lobbing another chocolate frog her way. “Here, share with a lucky friend. Five points for Hufflepuff?” he spun, raising a brow. Flitwick nodded.</p><p>“Why might we use that for a boundary on something like this?” George asked. Hands raised, and one of them was Emmeline, a determined flash in her eyes.</p><p>“Emmeline?” George asked, calling on her. Emmeline lowered her hand, pausing.</p><p>“Um—the Impervious Charm repels water, so it would—um,” Emmeline stumbled over her words, hands clenched at her sides. George waited, patient. “—keep it from spilling everywhere,” Emmeline said.</p><p>“Brilliant, five points to Ravenclaw,” George said, tossing another chocolate frog. Flitwick laughed. A small gasp sounded behind him.</p><p>George turned.</p><p>Hermione stood, mouth open, staring at him.</p><p>George straightened. “Oh no,” he said in a bored tone, tilting his head toward the class. “I’m afraid the prefects are onto us.”</p><p>A few giggles rang out.</p><p>“Come to spoil our fun, Miss Granger?” George asked, crossing his arms.</p><p>Hermione scoffed, blinking, then stepped towards him. “This doesn’t count,” she whispered under her breath, eyes flashing, but she was laughing the slightest bit. “You’ve got to take points—that was the bet.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m aware,” George whispered back, tilting his head. “But I’m not going to be taking points from this bunch.”</p><p>He spun to Flitwick. “Right, so—five points from Gryffindor, for interrupting a lesson.”</p><p>More laughter and a couple of gasps rang through the group. Flitwick raised his brows, but George gave him a furtive look. The man nodded.</p><p>“Professor Flitwick—” Hermione started, and Flitwick shrugged.</p><p>Excellent. It didn’t count, not really, but let Granger sweat over it, thinking it did.</p><p>“Can’t have rule following today,” George said, grinning. “It’s against the rules.” He stooped, picking his case off the ground. “Now—” he called. “I’m off to play with fire in the courtyard, if anyone wants to join.”  </p><p>#</p><p>The courtyard rang with Whizbang fizz. He’d left the ones that sounded too much like spellfire at the shop, so the second-years were preoccupied with the smaller, golden explosions that zipped around, cartwheeling without aim. He’d taught them how to layer enchantments onto paper, and a heap of folded, parchment animals flew through the air, in between the sparks.</p><p>It was the fourth group of the day—having done both sets of first years earlier. He hadn’t seen Granger since that morning, but now, he caught a flash of her curls behind the pillar. She leaned against the stone-work, watching the younger students run around, a small smile on her face.</p><p>George rounded the space to light the next batch, then backed towards the passage she was hiding in. The column met his back, and he waited, grinning while he observed the students.</p><p>“It doesn’t count,” Hermione said. George nodded sarcastically, knitting his brows together.</p><p>“Whatever you say, Granger,” he said.</p><p>A small push landed on his arm, and he grinned.</p><p>“Careful, I’ll take more points,” he whispered.</p><p>She was quiet.</p><p>“George—” her voice was hesitant and soft.</p><p>“Yes?” he asked.</p><p>“You’re good at this,” she said.</p><p>George shrugged. “It’s not hard when you’re as immature as I am,” he said.</p><p>Hermione snorted. “That’s not it, and we both know it.” She paused. “I meant at teaching.”</p><p>Her praise settled, warm under his ribs.</p><p>“What time are you finished today?” he asked, finally turning to look at her.</p><p>“I’ve got Arithmancy still,” she said. “Why?”</p><p>George shrugged. “We could walk back together?”</p><p>Hermione’s face fell.</p><p>“That sounds fun,” she said, grimacing. “But I’ve got to study for the Mastery Qualifiers, and I really need the library for that.”</p><p>George nodded, disappointment lancing through him. It would’ve been nice, walking back with her over the grounds, at least once.</p><p>That was alright, though. He was getting sentimental and silly. Hermione watched him, an uncertain look flitting through her eyes. George cleared his throat.</p><p>“I see,” he said, nudging her. “Well, maybe I’ll kidnap Ginny instead.” He applied the words lightly, in case he’d slipped up and looked a bit too crestfallen when she’d turned him down.</p><p>Hermione paused. Then: “She’ll probably like that,” she said, smiling.</p><p>“If she’s not too busy running practices, that is,” George said, snorting as he looked toward the pitch.</p><p>A whizbang sailed between them, showering gold, and George stepped back to let it through.</p><p>After it passed, Hermione leaned in, over the wall. “Listen,” she said quietly, twisting her hands together. “I’ve been meaning to ask—would you be willing to teach me to ride a broom properly?”</p><p>Was she being serious? George tilted his head, but she wasn’t laughing.</p><p>George’s brow wrinkled. “Sure, but—why?”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “I mean, I know the basics, and I did ride one during a scrape in the final battle, but—” she bit her lips together, looking at the overcast sky. “I’ve never really found my balance on one, and I think it’s an important skill to have.” She paused. “Especially if we ever do another trip like we did.”</p><p>Her meaning hit him. Her face had gone red, and she tucked a stray curl behind her ear, not meeting his eyes. Bill and Aberforth’s comments must have landed harder than he’d realized.</p><p>Granger hated heights.</p><p>“Right,” George said. “Well, in that case, when works for you?”</p><p>“How about this weekend?” Hermione asked, looking at him. “Saturday evening? That should give me plenty of time to study through the week, then I can take a break.”</p><p>“Saturday it is,” George said. “Do you have a broom or—?”</p><p>Hermione looked at him flatly.</p><p>“Right, I’ll um—we can use mine,” George said.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “See you then?” she asked. George nodded back.</p><p>The whizbangs had gotten into his chest, he was sure of it. He winced, stamping the sparks down. He was helping a friend. That was all.</p><p>#</p><p>Before leaving the castle, George stopped by the Hospital wing. He poked his head around the corner, but the beds lining the walls were empty.</p><p>Pomfrey crossed to him. “Can I help you, Mr. Weasley?” she asked.</p><p>“There was an elf?” he asked. Pomfrey shook her head.</p><p>“No elves in my ward,” she said, but she tipped her head towards the windows. Outside, the Forbidden Forest stretched, far into the distance.</p><p>“I hear there’s an enclave in the woods,” she said. “Very secretive. Won’t let any humans in.”</p><p>Deep in the trees, a small plume of smoke filtered up, disappearing into the sunset.</p><p>George tapped a knuckle against the doorframe. “Right,” he said. “Well, thanks anyway.”</p><p>#</p><p>November 17, 1998</p><p>“It was scary, at first, but then, like I said before, y’know—” George trailed off, looking at Healer Marcus. “Suddenly, it wasn’t.”</p><p>Marcus nodded.</p><p>“I mean, the paper animals they made,” George said. “Putting charms into them that I wouldn’t have thought of. Someone made an elephant, and they stuck an Aguamenti on the trunk?” At the memory, he broke into a grin. Healer Marcus laughed. George cleared his throat.</p><p>“And Hermione said I was good at teaching,” he said softly. Marcus smiled.</p><p>“Do you think she’s right?” Marcus asked.</p><p>George paused, looking at his hands. “No,” he said, speaking slowly. “I’m not meant to be a teacher.”</p><p>Marcus lifted his brows.</p><p>“But I am good with children,” George said. “I’m good at making people laugh, and I like that.”</p><p>Healer Marcus smiled. “Very good.”</p><p>George folded his hands between his knees. “She asked me to teach her how to ride a broom.”</p><p>Healer Marcus tilted his head. “What did you say?”</p><p>George shrugged. “I agreed to,” he said. “I’ll keep my feelings in check. It’ll be fine.”</p><p>Healer Marcus rested his quill on the clipboard. “That’s an interesting turn of phrase. Are you planning on Occluding?”</p><p>George rubbed the back of his neck. “No,” he said. Healer Marcus made a note. “I mean—” George added, scrubbing his hands down his face. “I only Occlude if it’s absolutely necessary to avoid hurting her,” he said.</p><p>“A noble motivation,” Healer Marcus said, but the censure in the words still rang through.</p><p>“Your point?” George said, sighing.</p><p>“Have you considered being honest with her?” Marcus asked. The office creaked as a wintery gale plastered against the side of the building.</p><p>“I won’t put this on her,” George said. Marcus nodded.</p><p>“Have you considered being honest with yourself, then?” he asked.</p><p>George froze. “About what?”</p><p>“Why won’t you tell her?” Marcus asked. Annoyance flared in George’s stomach, hot and angry.</p><p>“I already told you—I’m not going to hurt her,” he said. “It’s not worth the risk.”</p><p>“Is that all there is to it?” Marcus asked. George shrugged.</p><p>“Yeah, I figure,” he said, sticking his hands under his arms, against his sides.</p><p>“In that case, would you mind a bit of homework?” Healer Marcus asked, tapping his quill on the clipboard.</p><p>George’s eyes narrowed, but he shrugged. “Sure.”</p><p>Healer Marcus spoke slowly, making another note. “This week, I want you to do your best to not occlude or dismiss any discomfort you experience. Instead, step away to safely make room for your feelings. Take some notes if you find it helpful.”</p><p>George huffed. “Alright.”</p><p>Healer Marcus was quiet for a while, but finally, he spoke, redirecting the conversation.</p><p>“Let’s circle back to the time you spent teaching. How did that make you feel about your career of choice?”</p><p>George brightened. “Really good, actually,” he said.</p><p>#</p><p>November 21, 1998</p><p>George locked the shop door, whistling one of Bill’s shanties. The week had been excellent. Sales were up in Hogsmeade, and in Diagon—students rushing in to purchase Snackboxes in preparation for the rush of assignments at the end of term. And despite the heavy bits in the middle, his session with Marcus had left him feeling lighter than usual.</p><p>He still had several hours before he’d arranged to meet Hermione in the park. A scone and some tea would be nice. He headed up High Street, towards Keddle’s Tea and Bakery. The wind wasn’t bad, for once, but the chill in the air still bit at his fingers. George buried his hands in his pockets. The streets were crowded this early on a Saturday afternoon, but it wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend, so George had closed a bit early.</p><p>Across the street, someone bustled into the empty building beside the Post Office, their purple robe swirling as the door snapped shut. Maybe they were opening a new shop. George peered at the window, but the darkened glass was completely opaque. He gave up, turning towards the other side of the street. With luck, it wouldn’t be competition. He glanced back and forth between Hermione’s place and Keddle’s.</p><p>Maybe she’d want some tea.</p><p>He darted up the stairs to Hermione’s flat, rapping a knuckle on the door.</p><p>It swung open. “I need a bit longer,” she said, quill sticking out of her hair as she hoisted a volume against her chest.</p><p>“I figured,” George said. “Just wanted to ask if you’d like some tea—I was going to get some for myself, and I thought I’d check in and see if you wanted me to drop any by.”</p><p>“That would lovely, thanks,” she said. “Chamomile please.”</p><p>“I know,” George said. He flashed her a grin, then backed down the stairs, towards Keddle’s next door.</p><p>He was exiting the teashop when a bulky figure emerged from the crowd, darting up the stairs on the side of Tomes and Scrolls. George paused, watching as the man knocked firmly on Granger’s door. His face was obscured by a thick, fur-covered trapper hat.</p><p>But, there was something familiar—</p><p>George stepped closer.</p><p>Hermione answered the door, bent over her text, distracted. “Thanks, George,” she said. Bugger, she’d thought it was him—what if it was some random sod?</p><p>George approached the stairs, concerned.</p><p>“Mione, it’s me,” the man said, and George knew the voice, even before Hermione looked up, eyes going wide.</p><p>It was Ron.</p><p>What was—what was Ron doing here?</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Come to dinner with me?” Ron asked, shifting to lean against the door. There was a pause, and George’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest. “I’m ready to listen, now.” Ron spoke quietly, pulling his hat off and holding it in his hands. A moment passed, and then the door opened wider, and Ron disappeared inside.</p><p>George sucked in a breath.</p><p>Right, um—</p><p>Right.</p><p>He set the tea on the staircase.</p><p>Right.</p><p>What was he—</p><p>Right. George turned, rubbing a hand over his brow.</p><p>The cold air pricked at his eyes, and his lungs seemed to shrink.</p><p>Right.</p><p>He should—he should go.</p><p>He tucked his face into his coat lapels, hurrying towards the shop. He gave up partway down the lane, apparating into his flat.</p><p>It was quiet around him, and he pulled off his coat, tossing it over the table.</p><p>George exhaled.</p><p>She’d be alright. She’d manage. Regardless of what sort of conversation was occurring in her loft, it wasn’t meant for his ears.</p><p>If only the flat wasn’t so bloody quiet. George gritted his teeth. The broomstick lay propped in the corner, taunting him.</p><p>“Up,” George murmured, and it sailed over, smacking into his hand. He tucked it under the bed. Another day, maybe.</p><p>Why had he been so excited about it?</p><p>Silly, really.</p><p>Probably for the same reason that George felt sick to his stomach, even though he had no right to.</p><p>He gritted his teeth and reached for a sheet of parchment.</p><p>“<em>I feel stupid</em>.”</p><p>George paused over the workstation. There was more to it than that.</p><p>
  <em>“I like spending time with her, and I was looking forward to it.”</em>
</p><p>George took a breath.</p><p>
  <em>“There will be other times, though, because we’re friends. So, I’m going to find something else to do. Something that makes me happy.”</em>
</p><p> Then, he slipped the parchment into his desk drawer.</p><p>George paced the room. He needed a chair, just here, in front of the fire. And yarn. Lots of yarn.</p><p>#</p><p>An hour or so later, George looped the string around the needles absentmindedly, sprawled in the high-back, navy armchair. It was the first one that wasn’t terrible in Magical Miscellaneous, standing just inside the doors. He’d bought it on the spot, paid for it, and dragged it down the street, muttering the featherlight charm under his breath.</p><p>The yarn in his hands was a golden, soft cotton fiber, and George let it come together without minding a pattern. Spools more of it were heaped in the basket to his side.</p><p>The sound system blared, carrying random muggle radio signals from a distant village.</p><p>
  <em>“Let ‘em say we’re crazy, I don’t care about that,”</em>
</p><p>“Right,” George muttered, looping the stitch.</p><p>
  <em>“Put your hand in my hand, Baby, don’t ever look back,”</em>
</p><p>George huffed, pulling the next stitch into place.</p><p>
  <em>“Let the world around us just fall apart—Baby, we can make it if we’re heart to heart.”</em>
</p><p>He shifted in the chair, propping his legs on the back, flopping so his head was upside down. Maybe he’d switch it up. Do a purl stitch. Why not.</p><p>
  <em>“And we can build this dream together,” </em>
</p><p>George nodded to the beat, letting his hands flow.</p><p>
  <em>“Standing strong forever, nothing’s gonna stop us now,”</em>
</p><p>His foot bounced, the slipper coming loose.</p><p>
  <em>“And if this world runs out of lovers, we’ll still have each other.”</em>
</p><p>George finished the row, then started another one.</p><p>The floo whooshed, and Hermione stumbled out. George froze. Her eyes landed on him, widening. Her hands slapped over her mouth.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m so glad I found you, I’m not gonna lose you.”</em>
</p><p>George scrambled, twisting to right himself, but he fell out of the chair instead.</p><p>“This—um—” he started, blinking.</p><p>“I knew it!” Hermione whispered. Her eyes were bright and merry as she took him in.</p><p>“Knew what?” George asked, voice faint. Hermione bounded over, crouching beside him. She smelled like coffee.</p><p>“You knit,” she said, grinning down at the stitchwork on the floor. George’s face heated.</p><p>“Going to take the mickey out of me?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione laughed. “Only for lying,” she said, pushing at his shoulder. “You were all ‘Oh, they’re from the Weasley family,’” she said, mocking his intonation. “You absolute teacup.” George huffed, scratching the back of his neck. “You made the socks, didn’t you?” Hermione leaned in, grinning. George rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Yes,” he said, pushing to his feet. He tucked the supplies into the woven basket, then offered her a hand up. She took it, eyes still sparking with mirth.</p><p>“You owe me some tea, I think?” she said. Then, she turned and nodded at the chair. “That’s nice.”</p><p>George crossed to the kettle. “You like it?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione flopped down onto it. “Yes, it’s very cozy.”</p><p>George pulled open the cupboards, pretending to search for a mug.</p><p>“Why didn’t you come back earlier?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“I saw you had company, and I didn’t want to intrude,” George said.</p><p>“So, you saw Ron, then?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Yes,” George said. “I was about to head up when he knocked on your door, and I overheard part of it, so I thought it’d be best if I, um—” he trailed off.</p><p>Hermione didn’t say anything.</p><p>“Thought you may not want me interrupting,” he finished lightly.</p><p>Hermione peeked at him over the back of the chair. “He asked me to dinner,” she said.</p><p>“Yeah, I heard that bit,” George said, facing the kettle.</p><p>“I told him I had plans,” Hermione said. George blinked. “So, instead, we talked for a while.”</p><p>George poured the tea.</p><p>“He still doesn’t understand why things won’t work, but I let him talk at me for a while, just venting, honestly,” she said. “I think it was good for him.”</p><p>George carried the mug over. Hermione gave him a little smile. “He asked why I thought he was you,” she said. George winced.</p><p>“He wasn’t too happy about it,” she said. “But I told him we were friends, and that you’d been looking out for me, and he seemed to calm down.” She dragged her thumb along the mug’s handle, hesitating. “What happened with you two?”</p><p>George sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “He didn’t say?” he asked faintly.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said.</p><p>George shrugged. “We got into it a few times,” he said. He waved a hand. “Sort of like that one fight at the Burrow, when you were there.”</p><p>Hermione blew steam off the mug and watched him, as though she was waiting for more.</p><p>Salazar.</p><p>“I—um.” He paused, folding his arms and staring at the wall. “Didn’t care for the way he was treating you, and he didn’t care for the way I voiced it.”</p><p>“The way he was treating me?” Hermione asked softly.</p><p>Oh, this was dangerous territory.</p><p>George scratched at the back of his neck. “I know you can take care of yourself,” he said. “But, as his older brother, it was a bit frustrating to watch. Mum and Dad raised us better than that, and he just—” George paused, shaking his head. “Anyway. Probably should’ve minded my business.”</p><p>Hermione took a drink. “He thinks you’re choosing me over him,” she said. “I-I tried to explain that it wasn’t the truth, but he didn’t want to listen.”</p><p>George leaned against the chair’s back, looking down at her. “I appreciate you trying,” he said. “But this isn’t your fault.”</p><p>Granger shook her head.</p><p>George lifted his brows. “It’s not,” he said.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. She took another drink, glancing around the room. “You don’t look ready to go flying,” she said, her brow wrinkling.</p><p>“Oh—” George stepped back from the chair. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head. “Well, we made plans, didn’t we?” she asked. George cleared his throat, tapping a hand against the outside of his leg. Unbidden, excitement zipped up his sternum.</p><p>“Right, um,” he said. “Give me a minute.”</p><p>Hermione drank her tea while he yanked on his coat, pulled the broomstick from under the bed, and stuffed his feet into his boots.</p><p>“Ron still in town?” he asked, lacing up the ties. It would be less than ideal, should they bump into him. At the thought, a bolt of guilt twisted his stomach.</p><p>“No, he went back after I declined the dinner invitation for the last time,” Hermione said. “I don’t believe he stopped to see Ginny either, so don’t feel too poorly.”</p><p>“Right,” George said, pausing.</p><p>Hermione stood, crossing to the kitchenette. “I don’t think he planned the trip out. It sort of seemed like something he’d done impulsively.” She began to wash the mug by hand. “I wonder if Harry knows—” she trailed off.</p><p>George bit his lips together, looping the knot on the laces. Finally, he pushed to a stand. Granger was watching him, a small smile twisting the corner of her mouth.</p><p>“Thanks for doing this,” she said.</p><p>“It’s no problem,” George said, resting the broom against his shoulder. “I’ve taught more than a few people, so—”</p><p>“No, I meant listening,” Hermione said.</p><p>#</p><p>The park was nearly empty, and the crisp scent of pine saturated the breeze. George planted the broomstick on the ground. Best start with the basics.</p><p>“You know the ‘up’ command?” he asked. Hermione shot him a withering glare.</p><p>“Up,” she said. The broomstick wobbled, hesitating, but then it launched into her palm.</p><p>“Excellent.” George grinned, cocking his head to the side. “Alright, let’s see your best try.”</p><p>Hermione threw her leg over, and rose a foot into the air, face pinched. George circled, assessing her stance. She hunched, arms locked, wrists together, pushing the handle down. Rubbish.</p><p>“Right,” he said, reaching to adjust her hands. “You’ll have more control bracing it from beneath, rather than strangling it like that.” Her fingers sparked on his, but he brushed it aside, focusing. “Your elbows are locked.” He tapped her arm. Hermione bent it, and the broomstick wobbled. She hissed, dropping back to the ground.</p><p>“Wait—” she muttered, holding the broom out. “Show me first.”</p><p>George shrugged and mounted the broom. He kicked off, hovering just over the ground. “See how I’ve got my arms bent?” he asked. Hermione grimaced.</p><p>“It looks like you’re about to fall,” she said.</p><p>“Never fallen off a broomstick in my life,” George said. “Not once.”</p><p>“Not even when you were a kid?” she asked. George grinned.</p><p>“Charlie always caught me,” he said. “So, that doesn’t count.”</p><p>Hermione sighed.</p><p>“It’s really a matter of feeling where you are, and making small adjustments,” George said. Hermione studied the broom. She pulled a quill and a small pad of paper from her pocket.</p><p>“Oi,” George said, folding his arms. “This isn’t theoretical. You’ve got to feel it.”</p><p>Hermione huffed. “How am I supposed to do that? Every time I get on, I’m terrified of falling, and it doesn’t make any more sense watching you.”</p><p>George leaned back, bracing his hands on his knees. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Hop on, then, and I’ll show you.”</p><p>Hermione hesitated. Finally, she nodded.</p><p>Granger stepped up to the broom, grimacing.</p><p>“It’ll be alright, Granger,” George said. She nodded.</p><p>He thought she’d get on the back like she had the last time they’d ridden together, but she swung her leg over in front of him.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“I’ll tell your Mum if you break your word,” she said, voice shaky. Chamomile and the barest hint of coffee filled his nose.</p><p>The wind whistled through the pines around them, and suddenly, George was unnerved on a broom for the first time in his life.</p><p>Right. He gritted his teeth.</p><p>He was helping a friend. That’s all it was.</p><p>Hesitating, he reached around her to hold the broomstick just in front of the place she did. Granger eased back, snug to his chest, wrapped warm in his arms like a slow dance.</p><p>Oh, Godric’s Hollow.</p><p>He was—he was holding her.</p><p>The glow soaked through his sleeves, through his ribs, through his center, and he was filled with the same sort of breathless wonder that had taken him the first time he’d lit a filibuster with small, unsteady hands.</p><p>This was a terrible idea.</p><p>George reeled back, twisting away.</p><p>“Are you alright, George?” she asked, turning. George ducked his head out of sight, pretending to be preoccupied with the broom’s twigwork. Where had all the air gone? They were outside, weren’t they? Was it the altitude?</p><p>He couldn’t focus, not like this. It wasn’t safe.</p><p>George let the spell roll silent off his tongue, pressing the sparks of emotion back, behind the doors of the Great Hall in his mind. Locked them tight.</p><p>The rushing in his chest fizzled, calming.</p><p>Not gone completely, but tolerable.</p><p>His voice was cool and steady as he answered: “Yes, Granger. Just making sure everything is safe for the ride.”</p><p>He turned back, bringing his arms securely around her and leaning over her right shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asked. Her ear brushed his cheek as she nodded, and George reached up, adjusting her hat so it wouldn’t be exposed to the cold. It was already rather pink. “There you are,” he said lightly.</p><p>“Thanks,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“Alright, so I’ll take us higher, and you pay attention to the way gravity shifts. It’ll pull you backwards, first, then forwards.” Hermione nodded again.</p><p>He tipped the broom’s handle, and they began to take on altitude. As they reached several yards off the ground, Hermione stiffened.</p><p>“I’ve got you,” George said calmly. He leveled the broom out at a slant, so she’d be balanced against him and in no danger of sliding off. Hermione sat like a load of bricks, rigid. “Stop looking down,” he said.</p><p>“Where else is there to look?” Hermione hissed.</p><p>“I have a gruesome scar that children seem to enjoy gaping at,” George quipped, glancing over his shoulder as he shifted between the trees. “Try that.”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “It’s not that bad,” she said.</p><p>“I’m about to lean forward to accelerate,” George said. “So, brace against your hands.” She shifted her weight.</p><p>“Actually, I think it suits you,” she said.</p><p>“Thanks, but I’d rather have the ear,” George said dryly, distracted as he leaned in, his focus razor sharp on keeping Hermione balanced. The broom kicked into gear, and Hermione jolted, her hand snapping out to grip his forearm.</p><p>“Hold the broom, Granger,” he said, watching the horizon. “That’s not safe.” She didn’t move her hand, her knuckles white. “If I were to topple, it would drag you with me. Hold the broom.”</p><p>Granger shook her head, the movement sharp and frantic.</p><p>“Trust me,” he mumbled towards her ear, the words soft in his throat as a gale of wind whipped at them. “I won’t let you fall.” Hermione shifted, moving her hand back to the broomstick.</p><p>“Atta girl,” he said, assessing her posture. She was in the right stance, finally. She just needed to relax. “Tell me about your day.”</p><p>Hermione paused, and George eased the broom over the rooftops, towards the outskirts of town.</p><p>“I took points from a couple of fourth-year Ravenclaws for pushing a first-year down the stairs,” she said, faint.</p><p>“Hate bullies,” George said, grimacing.</p><p>“You should sell some sort of kit for bully defense,” she said. “It would make my job easier.”</p><p>George paused, eyes fixed on the horizon. Then, he nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. What should we stick inside?”</p><p>Granger was starting to relax, the rigidity seeping out of her.</p><p>There it was.</p><p>“Some sort of noisemaker, maybe?” Granger mused. “Not something painful, but something that will alert professors or friends that there may be a situation.” George nodded, adjusting his hold around her to slip more of the control into her hands. “Maybe an invisibility potion. A hug potion?”</p><p>“A hug potion?” George asked, bemused. The broomstick didn’t falter as Granger adjusted her grip, levelling it out. George loosened his hold a bit more. He was barely grabbing on, now.</p><p>“Yeah. Something that makes you feel warm and safe,” she said quietly.</p><p>“Granger, that’s just Chamomile tea,” George said, smiling in the wind. “Try turning us a bit.”</p><p>Hermione went quiet for a moment. She leaned forward, to the right, and the broom began to bank, turning slowly.</p><p>“Very good,” George murmured, watching. “Higher?”</p><p>“No,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Alright,” George said. “That’s fine.”</p><p>“Not everyone likes Chamomile tea, though,” she said, leaning back. The broom slowed, and George peeked down.</p><p>“I do,” George said. Snow blanketed the pines below them, softening everything.</p><p>Hermione laughed. “Since when?”</p><p>George shrugged. “Since always.”</p><p>“Me as well—Dad used to make it for me before bed,” she said. “But it could be fun to try to make a potion.”</p><p>George lifted his left hand, gently easing it away from the handle.</p><p>“I know what you’re doing,” Granger said.</p><p>“Just stretching?” George replied, shifting the arm over his head.</p><p>“You’re trying to make me take over without realizing it,” Hermione said, her tone disapproving. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”</p><p>“Haven’t adjusted the broom in a minute, Granger,” he whispered. “This is all you.”</p><p>Hermione stiffened. “George Weasley,” she snapped.</p><p>“I’m right here,” he said smoothly. “If something happens, I can take it back.”</p><p>Hermione’s shoulders were tight.</p><p>“Why are you scared of heights, Granger?” he asked, looping his arm back around her. She exhaled, slumping against him.</p><p>“When I was ten, we were on holiday, and I was leaning over the railing at this lighthouse. It was stormy, and the bar I was standing on was more slippery than I realized,” she said. A sudden gust of wind tossed the broom upwards, and he started, pulling her closer against him. He’d expected her to panic, but she only winced a bit, faltering a bit before continuing. “I fell.” She paused, her voice going faint. “I was so afraid of hitting the rocks and the waves, that my magic sort of took over, and—” she faltered. “I did the opposite.”</p><p>George glanced at her. Things like that were common in wizarding families, but if no one had been there to get her down—he swallowed.</p><p>“See, I didn’t know that the Department of Accidental Magic was on its way,” she said. “And all the while, I was hovering over the clouds, thinking about how it would feel, once I dropped.”</p><p>“That’s terrible,” George murmured. Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“I’ve never told anyone that before,” she said, exhaling a little and shrugging. She turned, and her nose almost brushed the side of his. “Do you have any nonsense fears?”</p><p>George swallowed. “Plenty,” he said. He turned the broomstick back towards town, cradling her close as the doors of the Great Hall thundered in his heart.</p><p>#</p><p>November 22, 1998</p><p>“Bugger,” George breathed, his stomach twisting as he stared down at the paper in his hands.</p><p>
  <em>“Golden Girl Sets Her Cap for a Different Weasley.”</em>
</p><p>Under the headline, there was a large photo—him holding her in the snow on the stairs just outside her flat, weeks ago. It looked—not how it had been. It looked like they were involved.</p><p>Beneath, there was a whole spread, photos taken over the last several weeks, him and Granger. One of them on the broom, even. George’s face flamed. Some of them had been cropped to exclude Ginny or Luna, some of them were just the two of them. They’d been followed. For months. The date over the article was from the day prior. How many people had seen it?</p><p>The display stand in front of the new office was laden with them—the shelves stacked high in front of the darkened windowpane. Just visible over the racks was the new office’s moniker, printed in gilded, silver letters over the glass: <em>“The Resonant.”</em></p><p>George inhaled sharply, twisting to check behind him. Honeydukes was unpopulated, the morning hour still early. Soon, students would be rushing through the cobblestone streets for the Hogsmeade visit, and they’d be sure to see the papers.</p><p>He whirled, looking at her flat. A good number of the photos had been taken from the angle where he stood. The parchment crumpled in his hands, and he looked back down, shaken.</p><p>The article itself was a bloody disaster.</p><p>
  <em>“Has Hermione Granger captured a new beau? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>As readers know, Miss Granger ended her longstanding relationship with Ronald Weasley shortly before the start of term, leaving loved ones to worry about the sudden change of heart. In recent weeks, however, the reason for the split seems more apparent. The witch has been spotted multiple times at none other than George Weasley’s side. The elder brother of her ex-boyfriend is known for his work in Diagon Ally and for his public meltdown in the Wizengamot earlier this year. When asked for comment on the curious pair, classmates seemed skeptical of Miss Granger’s intentions.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Rather fishy that she up and left Ron,’ said Zarcharias Smith. ‘Seeing his brother—that’s a bit of a low blow. She must be mad as a hornet at [Ronald] Weasley to do that.’ Cormac McLaggen, a recent Hogwarts graduate, argued: ‘Wouldn’t be the first time she’s used another bloke to get back at Ron. She used me as a date to a holiday party once because Ron wouldn’t go with her.’ Romilda Vane, meanwhile, expressed concern for Miss Granger’s clarity of mind. ‘It’s more than a little flighty. I only hope Hermione understands what she’s getting into,’ Vane said. ‘We all know that George Weasley is mad, and while Hermione can hold her own, he might unleash on her, like he did with my father.’ As of yet, we can only assume that Miss Granger takes no issue with her new boyfriend’s extremism—a troublesome sign in the witch many expect to climb through Ministry ranks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When asked about the couple, Ginny Weasley became irate, threatening the reporter, showing the same violent streak that haunts her brother. In the process however, she refused to deny that the two are an item.”</em>
</p><p>George’s breath came short and fast as he skimmed the words. He should’ve known there was a reason nothing had been printed for a while. It had been too good to be true. They’d been waiting, storing up the evidence, and now, things looked—</p><p>The parchment singed in his fingers.</p><p>“You’ve got to buy that if you want to read,” came the bored voice to the side of the stand. A short man with a thick mustache sat on a stool, watching him.</p><p>“Did you write this?” George asked, voice low as fire coursing through him.</p><p>The bloke shook his head. “They only bring me in to sell.”</p><p>George scoffed. “Right, well, I need to speak with whoever did,” he said. The man raised his brows, looking from the cover to George.</p><p>“You that fellow, then?” he asked. George huffed, firming his jaw. He shoved the paper back onto the stand and headed to the door. The handle balked, not turning under his hand.</p><p>“Staff only,” the man called.</p><p>“That’s rubbish,” George ground out, wheeling around. Granger would—oh Merlin, Granger. He blinked hard, glancing across the way to the flat over Tomes and Scrolls. The man crossed his arms.</p><p>“The lot of you are cowards,” George spat. The man raised his hands, widening his eyes.</p><p>George’s fists clenched, red and raw in the frigid air. There was nothing to be gained here. He stormed off, striding through the snow, ducking his face into his coat collar to hide it.</p><p>He needed to explain. She had to know that this was all rubbish. He hadn’t meant to put her into the line of fire like this.</p><p>George peered back and forth before darting up the staircase. A mountain of envelops was piled against the door, and as he raised his hand to knock, an unfamiliar owl swooped low, dropping yet another one.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“Granger?” he asked faintly, rapping once against the door.</p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut and tried again.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>His ribs caved inwards, a cold ache seeping into his throat.</p><p>Right. He shouldn’t be here. If someone saw, it would only make things worse.</p><p>George apparated with a pop, stumbling onto the shop floor. He should get the stock ready, straighten up the shelving. Keep his hands busy.</p><p>He was rattled, pacing, shaking the snow from his jacket, skating his hands through his hair.</p><p>How far did <em>The Resonant </em>circulate?</p><p>He tipped his chin up, sucking in a breath. One thing at a time.</p><p>Maybe Ron hadn’t seen it.</p><p>George practically rattled, pulling a crate from the counter and tossing Snackboxes onto the shelves without regard front-facing them. He should’ve been more careful.</p><p>The crate cracked on the ground, and George ground his palms into his eyes. It was his job to look out for the others, and he’d been so thick.</p><p>He needed Fred. Or Lee. Or Bill. He couldn’t do this alone today.</p><p>His boots were heavy on the floor, and he swung the flat door open.</p><p>The warm scent of pumpkin and cinnamon filled his nose. George blinked.</p><p>Hermione Jean Granger stood at the kitchenette, whisking pumpkin puree in a bowl, her movements clumsy and unpracticed as she bit her lip.</p><p>“Hello George,” she said, voice bemused and unbothered. “Did you know we’re dating?”</p><p>George’s mouth opened, cold shock gluing him in place.  </p><p>“My kitchen is full of hate mail, so I’m borrowing yours,” she said lightly, dumping some apple cider into the bowl. “Seeing as we’re having a passionate fling, I thought it would be alright.” A nervous edge has worked its way into her voice, and she had yet to meet his eyes. George’s ribs squeezed inwards.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked.</p><p>“Would you like some Pumpkin Juice?” she asked, pitch swinging high. Chunks of puree floated in the liquid. George winced.</p><p>“I haven’t set my cap for you,” she said, suddenly. She clunked the bowl on the counter and wiped her pajama sleeve across her mouth. Finally, she looked up at him, her brows knit together and something like an apology, frantic in her eyes.</p><p>“I know,” he said softly, tilting his head. “Obviously, I mean, we’re—”</p><p>“Exactly,” Hermione said. She shook her head, snorting. “Ridiculous, really.”</p><p>“They print what sells,” George said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He sighed. Then: “Do you want me to manage the mail for you?”</p><p>“No,” Hermione said, expression darkening. “I can use it as kindling.” She paused, looking into the bowl. “Pity I have to sort through it, though. My parents sent a letter last week, and I sent one back, asking about their Christmas plans and suggesting some flights, and if their reply got caught up with the rest—” Her curls were wild around her face, and as George rounded the counter, he blinked at her soot-streaked slippers.</p><p>“I can help with that, at least,” he said. “Since I seem to have a lack of mail myself.”</p><p>“Jealous?” Hermione asked, scoffing the smallest bit. George lifted the bowl from the counter and began to pull the Pumpkin Juice together, the whisk smooth in his hand.</p><p>“Terribly,” he said dryly. His throat was threatening to close. Of course, all the vitriol would go to Hermione and not him. The world was cruel like that. “You alright?” he asked.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Hermione said. She hesitated. “Are you? I wasn’t sure if you’d feel—” she stumbled a bit here, her hands twisting. “—uncomfortable or something.”</p><p>George shook his head. “I’m used to it. They’ve been writing rubbish about me all summer.”</p><p>Hermione grimaced.</p><p>The floo whooshed, and Fred stepped out.</p><p>“Been all over Diagon,” he growled, smacking soot off his jacket. “Can’t find who bloody wrote it, but when I do—” he paused at Hermione and George, side by side at the counter. “I’ll tell them how very wrong they are,” he said lightly, voice lilting as his hands slowed over his jacket.</p><p>George shot him a furtive look, and Fred snorted.</p><p>“I appreciate it, Fred,” Hermione said, hopping down from the counter and pulling open the cupboard door. “We’ve got Pumpkin Juice. Would you like some?”</p><p>The floo whooshed again, and Ginny and Luna tumbled out. “It was Cormac,” Ginny shouted, plowing into Fred’s back. “Showed up at practice yesterday morning, and I told him off. Didn’t think he was writing a piece, though, the git!”</p><p>George bit his lips together, whisking harder. McLaggen always was a prat.</p><p>“I should’ve known,” Hermione muttered, and the glasses rang as she smacked them on the quartz surface. “That stupid party—following me around.”</p><p>George’s arm stilled. “He’s been bothering you?” he asked. Hermione blinked.</p><p>“I haven’t seen him, actually,” she said. “I-I meant at the holiday party, sixth year.”</p><p>“The one Ron stood you up for?” Fred supplied, sliding into a barstool in front of them.</p><p>George blinked, but Hermione didn’t react, breezing past the comment as though it was insignificant.</p><p>“Yes, well, I took Cormac instead, and he thought it meant we were an item,” Hermione mused. The Pumpkin Juice splashed into the glasses. She slipped one into George’s hands, and he took a large gulp of the liquid.</p><p>“So, he’s jealous of the torrid affair you’re having with Georgie, then?” Fred asked, accepting the drink she held out. George choked, coughing.</p><p>“Yes, Fred, Cormac can’t stand to see the sight of George and I so passionately in love,” Hermione said flatly.</p><p>Rowena’s hat.</p><p>George’s face went hot, and he spun to the fridge.</p><p>“See, I knew there was something there,” Fred said, and George could hear the grin in his voice.</p><p>Oh, he was going to throttle him later.</p><p>“As if,” Hermione said, dropping the act. “No, I don’t think he’s jealous. Bitter, maybe. Not jealous, though.” She pulled at her sleeve. “I mean, anyone watching that closely would know that the story’s fabricated. Besides, they published something sort of like this about me far before any of the photographs were taken.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, just let George and I get ahold of the sod,” Fred said, his voice darkening.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Hermione said, the words crisp and commanding. “All it would do is egg them on, and I won’t have them printing more about George being—” she trailed off. No one spoke.</p><p>George winced and pulled the ingredients for batter from the shelf. “Alright, then,” he said, cheery and forced. Who wants breakfast?” Fred blinked at the change in direction, but Luna stepped up to the counter and hummed, nodding.</p><p>“Luna?” George asked. She didn’t reply.</p><p>“She can’t talk,” Ginny said. “She’s working on a new Mandrake leaf.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said with a firm nod, assessing Luna. “Giving it another shot, then?” Luna shrugged her shoulders, but the spark in her eyes gave away her excitement.</p><p>“Can’t do that on an empty stomach!” George said, spinning back around, rambling in his eagerness to keep them far, far away from the uncomfortable territory. “Toast? Eggs? Drop Scones?” Luna nodded, climbing onto the second barstool beside Fred.</p><p>The floo roared. “George, I expect to be told when you’ve got a new bird,” Lee called. Ginny smacked Lee in the stomach. “Only joking!” he cried. Lee hopped onto the third barstool. “Good, you’re making food.”</p><p>Fred went out front to prep the shop, and George bustled over breakfast for the lot of them. Hermione worked to fill the plates, handing them out while George managed fixing everything. The group didn’t dissipate after eating, however. The others seemed to realize how the article had landed, not leaving them even after the rush of students filled the shop.</p><p>Hermione didn’t return to her place all day, and George couldn’t help but wonder if the large pile of letters had something to do with it.</p><p>Instead, she and Lee taught Fred how to use the muggle sound system, and the cacophony that flooded through the cherry shelving all day was nothing short of marvelous.</p><p>After, they trudged to her flat and sorted the mail. Nothing from the Grangers, but George and Fred distracted her, setting dozens of tiny fires, shriveling the rubbish to singed flakes. On their way back to the shop, Fred watched calmly in the dark as George plastered the leftover ash to <em>The Resonant</em>’s office windows with a permanent sticking charm.</p><p>#</p><p>December 1, 1998</p><p>Harry’s grey auror robes were rumpled as he dumped the large, pastel green bag on George’s floor. “Can’t thank you enough,” he said, wiping a sleeve over his eyes. “No one else could on such short notice, and I’ve got to help with the trials.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” George said, bouncing Teddy on his knee at the table. “Take all the time you need.”</p><p>“Really—” Harry stopped at the floo, tilting his head. “There anything I can do in return?”</p><p>George paused, the bet with Granger flitting through his mind.</p><p>“You remember that map we gave you?” he asked. Harry stilled. “I could have use of it, for a day or so.”</p><p>Harry raised his brows.</p><p>“Nothing bad,” George said. “Only moderately illegal. Barely illegal, really. Might not even be against the law at all.”</p><p>Harry dragged his hands down his face, but then he grinned.</p><p>“The less I know, the better,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I can get you the map sometime in the next few months. That alright?”</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said, grinning. “Whenever works for you.”</p><p>Harry called the address for the Diagon shop, then stepped into the flame.</p><p>“Alright,” George said, hoisting Teddy up, grinning. “What should we do?”</p><p>Teddy sneezed into George’s mouth.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>#</p><p>December 2, 1998</p><p>George wiped his nose on his sleeve. The chill outside kept seeping through the entryway, and it was making him a bit leaky, but the steady flow of customers was worth it.</p><p>“And the advisor I wrote said that the essay question section is graded the most harshly, and that to be competitive, I’ve got to find new ways to talk about my answers, because if I only regurgitate from books, they’ll think I haven’t got any critical thinking skills—” Hermione rambled, pacing and frantic as she pushed between customers. George shot her a sympathetic look while he rang up another client.</p><p>“Make Merry Mischief,” George said, handing them the receipt.</p><p>“I have to retool my entire approach,” Hermione said, waving her hands. “I haven’t done enough—how could I be so thick?”</p><p>George took the Basic Blaze Box from a tall Slytherin, ringing it in. “You’re not thick, Granger,” he said. Then: “Five Galleons, Mate.”</p><p>The student pushed the money across the counter, and George wiped his nose on his sleeve again. The till chimed.</p><p>“I must be, honestly—” Granger muttered, still pacing.</p><p>“Make Merry Mischief,” George said, eyes watering as the Slytherin strode from the shop, purchase in hand.</p><p>An older woman slapped a pair of Extendable Ears onto the counter.</p><p>“That all?” George asked. She nodded, grim. “Seven Galleons, please,” he said.</p><p>“They’re going to think I’m trying to get in on fame,” she said, and her tone crawled to a desperate level. “I hate that.”</p><p>The till rang.</p><p>“Make Merry Mischief,” George said. He sniffed.</p><p>“You’re the last person who would ever,” he said. “And they’d be daft to think otherwise.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged.</p><p>A small girl skipped up to the counter. “Mummy said I can get another Pygmy Puff,” she said. The woman behind her nodded.  </p><p>“Big responsibility,” George said, raising his brows. “We ready?”</p><p>“Oh yes,” her mum said, nodding. “We’ve talked about it quite a lot.”</p><p>“I’ll get it,” Hermione muttered. She stepped through the shop floo, calling the Diagon address.</p><p>“20 Galleons for the Puff, care kit included,” George said. “We’ll need you to sign for it, as well.”</p><p>The woman nodded. George pushed the paperwork across the table, then wiped his nose on his sleeve.</p><p>The floo roared, and Hermione emerged, purple box in one hand and a crate of supplies in the other.</p><p>“There’s a book here,” she said, kneeling in front of the girl. “About the proper care, alright?”</p><p>The girl bounced on her toes, reaching for the box.</p><p>George rang them into the till. The wind bustled through the doors as they left, knocking into him with a chill.</p><p>Merlin, it was cold.</p><p>He sneezed.</p><p>“Thanks for handling that,” he said. “Did you tell Fred?”</p><p>“No, I just walked off with it,” Hermione said flatly. George tipped his head back and laughed.</p><p>#</p><p>December 3, 1998</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>He couldn’t lift his head, let alone put on his apron. George collapsed back onto the bed, breathing hard.</p><p>He summoned the Snackbox, popping the cure end of a Fever Fudge in his mouth.</p><p>It did nothing, and the scratchy, hot feeling in his throat didn’t fade.</p><p>Maybe he’d rest today. Get back to the shop tomorrow. That would be alright.</p><p>#</p><p>December 4, 1998</p><p>The world twisted. Vortex.</p><p>Cold.</p><p>Hot.</p><p>Rough blankets, pulled under his chin.</p><p>#</p><p>December 5, 1998</p><p>Something cool descended on his forehead, and George’s eyes fluttered open. Granger knelt over him, brow furrowed.</p><p>“Sorry,” she whispered. “You hadn’t opened in a few days, and I got worried.”</p><p>He tried to speak, but his throat wouldn’t open. It burned like fire.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “Harry owled,” she said. “He’s got Dragon Pox.”</p><p>George groaned and winced as the sound hurt.</p><p>That’s what it was.</p><p>“I already had it, summer before third year,” she said, adjusting the blanket around him. “So, I’ll be alright.”</p><p>She lifted a glass of water. “Here.”</p><p>Her hand was steady under his head as she propped him up to drink it. George watched her, swallowing it back. The liquid hissed, cool down his throat.</p><p>It was the first drink he’d had in days.</p><p>He exhaled, closing his eyes as he lurched forward, gulping it in. He drained the whole glass, then fell back, onto the pillow.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said, but the word had no sound, the syllable a grating, sharp breath.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “I’m going to stay here, alright?” she asked. “I’ve got my books, and I’ll just study.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“I don’t want to leave you alone like this,” she said. “Is that okay?”</p><p>Everything was terribly warm, but her hand was cool on his forehead, and George couldn’t think straight.</p><p>“Okay,” he said.</p><p>He slipped back under.</p><p>#</p><p>The next time he came to, he was shuddering, a terrible cold radiating from his center. His throat burned, everything blurry. Across the room, he could faintly make out a figure at the stove. Dark shapes hovered in the air, around their head.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>Suddenly, Hermione was next to him, propping him up again, helping him drink something down. Warmth flooded his insides, and the shaking stopped.</p><p>“It’s canned,” she said. “Sorry.”</p><p>It was magic.</p><p>#</p><p>“I would ask the members of this table to consider the implications of such a rhetoric.” Hermione’s voice was soft, spilling over the floorboards as she paced. George blinked back the sleep. Books circulated around her, and she spoke to the air, gesturing. “Why do we limit access to Runic knowledges when they carry the potential to benefit many?” She turned, tilting her head. “An interesting point, Professor Melville, but rather motivated by fear, I’d argue. If the secrets aren’t willingly given, I say we unlock them ourselves. Honestly, doesn’t the smallest part of you wonder about what we might achieve, should we open those gates to the rest of the magical community?”</p><p>George closed his eyes, her voice carrying him off.</p><p>#</p><p>George’s head pounded, the pillow hot and sticky under him. The pain radiated like a slowly inflating balloon behind his skull.</p><p>He coughed, and it made it all so much worse. Everything tight. Aching. He sucked in a short breath. Another, and it rattled, not quite reaching his lungs.</p><p>His throat was fire.</p><p>Something creaked. Soft footsteps echoing.</p><p>He tried to twist toward the sound, but his head lurched, his sinuses aching, and he inhaled sharply.</p><p>But then something cool landed on his forehead, and the touch traced back through his hair, warm and gentle like a dream. The sparks flickered over his scalp, carrying away the sharp ache, and George melted away.</p><p>“That’s Heaven,” he breathed.</p><p>The touch stilled. George’s eyes flew open.</p><p>Hermione stood over him, hand on his forehead, lit wand in her teeth. Her hair was pulled into a messy plait, a book tucked on her forearm.</p><p>“Just me,” she said, giving him a bemused smile.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said, blinking hard. His voice was a bit more audible, but it sounded stuffy and strange.</p><p>Hermione laughed softly. “That’s alright.” She picked up a bucket and propped him up, bracing the container underneath his face. “You sound awful,” she said.</p><p>George’s head tipped forward.</p><p>“What are you—”</p><p>“We’re going to clear your airway, alright?” Hermione said lightly, and George jerked his head, not quite following her words. “Anapneum,” Hermione whispered, and he gagged, jolting as the magic pulled it out of him. Thick, purple goo launched into the steel, wave after wave, spewing from his nose and mouth. George shook, choking.</p><p>It was terrible.</p><p>But Hermione didn’t shy away. Her hand was steady on his back, stroking a small, soothing circle there.</p><p>The last wave left him, and he sputtered, clutching the bucket. His head felt lighter, the air biting at his raw sinuses, but he could breathe.</p><p>He couldn’t look at her as she vanished the bucket, then whatever was on his face.</p><p>“When I had it, my snot was gold,” Hermione said, conversationally as she put a glass to his lips. “Ghastly to cough up, but I felt ever so much better once I did.”</p><p>George lifted his eyes. She smiled, and the water tipped down his throat. “You must feel poorly,” she whispered. “Not one joke about my bogeys.”</p><p>“A blown opportunity,” George muttered, a little dazed, and Granger laughed. His head swam, and a light ringing filled his ears. She helped him back down.</p><p>“Listen, it’s a bit cold, would you mind terribly if I—” her voice went fuzzy, he shook his head, trying to follow it as the dark reached up for him.</p><p>Her hand trailed back, over his forehead, tracing into his hair.</p><p>George’s eyes fluttered shut of their own accord.</p><p>He was—</p><p>George drew in a slow breath, struggling to keep from fading, but the sparks were light and soothing.</p><p>Oh, he was in trouble.</p><p>He unraveled, fading into the black.</p><p>#</p><p>December 6, 1998</p><p>George gasped, his eyes flying open. The room tipped around him, spinning. He was cold again—so cold. He tried to lift his head, but it wouldn’t obey.</p><p>“George?” Granger whispered. He blinked. Everything was a blur. He blinked again. Her face sharpened, and a familiar, hunter green jumper shifted on her shoulders, the golden “G” on it shifting.</p><p>George winced.</p><p>Now he knew he was dreaming. One of the rare, cruel, and terrible dreams where they were married, and she loved him.</p><p>He blinked heavily, swallowing back the burning sensation in his throat.</p><p>Hermione swept her hair into a messy bun. Curls sprang free, over her face.</p><p>Waking would rend him in two.</p><p>“I’ll make you a cuppa,” her voice was distant and tinny as she patted his shoulder. His jumper hung on her frame, and he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. George squeezed his eyes shut.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked, hoarse.</p><p>“Yes George?” she called.</p><p>“I know this isn’t real,” he said. Hermione laughed.</p><p>“I think you’re a little loopy,” she said.</p><p>“Right,” George whispered.</p><p>The kettle whistled, and George watched, a dull ache in the pit of his stomach as Hermione’s fuzzy shape shuffled around the kitchenette.</p><p>It would be over soon.</p><p>She brought it over, a small smile on her face. “Here you are,” she whispered, propping him up. Gravity dragged at his left side, but not his right, some sort of vertigo tugging at him. The tea almost tasted real—the heat of it settling through his insides. He couldn’t focus his vision, but the realness of the Chamomile, the warm sparks against his back—it was too much. The room whirled, and as hard as he tried, it wouldn’t stop.</p><p>Not yet, please. Not yet. His throat constricted.</p><p>He blinked hard, straining, and Hermione’s features sharpened. “How are you feeling?” she asked, leaning over him.</p><p>“Never better,” George mumbled, dazed, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. Her hands were gentle as she helped him lay back, and George’s breath was fast, his eyes searching over her.</p><p>Any moment now, he would fade.</p><p>“Don’t want to go,” he mumbled, voice thick.</p><p>“You don’t have to go anywhere,” she murmured, watching him. She didn’t understand.</p><p>Her palm rested on his forehead, and logic flew out the window. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t real. He wanted her to know.</p><p>She needed to know. He had to tell her, at least once. She had to know, before he left.</p><p>“You’re still rather warm,” Granger said, staring at his face like it was a puzzle. Darkness seeped over the edges of his vision.</p><p>“I-I’ve got to—” he stumbled over the sentence, trying to slow his breathing, but everything felt fuzzy and strange, and Hermione’s curls spilled over the jumper as she leaned in.</p><p>“—got to tell you something,” he whispered, and his voice was barely audible. His heart beat, wild in his chest. Everything spun faster, his surroundings blurring together. The only clear thing in the room was her and the green jumper, and George swallowed.</p><p>“What is it?” Granger smiled.</p><p>“I love you,” he breathed, urgent.</p><p>Hermione blinked. Her face went pink.</p><p>Then she threw her head back.</p><p>“You are so knackered, Merlin!” she said, laughing. “You must not know which end is up.”</p><p>“No—” George gasped, reaching for her, but the weight on his chest was too heavy, and the room swayed. “No, I love you,” he shook his head, blinking hard. “—love you so much.” It sounded like honey coming out of his mouth, slow and slurred.</p><p>“Mhm,” Hermione said, eyes sparking with mirth. That wasn’t—wait— she had to know, before, before—</p><p>“Love you—” he tried again, desperate, trying to make it make sense to her. “—like carrot cake.” The sob caught in his throat.</p><p>Hermione nodded, and her expression softened, but he could tell—the look in her eyes, she didn’t understand.</p><p>“I love you too, Georgie,” she said, patting his arm. “Like carrot cake.”</p><p>“Okay,” George said, inhaling a shaky breath. “Okay.”</p><p>She breathed out a small laugh, hand resting on his arm as she turned back to her book.</p><p>George passed out.</p><p>#</p><p>December 7, 1998</p><p>George opened his eyes. The hearth cracked, and daylight streamed through the room. Granger sat in front of his bed, leaning her head back against his arm.</p><p>Reading.</p><p>George blinked at the clock on the wall. The short hand pointed at ten.</p><p>Everything smelled like Chamomile, and his throat wasn’t burning.</p><p>Granger wore a dark, green jumper the shade of pine.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>George’s eyes widened, and he shot upright.</p><p>Hermione turned. “That’s encouraging,” she said brightly. She stretched. “How are you?”</p><p>George’s mouth opened. “How long have you been here?” he asked faintly.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “A few days,” she said. “Two or three. You’ve had a bit of a nasty trip.” George’s heart hammered, but Hermione was preoccupied, rambling. “I think it was worse for you because you got it at an older age. Fred offered to come so I could go to class, but I told him to hold off, since he’s not had it either.”</p><p>George scratched at his neck. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said lowly. “I mean—”  </p><p>“You didn’t get the rashes, though,” she said, ignoring him. “Terribly lucky, as that’s the worst part.” She closed the book. “Last night you seemed to take a turn for the worse, spouting off random nonsense, and I almost floo-ed Pomfrey, but then your temperature broke.”</p><p>George froze.</p><p>“Random nonsense?” he asked, the words careful and measured.</p><p>Hermione laughed. “It was like you were off your trolley, you kept mumbling about how much you love me.” George’s face flamed. “Comparing me to carrot cake, I mean, honestly.” She stacked the book on top of the pile. “I almost called Fred, so you could extend some of the affection his way. I’m sure he’d have loved that.”</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George crossed his arms, searching for a way to smooth it over. “Right, well, don’t let it go to your head,” he said dryly.</p><p>Granger laughed. “Trust me, George, it’s nothing I didn’t already know,” she said.</p><p>“Pardon?” George asked, freezing.</p><p>Hermione didn’t notice, pulling the books into her bag. “I mean, we grew up together. We’re like family. Of course you love me.”</p><p>“Right—exactly,” George said. He exhaled, dragging his hands over his face. “But even still, um, I’m sorry you had to put up with me in that state,” he said, wincing. Hermione snorted. “No, really—” he added. “You didn’t have to.”</p><p>Hermione paused. “That’s what family’s for,” she said softly. She hoisted the bag onto her shoulder, glancing at the clock. “I’m actually missing Potions just now, so I should head out.”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“Let me know if you start feeling poorly again, alright?” Hermione said, pointing at him as she tossed the powder. George rolled his eyes. “I mean it, Weasley!” she shouted, and the roar of fire carried her away.</p><p>#</p><p>December 8, 1998</p><p>“Did she save any of your snot?” Fred asked, straightening the cabinets under the counter.</p><p>“No, unfortunately,” George said, voice monotone. A sinus-themed addition to the Snackboxes would’ve been a hot seller, but Fred was a bit much to take, today, especially after the stunt he’d pulled. George swallowed, pushing the thought aside. Fred sighed.</p><p>“We could still look into it,” George said, rolling his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah, but it’ll take longer,” Fred said. “Time is Galleons, after all.” Fred stood, dusting his hands off. “And you’ve missed quite a lot of both with the shop closed.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” George said, scrubbing his hands through his hair.</p><p>“Missed some big headlines,” Fred said. George lowered his hands.</p><p>Had <em>The Resonant</em> done something more?</p><p>“What d’you mean?” he asked, wary. Fred opened the till, counting out change from a wooden box, filling the slots.</p><p>“Auntie Muriel’s still furious,” Fred said.</p><p>“Oh no,” George said flatly. “Whatever will we do.”</p><p>Fred snorted. “Yeah, she’s refusing to buy the line we fed her about Biddy passing peacefully in her sleep.”</p><p>“Does she have any evidence?” George asked, leaning back against the counter.</p><p>“Not yet,” Fred said. “But now she’s convinced it was the two of us.”</p><p>“We weren’t in the will anyway,” George said.</p><p>“She thinks we did some sort of prank and accidentally offed her,” Fred said. George stilled.</p><p>“You’re joking,” he said. Fred shook his head.</p><p>“Got an earful from Mum about it,” he said.</p><p>George stopped. “Mum doesn't think—”</p><p>Fred shook his head. “No, of course not. But she knows something's up. It did look rather dodgy, us inviting Muriel out and then she comes back, and Biddy’s gone.”</p><p>The coins clanked in the drawer. Fred cleared his throat. “Also, Vane got let off,” he said, casually.</p><p>George stopped. Surely not. But Fred’s eyes held a hard edge. George tipped his chin up and exhaled what felt like scorching steam, swearing.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Fred muttered, slamming the till drawer shut.</p><p>“How did that—” George ground his palms into his eyes. “No sense—”</p><p>“Listen,” Fred raised a hand, gripping George’s shoulder. “Dad’s a bit worried that he’ll come around and try to bait you.”</p><p>George crossed his arms.</p><p>“If he does,” Fred said. “Don’t bite unless I’m there to back you up. Alright?”</p><p>“What, like my second?” George asked.  </p><p>Fred straightened his shoulders. “Yeah. Every time you get into a scrape without me, it goes sideways.”</p><p>“That’s not true,” George said, vaulting over the counter and rolling his eyes.</p><p>Fred lifted a hand and began to tick items off on his fingers. “Let’s review, then. You fought Malfoy without me, and you got both of us banned from Quidditch.” George snorted, but Fred continued, a bit more shakily. “Those blokes in the shop? You fought them without me, and they dragged you into the Ministry and-and—.” Fred’s voice had taken on a hurt pinch, and his eyes flashed with something like guilt.</p><p>“Freddie—” George said, rubbing a hand over his jaw.</p><p>Fred frowned, ducking his head and talking over him hurriedly. “And-and you fought in the battle at Hogwarts without me, and Bill said that was a disaster for you,” Fred’s voice dropped low. George stared at him.</p><p>“I’m not the one who died,” George said.</p><p>Fred waved a hand and cleared his throat, lifting another finger. “Then, you fought Vane in the Wizengamot without me, and the papers are still calling you mad—” Fred shook his head, not meeting George’s eyes. “Not to mention the ancient magic at Auntie Muriel’s. You had to do that without me too, right? Almost bled out.” He paused, clenching his hands into fists. “Am I missing any?”</p><p>Fred was breathing fast, and he braced his hands on the counter.</p><p>“Fred?” George asked.</p><p>“You need a second,” Fred said, his jaw working.</p><p>George walked around the counter, but Fred didn’t look up. “Come off it,” George said. “I’m not half a person.”</p><p>Fred’s shoulders tightened. “I know that,” he said.</p><p>“You’re a good fighter, and I’m always glad to have you at my side,” George said. Fred shrugged. “But you can’t always be there. That’s not healthy.”</p><p>Fred didn’t answer.</p><p>“What happened at the Ministry isn’t your fault,” George said. Fred swallowed.</p><p>Then, he exploded into movement, shouting. “Yeah? Well, where was I, George?” George sighed. He should’ve known this was coming. Should’ve brought it up sooner, but he’d kept putting it off, and now Fred had turned to a powder keg, all the pressure building.</p><p>“Doing something pretty important, I’d wager,” George said quietly.</p><p>Fred’s shoulder sagged. “If I’d gone earlier, or-or later, maybe.”</p><p>“But you didn’t,” George said, shrugging. “And that’s fine.”</p><p>Fred shouldered past him. “Just mind yourself, okay? Especially around Vane.”</p><p>George watched him. Fred strode through the shelves, wand working as he flipped packaging around to face front. “I don’t blame you for the Ministry, Fred,” George said. Fred turned away, busying himself on with the product on the opposite endcap.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>“There is something I blame you for, though,” George said, sitting back against the counter. “If you’re in the mood to have it out.”</p><p>“Sure,” Fred said, snapping.</p><p>“Bit of a big headline, if you will,” George shrugged, crossing his arms again.</p><p>“What’s that?” Fred asked, and his voice was dull.</p><p>“I told Granger I love her,” George said, rolling up his shirt sleeves. Fred paused. “See, I was so ill, and she was so wonderful that it just—” George lifted a hand, flexing it in the air. “—slipped out.”</p><p>Fred turned slowly.</p><p>“Could’ve sent Bill when she told you not to come,” George said, smoothing out the fabric above his elbow. “Or Mum.”</p><p>Fred’s face was pale.</p><p>“Both of them have had it, right?” George said. “But you didn’t. Didn’t even bring it up, I’d wager.”</p><p>“What’d she say?” Fred asked, eyes wide.</p><p>George smiled. “She laughed.”</p><p>Fred closed his eyes. “Georgie—”</p><p>“S’fine,” George said. “She thought I was half-mad. Didn’t take it seriously.”</p><p>Fred paused. “That doesn’t count, then. I mean, you’ve got to try again,” he said.</p><p>George shook his head. “You don’t get it.” He pushed off the counter, advancing on his brother as he spoke firmly. “The thought didn’t even cross her mind.”</p><p>Fred glanced at the shelving.</p><p>“Not even for a moment,” George said, tilting his head. “Because it’s so far outside of the realm of possibility that it didn’t occur to her that I could’ve meant it in any other way.” He smiled again, the expression brittle and plastic.</p><p>“George—”</p><p>“I do blame you for that, a bit,” George said, nodding. “I didn’t have to witness that, but now I have.”</p><p>Fred didn’t speak.</p><p>“See, you’re a bloody good second, Fred,” George said, low. “—except when it comes to this.”</p><p>Fred stared back at him. “You’re terrified,” he said.</p><p>“Course I’m terrified!” George snapped. “I almost blew it!”</p><p>Fred shook his head.</p><p>“Look me in the eyes and tell me that you didn’t think there was a possibility of this happening, if it was Granger with me,” George said, biting his lips together.</p><p>Fred scratched at his ear.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” George said. He paced away, back to the counter. Fred followed him close behind, and his hand shot out, yanking George back by the shoulder.</p><p>“Hold on, Mate,” Fred said, brow contorting. “I’m not the one who connected the floos to let her in. That was you. I’m not the one who makes her food all the time. That’s you. I’m not the one who fixes her tea and listens to her when she’s upset. That’s all you.” Fred stepped forward, eyes flashing, voice hard. “She wanted to return that care, and I wasn’t going to get in her way.” Fred shoved George back. “And y’know what?”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“I’m also not the one that said it, George,” Fred said. “You did.” Fred lifted his chin. “Blame me for meddling here and there, but I didn’t put those words in your mouth. I never have.”</p><p>George swallowed. He turned slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.</p><p>The silence stretched between them, minutes passing.</p><p>Finally, George spoke. “We could start with the Nosebleed Nougat base,” he said. “Tinker with that.”</p><p>Fred nodded. George turned, heading for the till.</p><p>“George,” Fred said, halting. “Is that all she did when you told her? Laugh?”</p><p>“No,” George said. He pulled the quill bits out from under the counter, layering a new charm into the metal. “Said she loved me too.” The metal sparked, but it didn’t take right, and the barrel’s ink remained clear, like water. George huffed.</p><p>Fred didn’t speak, but George could feel his gaze.</p><p>“Not like that, though,” George said.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” Fred muttered, turning back down the aisle.</p><p>#</p><p>December 11, 1998</p><p>Keddle’s was packed, and George nearly spilled his hot cocoa over the shoulder of the patron in front of him. He swerved, righting himself against the seating on his way towards the door.</p><p>“George!” Hermione’s shout boomed through the room. He stopped. Hermione sprung from the furthest armchair, packing books hurriedly into a knapsack. “Wait up!”</p><p>George hesitated, lingering at the side of the door. Hermione shoved another book into the bag, then another. The stack in front of her was huge. He snorted and pushed through the crowd, reaching down to help.</p><p>“How are you?” she asked, smiling as he handed her two volumes. George shrugged.</p><p>“Purple snot’s stayed away,” he said. Hermione seemed a bit out of breath, eyes sparking.</p><p>“Good,” she said. “That’s good.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, nodding. He handed her another book.</p><p>“And the rest?” she asked softly.</p><p>George tipped his head to the side, making a show of thinking hard. “Yeah,” he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Dignity’s still in rough shape.”</p><p>Hermione ducked forward, laughing. “I meant your head and temperature,” she said.</p><p>George raised his brows, handing her another volume. “Why am I being interrogated?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione drew the books from his hands. “Because I’m a little invested,” she said. “I intend to see this through to the end.”</p><p>“What—you’re going to follow me around until one of us dies?” George asked dryly. Hermione laughed.</p><p>“Yes, actually,” she said, grinning. “Can’t be rid of me.”</p><p>George snorted and handed her the last three books.</p><p>She stood, and he followed her through the door. As they passed under it, she looked up, making a gagging noise.</p><p>“Wish they hadn’t put that up,” she said, glaring daggers at the mistletoe. “It’s a horrid tradition.” She slipped the bag onto her back. “I mean, what, if you’re under it, someone can kiss you, and you’re just supposed to let them? What if they’re ghastly?”</p><p>“Fair point,” George said, shoving a hand in his pocket and sipping from the top of his cup. He twisted back, glancing at the greenery, thinking of his dad, making his mum shriek with laughter on the staircase. “Although, personally, I don’t think I’d mind it, so long as it was all in good fun.”</p><p>“You’re joking,” Granger said, raising her brows.</p><p>George shrugged and fell into step with her on the cobblestone. “Well, there’s something festive about it,” he said. “So long as both people are fine with it.”</p><p>“What if it was a total stranger?” Hermione asked, incredulous. George winced.</p><p>“Okay, maybe not a total stranger, but if it was—” He halted, pulling back the word that had been about to escape. Merlin, where was he going with this? He scratched the back of his neck, trying to retreat.</p><p>“Was what?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“I dunno—y’know, maybe a bird I knew pretty well, I guess?” he said, face heating.</p><p>“Any particular bird come to mind?” Hermione asked, nudging him.</p><p>“No,” George said, taking a large gulp of his hot cocoa, eyes trained on the cobblestone.</p><p>Hermione paused at his short response. “Not even a former teammate, or…” she trailed off.</p><p>“Can’t pin me down, Granger,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Bachelor, remember?” Hermione scoffed.</p><p>“You’re ridiculous,” Hermione said, looking over her shoulder towards the teashop. “Anyway, I could never.”</p><p>“Noted,” George said, laughing.</p><p>A gust of wind tumbled down the lane, upsetting the heavy snowdrifts, and the white flakes spun, launching at them. George hunched and gripped the hot drink tighter in his hands. The cold bit at his knuckles, and he tried to slide his coat sleeves over them. At the movement, Granger glanced down, eyeing his hands.</p><p>“Honestly,” she huffed. She flicked her wand back and forth, and a warming charm settled onto him.</p><p>“Thanks, Mum,” he said dryly.</p><p>#</p><p>December 16, 1998</p><p>“Bloody Ravenclaw,” Ginny cried, pacing Hermione’s flat. “We beat Slytherin soundly, even though they’ve still got those ridiculously unfair brooms, and then we lose to Ravenclaw.”</p><p>George grimaced.</p><p>“On a technicality!” Ginny shouted, throwing her hands up.</p><p>Hermione winced, bending over her book further, scrawling rapidly over the parchment tucked at its side.</p><p>“What am I supposed to do?” Ginny asked. “I looked like a dolt in front of the scouts. Their team’s not even that good!”</p><p>“No, it’s not,” George agreed. “But you didn’t look like a dolt.”</p><p>Ginny rolled her eyes.</p><p>“You were doing what you were supposed to be doing,” George said. “You can’t play all seven positions.”</p><p>“Sometimes it feels like I have to,” Ginny said, eyes flashing. “Peakes and Coote, Merlin—”</p><p>Hermione sighed, tapping her quill on the table.</p><p>“Sorry, am I bothering you with the sudden threat to my Quidditch career’s future?” Ginny asked shortly.</p><p>Hermione blinked, lifting her head. “No-no,” she said. “I’m sorry. You have every right to be upset.”</p><p>Ginny’s face softened. “But?” she asked.</p><p>“The Mastery Qualifying exam is next week, and I’ve got to study for it, and I’m—” Hermione grimaced, her tone rattled. “I don’t want to mess it up. I can’t. I’ve got to pass to be considered for student teaching next term, and if I don’t student teach, I won’t be as competitive when applying to work with a Runes Master.”</p><p>Ginny nodded. “I’ll stick a pin in it, then, and you can listen after holiday has begun,” she said.</p><p>Hermione nodded rapidly. “Absolutely,” she said. “Absolutely. We-we can have a party or something, here, to celebrate the end of term and you can talk my ear off.”</p><p>Ginny paused. “We leave for the Burrow on the 22<sup>nd</sup>,” she said. Hermione blinked, looking back and forth between George and Ginny.</p><p>“You do?” she asked.</p><p>“We do,” Ginny said, pointing between herself and Hermione. “That’s the day the train leaves?”</p><p>Hermione stammered. “Oh, um, Ginny.” She winced. “I don’t think I can—”</p><p>George’s heart sank.</p><p>“Ron won’t be there,” Ginny said flatly. “He already owled Mum.”</p><p>Hermione ducked her head. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”</p><p>“Rubbish,” George said, a bit too quickly. Hermione didn’t respond. “Come on, Granger, it’s Christmas.”</p><p>It wouldn’t be Christmas proper without Hermione.</p><p>“I can’t,” she whispered. Ginny huffed.</p><p>“What if we do the party on Christmas Eve?” Hermione offered. “You could use the connection between the Diagon shop and the Hogsmeade shop, and floo in—just for the night?” She bit her lip, peeking up at Ginny.</p><p>“Won’t your parents—?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione looked at her hands. “No, they sent their love, but they said they’re deep in renovations to sell their place in Australia, so, um they couldn’t make time to fly in for it.” She sounded casual, unaffected.</p><p>But George knew better.</p><p>He slipped off the sofa, resting on the floor beside her.</p><p>“When’d that happen?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged, staring intently at her book on the coffee table. “Letter arrived this morning,” she said.</p><p>George nodded. “Right,” he said. He slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. “That’s a rough bit of luck.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a shaky breath. “Not terribly,” she said. “I’ll have time to work.”</p><p>“Yes,” George said, not letting go.</p><p>“Practicality wise, it’s for the best,” Hermione said, clearing her throat, staring at her book with determination.</p><p>“Sure,” George said, his voice low and soft.</p><p>“There will other holidays,” she said, tone breaking. George nodded. Something dripped from her face, onto the page.</p><p>“Stupid,” Hermione whispered, swiping at her cheek.</p><p>“No,” George murmured. “Not stupid.”</p><p>Hermione’s face contorted, and she crumpled, turning in towards his chest.</p><p>George didn’t think. He wrapped her up tight, both arms around her shoulders, cradling her head.</p><p>“S’alright,” he said. Hermione’s hands were fists in his shirt.</p><p>He didn’t move, just held her while she cried.</p><p>At some point, Ginny crept from the room, flaring her eyes at him as she headed to the kitchen, but George shook his head in return.</p><p>“Sure,” Ginny mouthed.</p><p>George shot her a withering look.</p><p>“We’ll have a party on Christmas Eve,” he said. “Ginny will floo in like you said, and I’ll get Mum to watch Teddy so Harry can come as well, and whoever else you’d like.”</p><p>Granger sucked in a breath.</p><p>George continued, voice calm and even. “And I’ll be in town most of next week—I’m only going to Mum and Dad’s on the day of.”</p><p>Granger nodded against his chest. George drew a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear as he spoke. “You can come bother me, and maybe we’ll go bother Aberforth or something. Alright?”</p><p>“Alright,” Granger whispered. She pulled back, and George was startled by the sudden absence of warmth. It had built steadily in his chest while he held her, but he hadn’t even noticed it until she was gone.</p><p>Granger wiped a sleeve over her eyes.  </p><p>“And if you change your mind, you’re always welcome at Burrow,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>Hermione gave him a small smile.</p><p>Ginny emerged from the kitchen, holding a tin of biscuits. She popped the lid off and tossed a gingerbread man to George, then to Hermione.</p><p>George bit down on it, but it didn’t crack. The crumb was practically charcoal.</p><p>Hermione watched him, not lifting her own.</p><p>“You make these?” he asked.</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>George braced, biting down harder and bending it until it snapped. It was terrible. Like chewing rocks.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“They’re really bad,” he said around the chunks of rubbish in his mouth.</p><p>Hermione laughed.</p><p>#</p><p>December 17, 1998</p><p>“Totally last minute,” Granger sighed, scratching her quill over the parchment. “Professor Sprout decided to assign twenty inches today. No warning.”</p><p>George stirred the sugar into the gingerbread dough, peeking out at her from her kitchen. “Thought you said it wasn’t due until after break,” he said.</p><p>“Yes, well, that’s only if we ask for an extension, which I’m not going to do,” Hermione said, and her nose wrinkled. George snorted.</p><p>Hermione traced a finger along the paragraph in the book, and her quill moved at a lightning pace. “I wasted some valuable time trying to sort what to write on. I wish she hadn’t left it so open ended.”</p><p>“I prefer open-ended assignments,” Luna said, leaning over her own parchment on the other side of the coffee table. George leaned against the wall, mixing as he watched them. “I haven’t had many opportunities to write about Dirigible Plums, and they’re terribly underacknowledged as is.”</p><p>Hermione’s curls shifted as she flipped a page.</p><p>“And what are you writing on, Granger?” George asked.</p><p>“Trees,” she said.</p><p>“Like in the Forbidden Forest?” George asked.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said, making another note. “Like the magic ones in Hogsmeade.”</p><p>George’s brow furrowed.</p><p>“Did you know that trees look after each other?” Hermione asked. “The pine trees here—they’re so tall because they grow in groups.”</p><p>“Doesn’t that suffocate the weak ones?” George asked.</p><p>“Opposite, actually,” Hermione said, twisting and holding up the book. “Apparently, their branches shelter each other from the elements, and it allows the little ones to grow and make it to maturity.” She turned back to the parchment.</p><p>Her voice went soft, distracted as she scrawled. “If you were to look under the soil, you’d find their roots all connected.”</p><p>George’s hand slowed.</p><p>“I think that’s sort of nice,” Hermione murmured. “I always thought pine trees looked lonely, but they’re not. Not really.”</p><p>#</p><p>December 20, 1998</p><p>“You called?” George asked, stepping out of the floo.</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head. “Can you make some coffee?”</p><p>George paused.</p><p>“You’ve got to sleep sometime,” George said. Hermione shook her head. Mugs lined the table around her, and her shoulders hunched. Dark shadows marked under her eyes, and her hands were a bit trembly. He flicked his wand, and the mugs floated off the table. He gathered them, heading for the kitchen.</p><p>“Coffee please?” Hermione called weakly.</p><p>“No, I’m not enabling this,” George said.</p><p>“Please,” Hermione said, banging her head on the table.</p><p>“No,” George said, tone flat. “Go lie down.”</p><p>He set the dishes to washing themselves and returned to her living room.</p><p>Books floated, suspended on invisible strings from the ceiling like stars. Hermione’s lips moved, her brow furrowed as she wrote a note.</p><p>“But that’s not—” she whispered. She huffed, flipping back a few pages. Another huff. “Yes, alright, in your dreams, Connell.” Her quill scratched violently on the parchment. “Didn’t even address—” She paused. “Wait.” She flipped. “No.” She flipped the page again. “No-no—” Her left hand clenched on the tabletop.</p><p>Hermione yanked her wand from her hair, waving it, and one of the books zipped down. Hermione glanced up, staring at it in concentration. “Rats,” she hissed.</p><p>“What?” George asked, folding his arms over the back of the couch.</p><p>“I got them mixed up, and—” Hermione shook her head. “Connell didn’t address it because Bailey hadn’t written it yet, and I’m stupid.”</p><p>“Oi,” George said. “None of that.”</p><p>Hermione huffed.</p><p>“Seriously,” George said. “Look at all of this. It’s brilliant, and you know it, so don’t go acting like you’re thick or something.”</p><p>“No, George,” Hermione said, tone clipped. “This isn’t brilliant.” She waved a hand over the books. “This? This is normal for people who go this route.” She exhaled. “I’m barely managing trying to keep up with them.”</p><p>George raised his brows. “You’re wrong,” he said.</p><p>Hermione turned, scoffing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You’re just being nice because we’re friends.”</p><p>“You know, when Bill got his Mastery, he cried” George said, grinning. “A lot.”</p><p>Hermione paused.</p><p>“Every night, slamming the door on us, but we could hear him sobbing through the wall,” George said. “Bill’s a pretty sharp fellow.”</p><p>Hermione ducked her head.</p><p>“Prefect, twelve O.W.L.s, head boy, Outstandings across the board on his N.E.W.T.s,” George listed off, staring at the ceiling. “Makes the rest of us look like gits.” He laughed. “And yet, that pesky Mastery broke him right in two.”</p><p>Granger hadn’t spoken.</p><p>George brushed a hand on her head. “Struggling doesn’t make you any less brilliant.”</p><p>Hermione paused. “Thank you,” she whispered.</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” George said, dropping onto the sofa. “Now go to bed.”</p><p>“I will,” she said, turning a page.</p><p>“I don’t believe you,” George said, propping his ankle on his knee.</p><p>Hermione glanced up at him from the floor.</p><p>“If you’re not going to make coffee, then you can go home, Weasley,” she said.</p><p>George nodded. “I will,” he said lightly. “Once you go to bed.”</p><p>Hermione’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have time for sleep,” she said. “Besides, I-I can’t.”</p><p>George’s foot fell to the floor. “Everything alright?” he asked, leaning forward.</p><p>“It’s just hard to, with the deadline approaching,” Hermione said. George nodded.</p><p>“Do you need some dreamless or something?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “I don’t like the way it makes me foggy, after,” she mumbled.</p><p>“Could take a Fainting Fancy,” he said, shrugging.</p><p>“Probably wouldn’t work,” Hermione said, sighing. George crossed his arms and tilted his head at her doubt.</p><p>“I make good product, Granger,” he said.</p><p>Hermione didn’t respond, rubbing at her temples. She looked like a ghost.</p><p>“Worth a try?” George said. “They stay in the system for an hour or so. At the worst, you’ll have a quick rest, and then you can get back at it.”</p><p>Hopefully, though, her body would take over after it wore off, and she’d sleep through the night.</p><p>“The test is tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow evening, and I can’t even string two sentences together. What was I thinking—taking it early? So arrogant.” She hissed, shaking her head. “I can’t.”</p><p>George leaned forward. “It’s because you’re tired,” he said.</p><p>“Yes, well, there’s nothing to be done about it,” Hermione mumbled. “I’ve already hit my fifth wave.”</p><p>Merlin’s pants.</p><p>“Granger, what in Helga’s garden is a fifth wave?”</p><p>She turned the page. “Of energy. It comes after other ones,” she said. “The second and third are pretty standard, but the fourth lasts for a whole day, usually I don’t even feel it, and when you hit the fifth, you’re stuck until you shut down.”</p><p>“Yes, well, what if you shut down during the exam?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Guess I’ll try again next year,” she said. Then she laughed, squeezing her eyes shut.</p><p>“Hold on,” he mumbled.</p><p>George stepped over her.</p><p>The floo whooshed around him, and he snapped. The cherry red box zipped into his hand. He stepped back into the hearth.</p><p>“Granger’s,” he muttered, dropping the powder. The fire roared.</p><p>She was still laughing, but it was half sobs now.</p><p>George pulled open the cardboard drawer and nicked an orange, striped piece from inside.</p><p>“You can decide if you’d like to take it,” he said, sticking it on the table in front of her. “I’ll make sure you wake up bright and early tomorrow, if you do.”</p><p>Hermione blinked at it. “Promise?” she asked.</p><p>“Yes,” George said. He stuck the box on the chair, sealing it.</p><p>“What if the floo breaks and you can’t get in, and I’m completely out of it?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“That’s unlikely,” George said.</p><p>“The unlikely seems to find me,” she muttered.</p><p>“Fine, I’ll sleep on your couch,” George said. “And short of me choking on my own drool in the middle of the night, I will be here to wake you up so you can fit some final review in before going to take it.”</p><p>Hermione looked up from the candy. “You would do that?” she whispered.</p><p>George nodded. “You’ll owe me, though,” he said, grinning. “I expect the same, next time I take an exam.” The quip didn’t land. Hermione stared at the candy, distracted. She shook her head.</p><p>“I don’t think it’ll work,” she said.</p><p>George propped his head on his hands. “You ever tried one?” he asked. Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“Not during a fifth wave,” she said.</p><p>George raised his brows. “Well, it’s up to you,” he said. Hermione stood.</p><p>“I don’t think I will,” she said.</p><p>“Okay,” George said, searching the room for something to do. If she wouldn’t sleep, he could at least find some other way to help. Not coffee though.  </p><p>Hermione crossed to the kitchen. The burner snapped as it turned on, and a crinkling noise echoed. George loped over to the threshold, leaning against the counter. Granger struggled as she tried in vain to rip open a fresh package of ground coffee.</p><p>“Would you just—” she hissed at the bag, her hands shaking. She gave up, tossing the package on the counter.</p><p>“Lie down,” George said, voice soft.</p><p>“When I lie down, I think about failing,” Hermione snapped. George sighed.</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Suddenly, she whirled, striding to the coffee table.</p><p>“Fine,” she said. She snatched the candy up.</p><p>“Wait, you’ll fall—” George started, but she was already shoving it into her mouth.</p><p>It hit her instantly, and her legs went out. George sucked in a breath, popping across the room and apparating to her side. He caught her just shy of the table’s edge.</p><p>She was already asleep, the treat having dissolved.</p><p>George snorted, hoisting her up, against his chest.</p><p>“Right,” he muttered. “Fifth wave. Load of rubbish.”</p><p>Her head tipped back on his shoulder, and he jogged her upright, then slipped an arm under her knees, lifting her. George crossed the room, nudging her bedroom door open with a foot. Carefully, he eased her down and onto the mattress. He was tugging the duvet out from under her when something slipped from the end of the bed, piling on the floor.</p><p>He stepped back, reaching for it.</p><p>It was green.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>His old jumper.</p><p>She must’ve forgotten to give it back, and it had gotten tangled up in her own things, with all of the chaos from the exam.</p><p>Maybe she’d set it out to return to him.</p><p>But why did she—</p><p>He dragged a hand down his face.</p><p>He was reading too much into it. He tossed the jumper on the bed and pulled the duvet over her shoulders. Then, he tugged the muggle alarm clock from her table and carried it with him to the living room. He set it for 8 a.m., then set a second charm the wizard way on his pocket watch, for fifteen minutes prior.</p><p>After that, he put the dishes away and tidied the space. He didn’t touch the books or notes, though. Those were a constellation, and he didn’t have the context for where each star point ought to rest.</p><p>Finally, he collapsed on the sofa.</p><p>#</p><p>December 21, 1998</p><p>George’s pocket watch beeped and rattled on his face. He lurched, sitting upright. The sun’s rays were just beginning to peak through the dormer window’s glass.</p><p>George rose and crept into the kitchen. He caste a silencing charm, then proceeded to start on a quick breakfast for her. The kettle whistled, and he paused over the coffee package.</p><p>So be it.</p><p>He pried it open, dumping it into the filter. “Poison,” he muttered.</p><p>The scrambled eggs came together on the frying pan. George dumped them onto a plate, before casting a stasis charm and starting on the dishes. After he finished, he checked his watch.</p><p>It was about time. George paced to the alarm clock, flicking it off before it had a chance to ring.</p><p>He rapped on the bedroom door. “Granger?” he asked.</p><p>No answer.</p><p>He knocked again. “Oi,” he called.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Worry lanced through him, and he pushed the door open.</p><p>Granger had migrated across the bed, the blankets tangled in her limbs. She breathed soft and slow, a bunch of hunter green fabric clutched tight to her chest.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>That was—she’d grabbed it in her sleep.</p><p>He swallowed.</p><p>Probably didn’t realize. She probably thought it was another blanket, or something.</p><p>He cleared his throat.</p><p>“Granger,” he said. Nothing.</p><p>Merlin, it was like trying to wake the dead.</p><p>He turned, heading to the kitchen. George poured the coffee into the mug, then strode back to her room.</p><p>“Oi,” he called. Granger mumbled, shaking her head. George pushed her shoulder gently.</p><p>“Come on, then,” he said. Hermione didn’t respond.</p><p>George put the coffee on the bedside table.</p><p>He reached out again, jogging her shoulder up and down. “Granger-Granger-Granger-Granger-Granger,” he said, doing his best impersonation of Peeves. “Ickle-firstie.”</p><p>“Go away,” she muttered.</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, poking her arm. “Those Ancient Runes aren’t going to master themselves.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath, sitting upright. Her curls were plastered to the side of her face, but the dark circles under her eyes were considerably lighter.</p><p>“There we are,” George said, laughing. He pulled the mug from the table and offered it to her. “Go get ready,” he said. “I’ve got breakfast for you, and then you can study a bit more. Okay?”</p><p>Hermione nodded, drinking it down. George’s eyes widened as she plunked the empty mug onto the table.</p><p>“That can’t be healthy,” he muttered.</p><p>Hermione dragged her hair back from her face, standing. “No judgment from you, please,” she said, pointing, then she dashed down the hall.</p><p>George smiled after her.</p><p>Waking up like this was—</p><p>He stopped himself.</p><p>Was a really great way to help a friend out.</p><p>He plucked the empty mug from the table, not allowing himself to look at the abandoned knitwear she’d left behind.</p><p>#</p><p>December 22, 1998</p><p>George tinkered over the quill, putting the final touches on. The shop was quiet, the blizzard outside raging. Hermione had owled. No word on the exam results, but she was focusing on her application for student teaching, now.</p><p>The quill sparked. “Come on,” he muttered, pressing his wand tip to the barrel. The charm caught, and the barrel filled with golden light.</p><p>George balked.</p><p>Would it go?</p><p>He pushed it to the page, and liquid glow ran through the ink, shimmering. George lifted the parchment, twisting it, and word he’d written gleamed, illuminated.</p><p>“Lumos.”</p><p>Perfect.</p><p>#</p><p>December 23, 1998</p><p>
  <em>Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Haven’t heard back from you. Please tell me it’s because you’re sleeping. You’re on holiday. Sleep.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-George.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Git,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is more important. I told Minerva I’d get it to her before Christmas.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-HJ</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. Thank you for the help. I am rather busy with this application, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Minerva will understand. Go to bed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Git</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. Anytime.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Git,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Later.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-HJ</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. No, truly, I don’t know how I would’ve managed without you.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>HJ,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s later.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Git</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. You would’ve been fine.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Git,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Third wave says otherwise.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-HJ</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. The proper response is “you’re welcome.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Swot,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m not a proper bloke. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-G.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. Go to bed, or I’ll owl Minerva a howler.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><br/>George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You wouldn’t.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Hermione</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione Jean Granger,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Try me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-G.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Calling your bluff.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-HJ</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Dear Professor McGonagall,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione is under the impression that her application for student teaching must be completed before Christmas. Unless you plan to give her a time turner, please offer her an extension. And if she asks, this was a howler. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hope your term’s been lovely. Enjoy grading all those terrible, half-formed rat teacups.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Respectfully,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your favorite Gryffindor</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why’ve I just gotten a letter from McGonagall? I’ve no idea what she’s on about, and something tells me you’re behind it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Harry</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Professor,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am dismayed. Thought we were closer than that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Harry doesn’t even have a photo on your desk.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-George Weasley</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Mr. Weasley,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you for writing. I have informed Miss Granger that she may turn in the application any time before the start of next term, as student teaching will not be assigned until the third week of January.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Furthermore, Harry’s photo hangs in my entryway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do not assign rat teacups anymore, but I appreciate the sentiment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Best,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Professor McGonagall</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re unbelievable. I’m still finishing it before Christmas.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Hermione</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. Thanks for the laugh.</em>
</p><p>#</p><p>December 24, 1998</p><p>George tugged his coat tight around him, knocking on Hermione’s flat door. Her gift rested deep in his pocket. Music leaked through the wall, out, into the frosty air.</p><p>He raised his fist to knock again, but the door swung wide.</p><p>Harry grinned. “George is here!” he shouted. He stepped aside, allowing George through. “You’ve just missed it, but she’ll tell you.” he said. His voice went low as he leaned in. “Careful though, she’s a bit scattered—hasn’t slept in a few days.”</p><p>George sighed. Right.</p><p>Harry paused, pointing at the heap of boots near the entrance. “Things there.” Then, Harry headed back down the hall, leaving George fumbling to unbutton his coat with numb fingers.</p><p>“Hermione!” Harry yelled again, rounding the corner. “I said it was George!”</p><p>Hermione’s voice echoed from the other end of the flat, out of sight.</p><p>“I passed the qualifiers!” she shouted.</p><p>George grinned, kicking off his left shoe.</p><p>“Did you really?” he yelled, feigning surprise.</p><p>The sound of rapid footsteps ricocheted through the flat, and suddenly, Hermione came tearing around the corner, laughing as her socks slipped on the wood. The sight warmed him from crown to toe, and he laughed.</p><p>“Happy Christmas, Georgie!” she cried, launching into him.</p><p>George stumbled back, catching her as he let out a soft “oof.” Her arms flew up to his shoulders, and she looped a scarf around the back of his neck.</p><p>“Want a kiss?” she asked, eyes flashing and silliness dripping from her tone.</p><p>“Right,” he said wryly, rolling his eyes. As if. “Sure, Granger.” He started to kick off his right boot.</p><p>Her eyes sparked, and suddenly she tugged him down, her hands pulling on the scarf’s fabric. George’s feet twisted, his shoe uneven, and he tumbled forward.</p><p>His mouth landed on hers.</p><p>They exhaled sharply, in tandem. He caught on her lips like an unsteady golden snitch, held between stitchwork and hands. A fraction of a second and an eternity.</p><p>Sweet, starry night.</p><p>Light exploded in his ribs.</p><p>George fell into the wall.</p><p>Hermione squeaked and burst into giggles, breaking away, and George tipped forward, following her with his head for the smallest moment before he caught himself, halting.</p><p>Shock.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes were wide, like saucers, her face red as she clapped a hand to her mouth.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, I was aiming for your cheek, but—” she said, hushed through her fingers. “Are you okay?”</p><p>George swallowed, nodding. “Yeah, um—I-I—my feet, I tripped—I didn’t mean to, um—sorry—”</p><p>Dear Merlin, he could hardly get the words out. His face pounded with heat.</p><p>“It’s alright—” Hermione started, but another small giggle slipped out, and then she broke into laughter, shaking her head. Like music, the sound followed her down the hall as she backpedaled, racing away.</p><p>George watched her go, hands still frozen at his sides. He twisted. Right, his—his shoe. He blinked upwards, kicking it off. Mistletoe hung above his head.</p><p>Someone cleared their throat. Harry stood at the end of the hall, watching him. Had he been there the whole time?</p><p>“Ginny put that there,” Harry said, voice quiet as he nodded at the mistletoe. “Mione’s never been a fan of it.”</p><p>George froze. “Harry, um—”</p><p>“George,” Harry said, calmly.</p><p>George lifted his hands. “It was an accident,” George said. Harry sighed.</p><p>He stared straight at George, mouthing four syllables.</p><p>Legilimens. It was clumsy and unpracticed, but George let him through.</p><p>Harry’s voice boomed in his mind, clear as day.</p><p>“<em>Careful, Mate</em>.”</p><p>The words were simple and soft, carrying flashes of images George had never seen—Hermione reeling back and punching Malfoy. Hermione leaping onto a dragon’s back. Hermione picking up a locket and slipping it over her neck, unflinching. But also, Hermione crying in a stairwell near Gryffindor tower, Hermione sobbing in a tent. And then, finally, a far younger Hermione, shrinking beneath the sink in a bathroom, tear tracks down her face.</p><p>Harry’s presence slipped out as quickly as it had come, and the other boy shoved his hands into his pockets.</p><p>“H-Harry, I’m not—” George said, starting towards him.</p><p>Harry pulled off his glasses, polishing them on his sleeve as he approached George. “Saw the memory you submitted for the Malfoy trial,” he said, voice quiet.</p><p>George froze.</p><p>“At first, I wondered if you may have been talking about Alicia, since you two went to Yule Ball together,” Harry said, shrugging. “But I didn’t give it that much thought, honestly.”</p><p>“Alicia’s a nice girl,” George said, scrambling for footing, scratching at his neck.</p><p>Harry quirked a brow, checking the lenses to see their clarity. “I know,” he said. He slid the glasses back onto his nose. “Decent chaser.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, rubbing his arm.</p><p>“Brilliant with charms,” Harry said, nodding.</p><p>George nodded back.</p><p>“What’s she up to these days?” Harry asked.</p><p>George blanked. “Um—”</p><p>Harry nodded at the pause.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Harry said lightly, turning away. “Anyway, well, Hermione’s waiting on us.” He patted George on the shoulder and gestured to the living room.</p><p>#</p><p>George sat on the sofa, hands jittering on his knees.</p><p>He’d have wondered whether he’d imagined it, if it wasn’t for the scarf on his shoulders. He stole glances at her as she flitted around the others, never quite landing.</p><p>She hadn’t looked at him once, hadn’t settled in one spot long enough for him to approach her. A bottle of butterbeer dangled in her hand, the cap unopened.</p><p>Fred landed on the couch, laughing.</p><p>“Happy Christmas, Git,” he said, punching George’s shoulder. George smiled. “Sold the lot of those bracelets today,” Fred said, taking a pull from his drink. “We’ll have to make more.”</p><p>“Excellent,” George said.</p><p>“You’re staring at her,” Fred said. George ducked. Fred grinned. “That’s a nice scarf. Mum make it?”</p><p>George shook his head. “No, um, Hermione did.”</p><p>Fred’s grin widened. “You must be chuffed,” he said.</p><p>George snagged a biscuit from the tray on the table. Across the room, Lee fiddled with a radio, and music filled the space. Ginny’s shouts rang as she hung on Harry’s shoulders, and Hermione grinned, nodding along while Ginny chattered.</p><p>“To think, she put all that time into it,” Fred continued. George’s face warmed. “Stitching away.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said faintly, looking down at it. It was soft and thick in his hands, and some of the rows were a little lopsided, and he loved it. “You can see how she sort of hit her stride here,” he said, holding out one end. “Cause the stitches get a bit looser, and the weave of it’s more consistent.”</p><p>“Fascinating,” Fred said. “Mind if I try it on?”</p><p>George scoffed, pulling it away from him. “Get your own.”</p><p>“I’m only joking,” Fred said, grinning. Then: “I already have one.” He tipped his chin towards Angelina, who was speaking with Luna near the windows. George rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Watch how it’s done.” Fred said, rubbing his hands together. He darted forward, breaking the end off a biscuit. Then, he flicked his wand over it, and it zipped across the room, bumping into Angelina’s shoulder.</p><p>Angelina paused, turning as she caught the projectile. Fred leaned forward, grinning at her. Angie tilted her head.</p><p>“This is the tricky bit,” Fred whispered, not breaking his eye contact with her.</p><p>“Please,” George muttered and propped a hand to his temple.</p><p>Fred pointed at Angelina. “Will you—” he mouthed slowly.</p><p>Angelina broke into a grin.</p><p>“Dance—” Fred mouthed, pantomiming.</p><p>“You’re making me ill,” George said.</p><p>“With me?” Fred finished, pointing his thumbs at his chest.</p><p>Angelina said something to Luna, and then broke away, heading for Fred with a spark in her eyes.</p><p>Fred lolled his head toward George. “Every time,” he said, smugness seeping out of his voice. Fred pushed to his feet, rounding the sofa into the small clearing between the windows and the seating. He snagged Angelina’s hand, spinning her into his chest.</p><p>“There’s not enough room for that,” George said.</p><p>“There’s always room for dancing,” Fred said. “Try it.”</p><p>George snorted. He turned away, taking in the rest of the party. Hermione had invited more people than he’d expected, and there were even some faculty in attendance. Professor McGonagall and Aberforth chatted in the kitchen. George stood, crossing to them, looking around, but Winky wasn’t there.</p><p>“Board of Governors can sod off, and the—” Aberforth stopped, stepping back as George approached.</p><p>“Pardon,” George said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Winky here?”</p><p>“No—travelling,” Aberforth said.</p><p>“Where to?” George asked, leaning behind the two to grab a glass of cider.</p><p>“If she wanted you to know, she would’ve told you,” Aberforth said, tone gruff. George nodded slowly.</p><p>“Right,” he said, taking a drink.</p><p>“Your letter on Miss Granger was very amusing,” McGonagall said, smoothly changing the subject. At her name, George glanced over in her direction.</p><p>“Happy to entertain,” he said. Hermione tipped her head back, laughing. Her curls gleamed, eyes bright. George swallowed.</p><p><em>“I’ll be seeing you,”</em> the radio crackled with static.</p><p>“I wasn’t aware that the two of you were an item,” McGonagall said.</p><p>
  <em>“in all the old familiar places”</em>
</p><p>“Oh, we’re not,” George said. Hermione leaned against the wall, grinning. Ginny’s hands moved wildly through the air, and Hermione nodded eagerly. “Like, um—like brother and sister, really.”</p><p>“My apologies,” McGonagall said mildly.</p><p>
  <em>“The chestnut trees, the wishing well—” </em>
</p><p>“S’alright,” George mumbled. Hermione’s eyes flickered, landing on him. Something in her gaze warmed, and she smiled. George downed his cider. “Excuse me.”</p><p>He tucked the glass on the counter and strode over.</p><p>Hermione smiled up at him, nudging his elbow. The conversation didn’t halt, and Ginny prattled on, but it was like a fourth space had opened up for him, and George didn’t leave Hermione’s side.</p><p>#</p><p>The night sky was obscured by the snow whipping through the wind, tearing at the stooped roofs outside the windows. The glass rattled at the gale, but it didn’t break. Hermione leaned against the frame, and George reached around her, grabbing a used glass from the sideboard.</p><p>“You don’t have to do that,” Hermione said, turning. Harry and Ginny murmured in the kitchen, the other guests long gone.</p><p>George shrugged. The fire cracked in the grate across the room.</p><p>He sent the dish to the sink with a quick charm, then thrust his hands in his pockets.</p><p>Hermione turned, biting her lip. “Um, are you really alright, about-about earlier?” There was a deep furrow between her brows. “I was being silly, and I should’ve watched more carefully—”</p><p>George swallowed back the pinch in his throat. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving her off. Hermione nodded, gaze dropping. “Truly, Granger,” he said. She nodded again. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.</p><p>She bobbed her head.</p><p>They watched the snow come down in silence for a while, side by side at the window.</p><p>“You did a very good job on the scarf,” he said, finally, tilting his head to look at her. Hermione’s eyes widened.</p><p>“I almost forgot!” she cried, rushing past him.</p><p>George’s brow wrinkled, and he turned, following her.</p><p>Hermione emerged from the bedroom and settled on the sofa, a lumpy package in hand.</p><p>“This goes with it,” she said, holding it out. George paused. Halting, he rounded the couch and slipped into the seat beside her.</p><p>“But you already gave me a present,” he said, looking at it.</p><p>“It’s two parts,” Hermione said. “And if you don’t take it, I’ll be very cross.”</p><p>George propped an elbow on the back of the sofa. “Can’t have that,” he said. He snapped and waited. Hermione tilted her head. The small, golden box tumbled from the hall, around the corner, into his hand.</p><p>“I got you something too,” he said, shrugging.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes lit. “You didn’t have to do that!” she said.</p><p>“Bugger,” George said, leaning in. “Never mind then.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes and bit her lips together, but the corner of her mouth tilted up.</p><p>As he noticed it, the memory from the hallway hit him like a strobe. George cleared his throat, pushing it away.</p><p>He extended the box. “Go on, then,” he said, turning on the cushion to face her more fully</p><p>Hermione pulled the string off, then the paper.</p><p>“It’s too small to be a book,” she mumbled.</p><p>“Stop trying to guess,” George said.</p><p>“Don’t tell me what to do,” Hermione said, grinning. She lifted the box’s cover. “Oh, it’s a quill!” she said, brightening.</p><p>George took a breath, tapping the back of the sofa with a knuckle. “Yes, I made it.”</p><p>Hermione looked up at him. “You made this?”</p><p>George nodded. Warmth crept up his neck. “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes original,” he said. “First prototype of its kind.”</p><p>Hermione rested the box in her lap. “Will it shock me?” she asked, her tone going flat and skeptical.</p><p>“Give it a try and see,” George said. Hermione summoned some parchment and a book to write on, looking at him with narrow eyes. She lifted it out of the box.</p><p>“It’s got a nice balance,” she said.</p><p>It’d better. He’d based the barrel off the one she’d picked at Scrivenshaft’s.</p><p>She hovered the nib over the parchment. “What should I write?” she asked.</p><p>“Something nice,” George said, watching her. His voice had gone a bit soft. Bugger. He swallowed.</p><p>Hermione leaned over the page. The quill made a quiet scraping sound over the paper. She inhaled sharply, looking up at him.</p><p>Her face lit with a smile.</p><p>“It looks like magic,” she whispered.</p><p>George folded his arms, biting back a grin. “It is,” he said, ducking forward. He nodded at the parchment. “Go on.”</p><p>Hermione stooped lower, and the quill flashed across the page. The ink sparked and swirled, golden, glowing lines, and Hermione’s eyes crinkled as she looked at it. George’s insides snagged.</p><p>She pushed the parchment at him.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re wonderful.”</em>
</p><p>George ducked his head, holding the paper. “I can teach you the charm to refill it,” he said. “I’ve set the color to gold, after your bogeys, um, but you can make it whatever you’d like.” He folded the parchment, sticking it in his pocket.</p><p>Hermione laughed.</p><p>“I love it,” she said.</p><p>“Good,” George said. “I’m glad.”</p><p>She rested the quill on the coffee table and bounced, turning to face him.</p><p>“Okay,” she said. “You go.”</p><p>She held out the package.</p><p>He’d never gotten a present from Hermione before today, and now, he’d have two.</p><p>He tore the paper open, then blinked up at her. A pair of mittens—blue on the outside, but lined with a thin stripe of purple along the cuffs.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>A lump rose in George’s throat as Hermione prattled.</p><p>“See, you never seem to remember gloves, so I—” she chattered.</p><p>A little thing, really. But she’d noticed. He hadn’t even, and she had.</p><p>She pulled one out and took his right hand, and George blinked as she slipped it over his fingers, up to the wrist. It felt like the scarf—cozy and warm.</p><p>“—I mean, we live above the snowline, and you’ve—”</p><p>George’s eyes pricked, and he watched, speechless, as she took his left hand and tugged the other mitten onto it. It was like dipping his hands in sunshine. Hermione looked up from his hands for a moment, and her eyes sparkled.</p><p>Oh Heavens.</p><p>Impulse flared. A rogue thought, taking her face between the mittens and kissing her.</p><p>Her fingers lingered on his wrist for a moment before she pulled back, still talking.</p><p>No—No. George blinked, shaking himself free of the reverie.</p><p>“Ran out of purple, so I did blue, but I think blue’s nice as well—”</p><p>He nodded, swallowing. Granger tucked a curl behind her ear, still watching the mittens. She twisted her hands.</p><p>“I know I’m not as good, and they’re not quite even, which bothers me, but they’re warm, so—”</p><p>“They’re perfect,” he said suddenly.</p><p>Hermione stopped. “Well, that’s not true, I made loads of mistakes.”</p><p>George frowned, shaking his head. “No, they’re wonderful.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “I didn’t want you to be cold any longer,” she said.</p><p>Outside, the pine trees moved like rivers in the wind, bending, but not breaking.</p><p>Roots running deep.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Haunted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Magic is messy, but so are people.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!<br/>This is double-feature length (oops). Happy end of December. &lt;3 I expect the next chapters to return to a more reasonable length, but it's been fun really diving in during this month! </p><p>I'm going to keep this short and sweet, because I've been sitting at the monitor for quite some time (having fun!!) and I'm a little tired. &lt;3 Please forgive any typos/errors. My eyes almost certainly missed some. &lt;3 </p><p>Thank you so much for reading, for commenting, and for being kind. &lt;3 You all are so wonderful. I believe this chapter places us at just over a quarter of a million words, which is mind blowing to me. Thank you for coming along for the ride, for taking the time to read, and for just being generally excellent.</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters.</p><p>Playlist: "Survivor" by 2WEI &amp; Edda Hayes (Opening), "One More Light" by Linkin Park (at the unfamiliar spell), "Ashes" by The Longest Johns (generally through the next several scenes, up until April 22), "Andante, Andante" by Abba (you'll know--also, thank you to the reader who suggested this a while back &lt;3), "It's Been a Year" by Tom Rosenthal (The library and April 22, 5pm, another shoutout to the reader who suggested this song as well &lt;3), "Sparks" by Coldplay (April 24), "Unsteady" by X Ambassadors (April 24, after Fred shows up), "Ghost of You" by 5 Seconds of Summer (End of April 24 through April 25), "The Polar Express" (from the movie soundtrack--Almost all of April 26, except for the portion when Hermione walks into the hallway), "Shield" by Wys (April 26, after Hermione walks into the hallway, until Teddy bangs on the door), "The Polar Express" (again, for the rest of April 26), "The Wisp Sings" by Winter Aid (April 26, all the way until the record player), "Love is Strange" by Mickey &amp; Sylvia (You'll know/the record player), "Friedrich Dances With Jo" by Alexandre Desplat (after the record ends).</p><p>Alright: Grab your snack (this week, I'd recommend chicken noodle soup or something equally satisfying--whatever that may be for you), your drink (maybe a latte this week?), and your favorite blanket. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven: "Haunted"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>April 18, 2003</p><p>Hermione Jean was no stranger to time’s uneven current. Since the day McGonagall handed her a time turner just before her fourteenth birthday, the stuff seemed to move differently around her. When things became messy, when she got upset—time felt like less of a linear progression and more of a shaky, undependable matter that stretched out the terrible moments and skipped the good ones.</p><p>This was no different.</p><p>Fear yanked through her middle, raw and visceral.</p><p>As the grey spiderwork slithered towards George’s jawline, he stiffened, and his head flew back. His mouth opened as his body went rigid, and a small wisp of blue filtered into the air.</p><p>Harry’s shout was warped, echoing slowly over the cobblestone, and the steel wall in Hermione’s head clanged. A terrible pain surged from the noise, pounding against her skull.</p><p>There was no Dementor above him, but George’s eyes were the color of the withered hands. The ragged cloaks. The lostness.</p><p>The pressure built behind her temples, and the wall flexed. Hermione doubled over.</p><p>The metal screeched in her mind as a rent opened, right down the middle, and gold and black currents poured from the gap, burning and freezing as they ripped through the library and out, into her eyes. Her chest turned to fire.</p><p> And suddenly, she wasn’t in control.</p><p><em>“Absolutely not,”</em> the familiar voice rang in her head. It was her. But it wasn’t.</p><p>Her hands snapped up, wand extended.</p><p>“Carpe Retractum.” The words sounded otherworldly, her voice doubled with the hint of cold steel and a light so bright it burnt her throat.</p><p>George’s body snagged on the spell, and he sailed through the air between them, into her outstretched hand. He tumbled, limp on the cobblestone, and she knelt over him, afire. Her touch burnt through his sleeve, and George’s skin felt like ice.</p><p>She knew what it was, now. The ice. The hopelessness. The fear.</p><p>Her hand tightened around the faded, white line on George’s arm.</p><p><em>“Remember something happy,”</em> the echo shouted in her mind, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.</p><p>The funnel of gold carried something with it—the feel of wind in her face, hands on her ribs, and George’s whoop of delight echoing in her ears, behind her. A foreign memory. Iron and elation, swirled and convoluted, burning like a star.</p><p>She spoke with the other Hermione in tandem, voices twisting like thunder:</p><p>“Expecto Patronum.”</p><p>Her hands beamed and blue brilliance twisted from her fingers, into the white line.</p><p>The echo of George’s laugh, pure and exuberant, sang through the sparks.</p><p>The Unicorn hair strobed, then caught, and the light ran into him. As it hit, George cried aloud.</p><p><em>“Hurry,”</em> the echo said.</p><p>The light burst from the white line, cracking through the spiderwork like lightning, and George convulsed, but the iron in her frame was stronger, keeping him pinned to the cobblestone.</p><p>She could feel it—the emptiness in George’s chest, the darkness tearing through where his own magic should’ve been.</p><p>How dare it.</p><p>Hermione closed her eyes, bared her teeth, and came for it like a storm.</p><p>“You’re burning him!” Harry’s voice was distant.</p><p>She paid Harry no mind as she pushed the light, chasing the curse up his arm, up his neck. The magic left her waves, sucked away by the task, but she didn’t withdraw. She drove harder, hunting.</p><p>George convulsed.</p><p>Black fog poured from his mouth, into the air.</p><p>Lightning splintered around her, the wall in her mind reforming. Faintly, she felt a cold and deadly current creeping along the floorboards, inching slowly toward the shelves in her head.</p><p><em>“Not yet—”</em> the other Hermione cried. <em>“Keep going, we can’t—”</em> the wall shook, and a sharp screech pierced her eardrums. The stream of golden light cut, and the other Hermione was gone.</p><p>The cold found her.</p><p>Fear like a dark ocean grabbed at her ankles, tugging her under.</p><p>
  <em>She had dirty blood.</em>
</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>
  <em>She didn’t belong in this world.</em>
</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>
  <em>She’d never remember.</em>
</p><p>Hermione grimaced, gripping tighter.</p><p>
  <em>George would never love her the same as he had before.</em>
</p><p>But that didn’t matter. She’d be here anyway.</p><p>Her hands trembled, her hair whipping around her face, but Hermione held on.</p><p> Her fingers burned, her ribs straining to keep up the flow of the spell.</p><p>As the light reached his chest, the heat built in her hands, and her magic swarmed, ripping through her. A loud crack pounded against her ears, and suddenly, Hermione was tugged from herself, unspooling as an accidental, unfamiliar spell worked its way into the flow from her wand along with the Patronus Charm.</p><p>It sucked her into him.</p><p>Hermione blinked, staring into the dark.</p><p>She could feel the magic pulling from her, the Patronus charm still working its way through George’s body, but her hands were empty, and she wasn’t in the alley anymore.</p><p>Hermione Jean swallowed. The Great Hall loomed before her, lined with stretchers. The familiar, stone floor was littered with rubble, and the torches on the walls were all blown out. In the darkness, she couldn’t discern the faces, but she didn’t want to.</p><p>Her hands leaked weak, blue light, but it faded as it met the cold air.</p><p>In the center of the room, a figure hunched between bodies, surrounded by a faint glow.</p><p>George.</p><p>Hermione walked carefully, trying not to disturb anything. It was some sort of mind magic, knocking anything out of place was risky.</p><p>As she neared, the faces on the stretchers around him became clearer. Fred on his left.</p><p>Her on his right.</p><p>Grey, pale.</p><p>George’s hand grasped the tattered jean jacket on her corpse’s shoulder, his thumb working over the lapel. His other arm was wrapped tightly over his ribs, clutching at his torso. Save for this small movement, he was completely still, doubled almost in half on his knees. As she crept closer, he bent forward, pressing his head to the body’s arm.</p><p>His sob was strangled, choking, and his shoulders tensed.</p><p>It wasn’t real. None of it was.</p><p>But he didn’t seem to know that.</p><p>Red seeped from between his fingers. As she watched, it began to pour faster, onto the stone. Hermione stepped forward, struggling to keep her grasp on the Patronus Charm as it pulled more energy from her. More than anything, she knew she couldn’t stop.</p><p>But the light seeping from her hands didn’t seem to make a difference, and even though she pushed harder, trying to direct it towards him, it faded once it left her, and George was left in the dark.</p><p>Suddenly, he capsized, hitting the floor.</p><p>“George!” she cried.  </p><p>George turned, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes. His brows lifted a bit, and a tired look came over him as his gaze flicked from her to the body. Then down at his chest. Then back again, first at the body, then at her.</p><p>“Oh,” he said, sucking in a breath. “Have you come to take me away?”</p><p>Hermione’s insides clenched.</p><p>“No, George,” she said, heart breaking as she crouched at his side. She lifted a glowing hand and reached for him. “I-I’m here to help.”</p><p>George’s brow furrowed, and he looked from the large, red stain to her face. His eyes flickered with grey, and he tilted his head, a sad smile coming over him.</p><p>“No use—” he gasped, fingers fluttering over hers as she pressed her palm flush to his chest. “Let me go, Hermione.”</p><p>Hermione sputtered. Was he so far gone that he’d given up all hope?</p><p>“Absolutely not,” she said, steeling herself. The blue light swirled over his purple jacket, churning in slow turns.  </p><p>“S’alright, s’alright,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He dropped his gaze, and his hand faltered on hers. “Just stay with me, won’t you? Until—until—” He halted, swallowing, and Hermione saw the fear in his eyes.</p><p>“Stop it,” Hermione snapped. “This isn’t the end.” She shoved the words through gritted teeth. She was tired, her store of magic running low.</p><p>It was like he didn’t hear her, the fear building in his gaze. The glow surrounding him flickered. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.</p><p>“I won’t,” Hermione said. “I promise.” George squeezed his eyes shut. Hermione swallowed and reached her other hand out, taking him by the jacket. “I’m sorry if this hurts—” she whispered, yanking him up to her. George’s chin caught on her shoulder, and she held him close as she unfurled the Patronus light, letting it burrow deep into him.</p><p>The light flashed, moving up to his throat. George’s head flew back, and his fingers clenched on hers. “No—Oh—stop, please, it’s—” His words cut out, and his cry rent the air, but she didn’t let go.</p><p>She pushed harder, and the light pooled between them, strobing. The room flashed.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>George was limp under her hands, and the Patronus charm coursed from her fingers and wand, into his body on the alley’s cobblestone.</p><p>She could feel the Patronum building up his jaw, and there was almost no shadow left in its path.</p><p>George’s eyes flashed, grey to solid blue to grey.</p><p>Her magic sputtered, but she leaned even harder into the spell. Iron and light. Storm.</p><p>It was unlike any Patronus she’d ever caste—and it seemed to ask for more. Not one single memory, but a network of them. So, she grappled, reaching for more to fuel it. She thought of his smile as he turned through the living room, dancing to comfort her. The eggshell flying over the counter. His hand on hers as he turned the Anglia key. The low rumble of his voice as he murmured, “Let’s do this proper.”</p><p>Hermione Jean was unceasing, throwing all of it—every bit of warmth and light and hope that she could summon into the surge bursting from her hands.</p><p>And she carved a river of light right through him.</p><p>Her ears popped, faint sparks rattling around her arms, but she couldn’t stop.</p><p>Not until—</p><p>Every muscle in her body contracted, and her ribs ached, catching as the stream jolted.</p><p>The world snapped out, and all she knew was the feel of his skin under her hands, the desperate will to carry on. She gasped, grinding her teeth together.</p><p>George Weasley-Granger wouldn’t die tonight.</p><p>A strobe of gold and blue beamed through the black.</p><p>Her magic cut, not a single drop left.</p><p>The dark dragged her under, and everything went cold.</p><p>She tumbled, helpless into him.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione Jean Granger tripped down the narrow corridor, her first-year robes baggy on her shoulders. The train rattled around her, ka-thunking through the mountains in the dark. A quick glance out the window to her right revealed a steep drop. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and tilted against the opposite wall.</p><p>She mustn’t think about it.</p><p>The corridor seemed to close on her.</p><p>The whole car ride to the train station, she’d worried. Surely, there must’ve been some mistake. The meeting with Professor McGonagall must’ve been a beautiful dream. Or perhaps she’d arrive, and the train wouldn’t let her on.</p><p>She’d been right. It had all been a lie.</p><p>She shouldn’t be here. It was a mistake. Magic school wasn’t meant for people like her, and the empty train proved it.</p><p>There were no other children where there should’ve been many. She’d been wandering the cars for hours, growing colder and colder, more and more desperate as she looked for another living soul.</p><p>The last compartment had held some rubbish—bits and pieces of candy packaging, and the sight of it made her heart clench.</p><p>The train only climbed higher up the mountain, faster and faster, and there was no way to stop it. The cars stretched on and on, with no conductor in sight.</p><p>She tugged a hand through her bushy hair, pushing it out of her face.</p><p>It seemed quite cruel to send a little girl on a trip promising wonder, only to deliver pain and helplessness instead.</p><p>Her hand closed on the next compartment’s handle.</p><p>Something about it felt familiar, and she was positive she heard an echo of laughter from behind the door.</p><p>Her chest surged with warmth.</p><p>There was someone kind inside. She just knew it.</p><p>She tore back the handle, breathless.</p><p>It was empty. Paper wrappings littered the floor, black powder spilling out. Scorch marks streaked the windows.</p><p>“No—” Hermione gasped, collapsing into the seat. She was supposed to meet someone important here. She didn’t know how, but she knew.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>Wind howled through the corridor, carrying a frigid chill with it. She peeked out. Far down the hall, a cluster of grey robes flitted from the furthest compartment, floating over the corridor’s floor. Dark water swirled under their ragged hems.</p><p>They were coming.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, and her hands trembled as she tried to yank the compartment’s door closed. It stuck.</p><p>The hoods turned slowly towards her.</p><p>“No—” Hermione gasped, tugging again. The hoods floated closer, gnarled hands extending from their sleeves.</p><p>There was supposed to be help here. Where had it gone?</p><p>She was so alone.</p><p>Her hands crept back, searching, terrified.</p><p>“Fight, Hermione.” The voice filled the compartment with heat. Hermione turned to the side. A weedy boy with scruffy, copper hair and a rumpled, grey jumper stood beside her, reaching for the door.</p><p>“They’ve come to take me away,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“You’ve got to fight it, Granger!” he said. His voice was urgent, but his eyes were kind and fond as he took her in. “I’ll help you!” he shouted. “Come on, then!” He nodded to the door. Together, they grabbed hold.</p><p>Hermione straightened her shoulders and threw her strength into it. The door slammed shut. She fell back on her hands, shivering.</p><p>“What’s your name?” she asked, turning to face him.</p><p>But he was gone.</p><p>Frost covered the compartment’s windowpane, and the hoods appeared outside.</p><p>Hermione’s hands closed on something soft and knitted. A grey jumper, laying on the seat. Proof that someone else had been there. She wasn’t alone.</p><p>Perhaps, the boy would return.</p><p>She dragged it to her face and curled up in the seat.</p><p>Outside the window, the gnarled hand pressed against the glass, and the frost grew thick. The door rattled.</p><p>The knitwear smelled like sun over a field.</p><p>Hermione held on.</p><p>The jumper glowed, and its light spilled under the door.</p><p>The grey hoods drew back, hissing.</p><p>#</p><p>Everything hurt, and a sharp ache rived through her skull and into her neck, streaking down her spine. Under her sternum, a cold, empty pinch lingered.</p><p>She couldn’t breathe.</p><p>She forced her eyes open.</p><p>The room was dark, something hard under her back. The low rumble of breath filtered from her left, but she didn’t have the strength to turn her head.</p><p>“Marcus, that’s not standard procedure!” Someone hissed, and the voice that replied sounded familiar.</p><p>“Separate them again, and you’ll find yourself on the pavement outside. Are we clear?”</p><p>Everything smelled sharp, like cleaning chemicals.</p><p>She tried to open her mouth to speak, but the effort was too great, and she faded out.</p><p>#</p><p>Lightning flashed over the sky like a spiderweb, and Kingsley yelled on the Thestral in front of her. The Death Eaters swarmed—so, so many of them. Rain pelted her skin, and the hoods were too hard to follow in the tempest.</p><p>She wasn’t ready. She’d spent too much time in books and not enough in practice. They’d put their faith in her for nothing, and now she would fail.</p><p>Her eyes stung, tears blurring her vision, and her wand shook in her hand.</p><p>The robes shifted, the Death Eaters’ hoods creeping back just enough to reveal the gaunt mouths beneath them.</p><p>Hermione froze, ice creeping up her wrist.</p><p>The one in the front swooped forward, and she flinched away.</p><p>“Protego!”</p><p>The shout boomed through the storm, and though she couldn’t see the caster, the flash of blue in the gale and the familiar warmth of the voice felt like a beacon.</p><p>The shield cracked between her and the onslaught, and she sucked in a breath, steadying herself. The hoods reeled back from the light.</p><p>Her courage came back to her, and she lifted her wand, determined.</p><p>#</p><p>Cold. Her left hand hurt like fire. Everything hurt like fire—raw and spent.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes opened, and George laid across from her on a separate table, face tipped in her direction. Light strobed through his skin in a spiderwebbed pattern. Vanishing without a trace, reappearing.</p><p>She inhaled sharply, confusion lancing through her.</p><p>Her chest ached with a hollow ringing. Emptiness.</p><p>His eyes opened, and a thick, swirling, golden glaze coated them. “Granger—” he mumbled, and his hand shook as it lifted from the table, groping toward her face. His arm was coated in gauze, and she didn’t understand.</p><p>“Granger—” he mumbled, his brows drawing together. “I-I—”</p><p>She tried to whisper, but it wouldn’t come out. Her voice wouldn’t make a sound. Despite all the effort she threw into it, her fingers only barely twitched towards his, and pain slammed through her at the movement. The world bled together.</p><p>She sucked in a gasp, a sob closing in her throat.</p><p>At the sound, George’s eyes strobed, and his arm flailed, and he was almost to her, but—</p><p>The dark claimed her.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione lifted the locket from the table as rain battered the tent.</p><p>The storm seeped through the canvas, filling the air with a frigid chill. She hadn’t been warm in so long, and the ache in her ribs hurt.</p><p>The locket settled against her chest, and it felt like ice, burning against her skin.</p><p>She squeezed her eyes shut.</p><p>If she didn’t have dirty blood, it wouldn’t hurt so badly.</p><p>The thought popped into her head, and she tried to push it aside. It was only the horcrux, lying to her.</p><p>But the thought wouldn’t fade.</p><p>Outside, the dark stretched far. Ron had left.</p><p>Harry had gone off into the dark to look for something.</p><p>Little Hermione, all alone.</p><p>Why had such a terrible task fallen on their shoulders?</p><p>The locket hung heavy around her neck.</p><p>It would all be for nothing.</p><p>The tent’s entrance flapped in the wind, and outside, she could see grey cloaks, floating on the horizon, by the river.</p><p>Waiting, as though it were only a matter of time.</p><p>Hermione closed her eyes, stumbling further away from the table as she watched them. She’d been so arrogant to assume she could do this. To assume her effort would make any sort of difference.</p><p>Her friends barely tolerated her, always talking down to them about things no one cared about. And her enemies? When the dark lord found them, he would be merciless.</p><p>Harry was half-mad from the journey, and Ron had abandoned them.</p><p>Her parents didn’t remember who she was.</p><p>No one would miss her when this quest inevitably brought her end.</p><p>Her throat felt thick.</p><p>“Well, that’s a load of rubbish,” a warm voice said. Hermione started, turning. George Weasley sat on the bench, leaning back against the table. His arms were crossed, and he wore the suit he’d had on just before they’d gulped down the Polyjuice months ago. No bandage marred his face, and his two ears were whole.</p><p>He raised his brows.</p><p>“No one miss you?” he said, snorting. He rolled his eyes. “As if.”</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked, swallowing. The locket burned.</p><p>He cocked a brow and stood, dusting his jacket off. “You don’t look terribly pleased to see me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, but you’re not even here,” Hermione said, whirling around. It was some vision, from the horcrux or the lack of sleep. Perhaps she was dreaming with the locket on. Or maybe it was Polyjuice. She raised her wand, whirling on him. “What’s-what’s something only George would know?”</p><p>George raised his hands, but he stepped closer. Again. “Easy there, Granger,” he said.</p><p>Her wand shook. “Answer the question.”</p><p>George stopped. “I know your Mum read to you when you had your wisdom teeth out.” Hermione’s wand faltered. A dream, then. “I’m not the enemy here,” he said. He nodded toward the tent flap. Hermione turned. The cloaks wandered closer to the perimeter charms. She swallowed.</p><p>She felt him like a warm tide as he stepped up, just behind her.</p><p>“As for the rest,” he whispered. “Personally, I would happen to miss you—very much.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” she asked, blinking. The cloaks swirled in the rain, and the dark river under them twisted, surging against the protective enchantments she had caste.</p><p>“You know,” his murmur was low, and he sounded amused. Hermione’s heart pounded.</p><p>“This may feel impossible to you right now,” he said. His touch was featherlight on her neck, his thumb brushing the locket’s chain. “But it’s not.” Hermione turned, starting at the close proximity between them. He tilted his head forward, and his nose brushed hers. “You can do it, Granger.”</p><p>He pressed something rectangular into her hands and faded to nothingness.</p><p>Hermione blinked down. A small radio crackled between her fingers.</p><p>And life poured out. The words were obscured, but the voices were warm.</p><p>She wasn’t alone.</p><p>Hermione held the radio close, and it glowed against her ribs like candlelight.</p><p>Somewhere out there, people cared.</p><p>#</p><p>Her head tipped, a shard of light piercing her eyelids. Everything hurt. A sharp jolt flashed through her neck, and she whimpered, flinching away.</p><p>“Figure it out, then!”</p><p>“Mr. Potter, please remain calm—”</p><p>“I’ll calm down when you do your job competently—look at her!” The shout boomed. “Hermione Weasley-Granger—laid flat. Now, you sort this, or I’ll—”</p><p>Hermione lurched forward, gravity pulling her.</p><p>“Careful!” a third, familiar voice cut in, and a scuffle sounded, someone tripping into her seat. Suddenly, warm hands braced beneath her head, keeping it steady as the world moved. “I’ve got you—” the voice mumbled. “I’m here. M’here.”</p><p>She opened her mouth, but the sound that came out was garbled.</p><p>“Hermione?” the man asked.</p><p>Where was George? She wanted George.</p><p>“George—” she said, the name barely audible as it wisped over her lips.</p><p>He was saying something, but she couldn’t follow, and her head fell forward.</p><p>#</p><p>The hard stone of Malfoy Manor ached under Hermione’s back. The black curls descended around her face again as Bellatrix screeched in her ear, “What did you take?” The knife point caught on her skin, and it burned as Bellatrix etched.</p><p>“I didn’t take any-anything—” Hermione choked.</p><p>She didn’t have time to answer before the Crucio hit her, yet again. Yanking up and down her spine like fire. She tried to be brave. Tried to grit her teeth against it, but the cries tore from her throat anyway.</p><p>“What do you see, little girl?” Bellatrix breathed in her ear, and the air was cold and stifling. Hermione blinked at her arm. Where red should have poured from the cuts, a dark brown muck sluiced from the wound. “What do you see?” The Death Eater’s voice was high and loud, cackling. The knife dug in, and Hermione cried out. “Answer me!”</p><p>“M-mud—” Hermione said, gasps wracking her. Bellatrix’s face morphed, and a cruel smile twisted her face.</p><p>“Please, please,” she heard herself begging, crying out, sobbing. She was alone. So, so alone. The muck tracked across her skin, puddling on the floor.</p><p>“No one can hear you,” Bellatrix stared in her eyes, a detached smile on her lips. Then, she descended, and she was trapped. Bellatrix’s mouth opened wide and a hollow whistle echoed.</p><p>Hermione’s blood curdled at the sound of her own scream. There was a ghastly pull, and Hermione’s center lurched, twisting out through her face. She lifted from the ground, reeling. Bellatrix flicked her wand, and Hermione smashed into the hard floor.</p><p>“I didn’t take anything—” Hermione gasped. There was no way out.</p><p>Beyond the rubble on the floor, a steel wall lingered, a dark river running just beside it, into the distance. The water rushed over the floor, and grey robes floated over it.</p><p>If Bellatrix didn’t kill her, she’d drown.</p><p>Something tumbled at her side—a golden glow.</p><p>“I’m right here,” the glow murmured, and a hand reached out, steadying her. She couldn’t make out the face, but the jumper sleeve at her shoulder was green and familiar.</p><p>She watched it, an anchor in the dark.</p><p>The river didn’t touch them. The grey robes swirled, pacing back and forth as though searching, but the man beside her didn’t move.</p><p>They swooped back, through the portrait hole.</p><p>#</p><p>April 22, 2003</p><p>Parchment.</p><p>Freshly mown grass.</p><p>Cinnamon.</p><p>Nutmeg.</p><p>Sparks thrummed through her forearm, up to the elbow in a warm cascade. The cold, aching feeling in the rest of her rattled, yearning for the same thaw.</p><p>Hermione breathed deep, turning into it.</p><p>“Oh.” The hushed whisper was a familiar voice that she couldn’t quite place. It was followed by the faint rustle of parchment. The sparks faded, and vaguely, she could feel something shifting beside her as she slipped back under.</p><p>#</p><p>April 22, 2003, 6:00 a.m.</p><p>The first thing she noticed was the dull pinch under her sternum. But it was muted, the coldness of its bite reduced by the wonderful glow seeping into her side, her face, and her shoulders.</p><p>Hermione took a slow, steady breath as the tightness in her ribs unwound.</p><p>Soft mumbling filled her ears, a familiar song.</p><p>“Touch my soul, you know how.” The voice was low and distracted, half-humming. “Andante, Andante, go slowly with me now.”</p><p>Hermione cracked her eyes open, dazed. The world was a blur, but she could make out the textures. A heavy blanket was pulled up to her chest, and she lay tucked snug against the form next to her. Her left arm was freed from the quilt’s weight, wrapped tightly around the heat at her side.</p><p>Hermione blinked, and her vision cleared enough to make out her closest surroundings.</p><p>It was George under her fingers, heart beating slowly under her hand, her head propped in the crook of his shoulder.</p><p>“Play me time and time again and make me strong—” George mumbled.</p><p>He lay on top of the blankets beside her, bolstered on a few pillows, bracing the shop book on his knees as he looked through it. His right hand was unmarked as it coasted along the parchment.</p><p>Had—had they died?</p><p>At the thought, Hermione’s fingers tightened on the fabric of his shirt. Almost absentmindedly, he adjusted, pulling her closer, eyes not leaving the book.</p><p>“Shhhh—” he mumbled. His left hand coasted up her arm, and his fingers brushed through the curls near her temple as he turned the page. The sparks fluttered over her face, and then his hand returned to her arm.</p><p>“Make me sing, make me sound,” George whispered, turning the page. “Andante, Andante, tread lightly on my ground.”</p><p>He wore a faded, green terrycloth robe over a set of checked, grey pajamas, and the copper-wire frames were propped on his nose.</p><p>If they were dead, he probably wouldn’t need glasses.</p><p>Hermione’s brow furrowed. A dream, then?</p><p>As she watched, he stiffened, and sparks snapped from his lips as he coughed. With the sound, a spiderwork lit aqua light under his skin. The marks were in the same place the grey scar had been, flashing in time with his eyes—gold and blue. Just as suddenly, the light faded, leaving not a trace behind.</p><p>Was something wrong?</p><p>Hermione tensed. “George—” she croaked, panic swelling up her throat. She braced her hand on his chest as she tried to push upright, but everything spun terribly.</p><p>George started, smacking the shop book shut and shoving it on the floor with a heavy thud as he twisted to steady her with his other arm.</p><p>“S’alright,” he said. “Easy now, Granger.” His hand slipped under her left arm, propping her more securely before he moved to push the curls out of her face. “Nasty business, sorry—”</p><p>Hermione’s head tipped onto his chest, her ears ringing.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. The room spun, shards of light turning to bright lines in the blur.</p><p>“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Try to settle. They-they said it might hurt when you came to, so just hold tight—”</p><p>That was an understatement, but the sparks under her skin thrummed, carrying away the edge of it.</p><p>“You’re not dead,” she gasped. The last she remembered, her magic had failed, and everything had—</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>“No,” he said faintly. “No, I’m not.”</p><p>George’s arm tightened around her shoulders, and his other hand faltered over her face, pausing.</p><p>“Apologies if this is a bit jarring,” he whispered. “I was only holding your hand earlier, but you seemed to need more, so—” He hesitated. “And it’s horrid to wake up after spending it all like that.”</p><p>Spending it all? Her eyelids dragged, and she struggled to keep them open.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” Hermione said, blinking. “I-I’m so tired.”</p><p>A frustrated sounding sigh spilled over George’s lips. “I’m so sorry. I can’t give you any magic like this, or I could fry you.” he said. “It’s on the fritz, and I’ve got extraordinarily little control over it.” His face contorted. “Harry startled me earlier, and I almost blew the pantry door off its hinges.”</p><p>She couldn’t follow his meaning, so she watched, confused, as his hand flexed and clenched over his chest while he spoke. The skin was smooth.</p><p>His voice echoed in her mind, unbidden: <em>“Let me go, Hermione.”</em></p><p>“Don’t leave,” she breathed. “Stay—right, right here, like the radio.”</p><p>George’s voice halted. “Hermione?” he asked. The dark pulled at her, and she felt herself slip deeper, away from his arms, away from the warm, cozy bed.</p><p>“Don’t let go,” she said, gripping him.</p><p>“I’m not—” he said, and his arms tightened around her, but it wasn’t enough. “Granger?” His voice took on an anxious pinch.</p><p>“Please, George,” she choked.</p><p>The river stole her away.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione pressed herself back against the wooden shelving, gasping. Uncanny, flickering rain poured from the darkness over her head, and the river surged between her and the metal wall, over the library’s floor. Water leapt from the current like furious hands, reaching. It splashed against the closest shelf, and a book tumbled from the wood’s shelter, falling open on top of the waves.</p><p>Over its pages, George straightened her wool cloak as they whispered to each other in the White Wyvern.</p><p><em>“Did we make a good team?”</em> Hermione’s voice sang from the page.</p><p>
  <em>“Yes.”</em>
</p><p>The image flickered, showing Hermione as she leaned in.</p><p>The water crashed over the book, and Hermione felt the memory come free as the river carried it away.</p><p>“No—” she gasped, reaching out. “No, that’s-that’s mine!”</p><p>Her head pounded.</p><p>“Give it back!” she cried. “It belongs to me!”</p><p>“What are you on about?” A voice lilted at her side. Hermione twisted. George stood over her, Quidditch robes askew and broom on his shoulders.</p><p>“My book fell into the water,” she said, blinking back tears.</p><p>“Oh,” George said. He bit his lips together, watching the rapids. “Was it a good one?”</p><p>Hermione pressed a knuckle to her mouth. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t—I don’t remember.” The rain surged.</p><p>The water twisted, reeling back again, and Hermione sucked in a breath.</p><p>“It’s going to take more,” she said, watching in horror.</p><p>George flickered, and his robes melted into a frayed, dark blue jumper and jeans as he seemed to age several years before her eyes. The rain cascaded over him, soaking his hair. He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her to face the storm.</p><p>The rain was half ghost, but the current ate it up, swelling.</p><p>George’s arms wrapped around her waist, warm and solid.</p><p>“Look,” he whispered. Hermione blinked down. A candlestick rested in his hands, flame sputtering in the gale.</p><p>Hermione reached up and cupped her hands around the flame, shielding it.</p><p>For a moment, the candle flickered, taking the shape of a radio.</p><p>Then a purple jumper.</p><p>Then a worn, cardboard box.</p><p>A soft, blue mitten.</p><p>A Walkman.</p><p>A scrap of parchment.</p><p>A chipped mug, with an “H” on the side.</p><p>A slice of carrot cake.</p><p>The shapes strobed, picking up pace, and she couldn’t distinguish them any longer. But they all shed light like a flame.</p><p>“Is this your candle, George?” Hermione murmured, watching it.</p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>Hermione turned. George had gone, and the candle floated under the shelter of her hands.</p><p>She’d keep watch over it, until he returned.</p><p>The glow built. Hermione lifted her head. The rain faded in the light, and the river melted, backing away from the shelves, until it was confined within its usual banks along the wall.</p><p>She turned, looking down current. The ragged hoods whipped over the water in the distance, waiting.</p><p>#</p><p>April 22, 2003, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>Hermione groaned. Her head pounded, and every muscle in her body ached as though she’d strained them all at once. Her chest was tight and hollow feeling, but a steady, warm thrum washed through her, emanating from her side. Hermione blinked, cranking her eyes open.</p><p>George laid on top of the blankets, glasses askew, asleep. His copper hair was rumpled, and his green, terrycloth robe was rough under her cheek. Her hand was fisted in his grey, checked pajama shirt, near his shoulder, beside her face. Hermione blinked.</p><p>Why was he in her room?</p><p>The light from the standing lamp beside him was soft, but it still hurt as it met her eyes.</p><p>She strained, lifting her head.</p><p>George stirred, but his eyes didn’t open.</p><p>“George—” she whispered. He sighed, and his arm tightened around her shoulders.</p><p>The quilt caught on her right wrist as she struggled, trying to pull at him. Tingles shot up to her elbow at the movement. “George,” she said.</p><p>George inhaled sharply, and his eyes flew open. He twisted, looking down at her. His gaze was wild and worried, searching hers.</p><p>“Nightmare?” he asked.</p><p>“N-no—” Hermione said, brow contorting. “Maybe—” she hesitated. “I’m not sure?”</p><p>She couldn’t remember anything from her sleep. It was veiled in fog, distant.</p><p>“Did I call for you?” she asked slowly. George tilted his head.</p><p>“I don’t think so?” he said, tilting his head in what looked like confusion.</p><p>Had he had trouble—with the curse scar? Where was his arm? His right hand was propped over his head. She blinked at it.</p><p>There were no markings.</p><p>None at all.</p><p>She tried to push upright, but her body cried out in pain, and she slumped. George grimaced, reaching to adjust her.</p><p>“Merlin, careful—” he muttered. “Got to take it slow with these things.”</p><p>“With what things?” Hermione gasped, clutching her head. Had she read too late? She hadn’t been sleeping much lately—perhaps it was catching up with her. She blinked, trying to strain for another glimpse at his hand. It was a trick of the light, surely.</p><p>George leaned down, brow wrinkled as he reached towards her face. As his hand neared, Hermione searched it for marks.</p><p>Not a single one. Not even the faintest shadow.</p><p>George tipped her head up with a gentle finger under her chin, and his eyes searched hers, intent. “Are you alright?” he asked, brow furrowing. “You seemed pretty distraught when you faded, earlier.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. Little sparks spiraled out from his touch. It was different. He was different—almost as if he was back to normal. His eyes were like gravity, pulling her in.</p><p>George’s brows shot up. “Hermione?” he asked. She blinked.</p><p>“The curse,” she said, glancing at the place it had been. George’s features relaxed.</p><p>He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “That—” he said, dragging the hand down his face. “Was very foolhardy of you.”</p><p>“What?” Hermione asked. His heart beat steadily under her palm.</p><p>“I mean—you just about cooked us both, Love,” he muttered, staring down at his hand. “Had to regrow the skin on my arm, not to mention your fingers—” he nodded at her left hand. The skin there was pink and smooth.</p><p>He wasn’t making any sense.</p><p>“Cooked?” Hermione asked, wincing.</p><p>“Well, just about. Casting a Patronus into me?” He laughed and fixed her with a bemused look. “Bit risky, Granger.” There was no reprove in his voice, more like awe. He picked her hand up, off his chest. He bit his lips together, studying it with a line between his brows.</p><p>“Glad you placed the wager, though,” he said softly.</p><p>Hermione took in a breath, holding it as she mulled the words over. Something had happened. Something she didn’t recall.</p><p>She blinked.</p><p>No.</p><p>Not regression.</p><p>The temptation to keep it from him, to reduce the worry on his shoulders flared, but she’d promised.</p><p>“George—” she said, halting. “I don’t remember.”</p><p>George stilled. Her hand dropped to his chest.</p><p>“Really?” he asked faintly. Hermione nodded. George closed his eyes.</p><p>“Last I know, I was going to bed, and we were going to meet Harry and Ron tomorrow for the—”</p><p>George paled. “Not even talking with me earlier today?”</p><p>Hermione shook her head. George’s throat bobbed. “Okay.” The word came out on a shaken breath.</p><p>“George?”</p><p>“Probably nothing,” he whispered, but the look in his eyes said the opposite. “Aftereffects of what happened, I-I’m sure of it, but—” he hesitated, rapidly looking at her and then away as he shrugged. “We’ll owl Marcus, just to be sure, alright?” He pulled his glasses off, blinking, then put them back on. “I should find some—um—some parchment, I suppose—”</p><p>He shifted, gently removing her from his embrace. He settled her back, propping her upright on the pillows without meeting her eyes. But panic had written itself over his tight shoulders, through the faltering nature of his movements, and into the strained tone in his voice. He didn’t fool her. As he drew away, a sudden cold crept in, and she fisted the blanket in her hand.</p><p>“—maybe he’s found something in his research, besides—” he said, tripping across the room to the small desk.</p><p>Hermione winced. She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten all about it.</p><p>“I don’t think he has,” she said softly.</p><p>George shook his head at the desk. “He might’ve,” he said, pulling a quill from the drawer. A desperate, raw edge filtered through the words. Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>“George?” she asked.</p><p>“Yes, Love?” he mumbled, distracted as he bent over the parchment.</p><p>“He hasn’t,” she said, swallowing. George shook his head.</p><p>“How do you know that?” he asked, glancing at her in confusion.</p><p>“Because I told him to put the research on hold,” she said. The quill went still.</p><p>George’s head bowed, and he looked away, towards the wall.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, and he sounded winded, like he’d taken a blow to the middle.</p><p>“You were dying,” Hermione whispered. “I didn’t want him wasting time on me with you like that.”</p><p>He laid the quill down, bracing his hands on the table. His shoulders stooped, and she couldn’t see any of his face. He was still for several moments.</p><p>“George—” she tried.</p><p>“Well, that’s the first thing we fix,” he muttered, snatching up the quill. It scratched hurriedly over the parchment. “And I’ll get you some food.” He didn’t look at her or say another word as he strode from the room, letter in hand.</p><p>A lump rose in her throat, and the cold in her chest pinched tighter.</p><p>She watched the door, but he didn’t re-emerge right away.</p><p>The minutes ticked by, and Hermione chest wound tighter and tighter.</p><p>After some time, he returned, two plates in hand. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Reheating things takes longer without magic.” He tucked the first dish onto her lap and slid the second onto the side table. “Do you need any help?” he asked quietly, staring at his hands. Hermione shook her head. George nodded and moved to drag the desk chair over, breathing a little heavily from the effort as he dropped into it. He still hadn’t met her eyes when he lifted his plate, pushing a fork into the shepherd’s pie.</p><p>“Eat,” he said.</p><p>She took the fork, but as she tried to lift it from the plate, her strength gave out. She coughed, disguising the gesture as a reflex.</p><p>George stopped, his eyes on her fork.</p><p>“I’m not hungry,” she said.</p><p>“Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, shoveling another bite in. “Eat it anyway. You haven’t had a good meal in days.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the fork, and tears blurred her vision.</p><p>“I don’t see how you don’t understand,” she said softly. “You’re the one who’s always insisting on being so bloody noble, all the time.”</p><p>George didn’t react, shoving the fork into his mouth again. A moment passed as he chewed, and a dark flush crept up his neck, but George’s expression remained shuttered. Hermione twisted her hands on her lap. George took a sip of water from the glass on the table and cleared his throat.</p><p>“I do understand, Granger,” he said, pushing the fork through the potatoes, not looking at her. “Doesn’t mean I’m not upset.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, swallowing thickly. “Okay.”</p><p>“Please eat.” The words were soft, and he turned away from her a bit more as he whispered them.</p><p>Her face burned.</p><p>“I don’t want to,” she said. She didn’t want his help, not while he was cross with her. Normally, it felt lovely to have him care, but like this…It felt—not right.</p><p>George ducked his head. “I’m allowed to be upset, Hermione,” he said. “That’s—”</p><p>“I know you are,” she said.</p><p>George set his plate on the table and buried his face in his hands. “I wish you’d told me,” he said.</p><p>“When it happened, you were still out,” she said, picking at the quilt’s stitching. “And then later, so much had happened, and it sort of got dropped to the bottom of the pile in comparison.”</p><p>George sighed and pulled his glasses off, dropping them onto the table. “Okay,” he said. The word sounded like a resignation, and Hermione’s throat tightened.</p><p>The cold nipped at her arms and legs, twisting slowly in her ribs. Hermione grimaced.</p><p>“You need help, don’t you?” he asked quietly.</p><p>Hermione shook her head.</p><p>“Right,” he said, reaching for her fork.</p><p>“I’m fine,” she said.</p><p>George bobbed his head. “Mhm,” he said, pressing his lips together into a fine line, not meeting her eyes. He dug the fork into her food, concentrating as he spoke softly. “I’ll go back for my NEWTs if you can lift this fork above your shoulder.”</p><p>Hermione huffed, but she didn’t even try.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” he mumbled, lifting the food to her mouth.</p><p>Hermione twisted away. “I’d rather not,” she said.</p><p>George lowered the fork.</p><p>“I don’t like you to help me when you’re cross with me,” she said, face pounding with heat. “It’s an imbalance of power.” She plucked the words from her recent memory, offering his logic back to him.</p><p>George leaned back, returning the fork to her dish. “That’s fair,” he said. “Why don’t we talk it all out.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged, but she brought her gaze to his face. He watched her, his eyes steady on hers. “You go first,” he said, nudging her hand.</p><p>Hermione took in a breath. “I didn’t want you to die,” she said. George braced his forearms on the bed’s edge, nodding.</p><p>“Cheers for that,” he said, tilting his head and flicking his gaze toward the ceiling. “But if I might make a counter-argument—” he cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Ultimately, the research did me no good.”</p><p>“Well that’s easy to point out now, but then?” Hermione sighed. “I didn’t want to take any chances,” she said. “There was so much of it to be done, and I didn’t want Marcus wasting any hours on something that wasn’t as time sensitive.”</p><p>George leaned in, eyes fixed on her cheek. He brushed a curl from her face before leaning back. Hermione swallowed. “Yes, but what about the other researchers on the team?” he asked lightly. “They had more experience, and Marcus’s hours could’ve been put to better use working on something within his expertise.”</p><p>It was a good point.</p><p>“While that’s true, at the time, Marcus was the only one I truly knew, and I felt better having him involved,” she said, twisting her hands. “It was too important to me.”</p><p>George drummed his fingers on the bed. He was quiet for a moment, then: “You still should’ve told me,” he said.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”</p><p>George swallowed and nodded. “You were handling a lot, though,” he said. “And I wasn’t much help, like that.” He blinked, shaking his head. “Looking back at it now, it’s-it’s odd. It doesn’t feel like I was fully there, most of the time.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.</p><p>He sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I was scared out of my mind—seeing things, and it felt like if I said anything, you’d leave or die or something terrible would happen, and I was too tired to think clearly.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. “You were worried I would leave?”</p><p>George buried his face in his hands. “A few times, yes.” The words were barely audible. “And now it doesn’t make any sense why.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t leave,” she said softly.</p><p> George lifted his head and fixed her with a dry stare. “Bugger,” he said. “You mean I’m stuck with you?”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “It seems so,” she said. The corner of George’s mouth quirked upwards. He dropped his hands to the quilt.</p><p>“Harry thinks it was the curse, messing with me,” he said. “Some sort of hybrid Dementor magic.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “In the venom?”</p><p>George shrugged. “They’re still trying to sort that one out. There are some parts of it that don’t make sense, so we think the venom might have been a mixture of several things.” He bit his lips together and turned his head, staring at the table. “Pretty grim invention, if you ask me.”</p><p>But the curse on George had been internal, taking root inside of him.</p><p>It made no sense. Dementors were external monsters that sucked a victim out of themselves. Even the cursed objects from Harry and Ron’s case seemed to operate in the same way as a Dementor did. On top of the regular Dementor effects, they hadn’t reached into anyone, only sucked them out. At least, as far as Harry knew of. It was hard to say, and the other elements in each attack complicated things. The explosions and other damage usually wrecked the scene, and there were so few witnesses. They didn’t have much to go on, honestly.</p><p>But still. She should’ve thought of it. Why hadn’t she thought of it?</p><p>For that matter, what had made her think of it when she caste the Patronus?</p><p>“What happened?” Hermione whispered. George sighed.</p><p>“It seemed to be draining at me, even though most of it was confined to my arm. But as I ran out of magic, the Protego began to fail, more and more, and then during your mission, things started going poorly, and you made this—um—”</p><p>Suddenly he paused, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. He seemed at a loss for words, and his hand flexed over the bed.</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George frowned and reached behind her to straighten the pillow. “—this sound like you’d been hurt or something—” he said, giving the cushion another, little tug. Finally, he shrugged, hands still on the pillow. “Don’t remember anything very clearly after that, until I woke up with you in Mungo’s, coughing sparks.”</p><p>“Are you alright, then?” she asked, hesitating.</p><p>“A little battered, but free of the grey stuff,” he said, tapping her on the nose. A weight tumbled from her, and she took a deep breath.</p><p>George smirked. “Granted, my system took a beating from the curse, and then you went and turned me into a bloody livewire, but I’ll recover. I’ll be able to caste again in time.” He dropped back into his chair, crossing his arms. “For now, I can’t sneeze without shattering teacups, and it’s all your fault.” He gave her a stern look.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes were wide, searching his face. “So, it’s gone?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“All the way?” she asked, throat closing.</p><p>“Yes,” George said.</p><p>Hermione exhaled slowly and looked down at quilt. All that desperation, all that fear. Suddenly gone.</p><p>“Which brings us back to the principal subject of the conversation,” George said lightly. “Your recovery.”</p><p>“I’ll be fine in a few weeks,” she said, despite the cold pinch in her chest. “Magic builds back up.”</p><p>“No, I meant your full recovery,” George said, tone firm.</p><p>Hermione’s stomach twisted.</p><p>He drummed his fingers on the bed. “It’s just concerning to me that you—” he stopped. “You haven’t given up, have you?”</p><p>It wasn’t that she’d given up. It was just that there seemed to be so little hope for it. Trying or not trying didn’t make a difference.</p><p>“If I could bring the memories back, I would,” she said, and it came out with more tension that she’d intended.</p><p>“I know,” George said. “I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t doing your best.”</p><p>She didn’t say anything.</p><p>“You don’t mind me asking Healer Marcus to resume his research for you, do you?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “N-no,” she said. George exhaled. “Really—that request was only about you, George. I had no ulterior motive for asking.” She raised her head, watching him. “While I have to admit that I don’t expect him to find anything, I don’t mind him trying.”</p><p>George’s leg bounced, and he leaned back in the chair. “If you hoped that he might find something, would you have still asked him to stop like you did?”</p><p>Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”</p><p>George huffed.</p><p>“I don’t have high hopes, but that wasn’t a factor in the choice I made,” she said.</p><p>George tugged at his ear. “I know it’s been a while, but they could still—” he ducked his head, stopping. He cleared his throat.</p><p>“They probably won’t,” she said.</p><p>“Don’t say that,” George said. He didn’t lift his head.</p><p>“George—”</p><p>“Don’t,” he said.</p><p>Hermione swallowed back the lump in her throat, the other Hermione looming over them like a ghost.</p><p>“Okay,” she said. She turned. Outside, a light mist fell over Diagon, and the sun’s rays weren’t visible through the cloud cover.</p><p>Fog pressed against the windows, and the fan circled slowly above their heads.</p><p>“Anyway,” Hermione said, firming her jaw. Her fingers twisted together in her lap. “I only meant that I asked Marcus to because I wanted you safe, not because I’d come to some decision about the rest.”</p><p>George sighed, but finally, he lifted his head. “I’m aware this makes me a hypocrite, but I don’t like my safety to come at your expense,” he said.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows and stared pointedly at his hand. “Yes, well, I feel the same.” She gripped the quilt tighter in her hands. “So, I’ll look after you, and you’ll look after me, and we’ll agree to tolerate each other’s annoying proclivities for stepping in front of knives.”</p><p>George blinked, and his eyes went round. Hermione hesitated, watching him. Perhaps she’d phrased that poorly. But then he huffed, shaking the moment off like it hadn’t happened.</p><p>“Right,” he said.</p><p>“It’s only fair,” Hermione said, swallowing. “You don’t get to have the monopoly on being protective.”</p><p>“Very smooth, Granger,” he said. “But you can’t butter me up with talk about how much you care.” He tipped his head, fixing her with a serious look, but his tone lilted, and she suddenly got the idea that perhaps she could do just that.</p><p>She hesitated.</p><p>“That’s bothersome,” she said. “Considering that I care very much.”</p><p>“I know what you’re doing,” George said, suddenly fascinated with the quilt. His brow furrowed. Slowly, a pink tide rose in his cheeks, flushing over his forehead and nose.</p><p>Hermione smiled.</p><p>“Feel free to carry on, though,” he said lightly, tilting his head as he played with blanket’s edge. “About how much you care, I mean.”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “Git.”</p><p>George lifted his head, and his eyes warmed.</p><p>“It’s funny, really,” Hermione said, wincing at him. “It seems you’ve grown on me. Terribly irksome.”</p><p>George nodded, swallowing. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Very inconvenient,” Hermione continued, biting back a grin at the spark in his eyes. “Seeing as you’re a total prat.” George exhaled. His look was wistful as he lifted his hand over her, brushing the back of his knuckles along her right temple. He bit his lips together, searching her face.</p><p>Sparks rippled through her skin at his touch, and she couldn’t hold the smile back any longer.</p><p>Suddenly, George bolted forward, pressing his lips to her cheek. His hands slipped into her hair and cradled her head. “Bloody insufferable Gryffindor,” he muttered, breathing into her skin. Then, he twisted, laying a second kiss on her left temple. Before she could blink, he dropped back into his chair, shaking his head.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” he sighed, picking up her fork. “You’ll be my undoing.”</p><p>#</p><p>April 24, 2003</p><p>George stepped through the floo, drenched despite the green flame. Hermione paused at the counter, lowering her copy of <em>Magical Tradition</em>. She’d spent the morning clearing up the flat, tidying the books everywhere and peeling the parchments from the windows in the hopes that spring’s light would fill the space. But all Britain had for her was more rain.</p><p>George turned, blinking. “You’ve been busy,” he said.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. The stringboard was restricted back to the closet wall, and she would take the books one at a time, for now. The danger felt less all-consuming that way.</p><p>George yanked his cap off, and water droplets flung through the living room. The downpour had soaked through it, and his hair was plastered to his head. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy,” he said, a mild censure in his voice.</p><p>“I am,” Hermione said. “I was careful.”</p><p>The pinch in her ribs had faded a bit, but she still felt empty. She didn’t mind doing things the muggle way, however. She found it a bit refreshing to handle the tasks one step at a time.</p><p>George sneezed, lighting gold and blue, and sparks snapped off of him. The lightbulb in the lamp burst at the sound. “Bugger,” he muttered. Hermione laid the book down and went for the broom.</p><p>He was attempting to pick up the shards with his bare hands when she approached, and she shook her head, pushing him away from it. His clothes dripped on the hardwood.</p><p>Honestly, it was as though wizards didn’t know how to manage without drying charms. Hermione rolled her eyes, disposing of the glass, then crossed to George.</p><p>“You’re making a lake on the floor,” she said, reaching for his coat. He jumped a little at her approach. “Alright?” she asked, peeling it off of him. His things were soaked underneath.</p><p>Merlin. How hard was it raining?</p><p>George sighed. “Yeah, sorry—only thinking.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, hanging the coat over the boot tray. “Where’d you go?”</p><p>George raked a hand through his hair, heading for the study as his hands pulled at his oxford buttons. “Mungo’s,” he said. “Then the post office.” The door clicked closed behind him.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and took a seat at the counter. A drawer scraped open in the study.  </p><p>“For you or me?” Hermione called, finally.</p><p>A thud.</p><p>“George?” she called again.</p><p>“I’m alright!” he shouted. “Hold on.”</p><p>A few moments later, he emerged, clad in a dry pair of trousers and a faded, long-sleeved shirt with “Granger &amp; Granger Dental” stamped on the front. Hermione smiled at the logo. A wad of wet clothes dripped in his hands.</p><p>“You,” he said, heading to the loo. Hermione popped up from her seat and followed him. George turned in a circle. “There’s not really a good place for this, is there?” he said, peering around. Eventually, he shrugged and draped them over the shower door.</p><p>“Why didn’t you ask me along?” she asked, folding her arms. George raked a comb through his hair.</p><p>“I was only seeing if Marcus got the owl,” he said. “It’s not like him to leave us hanging.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Did he?”</p><p>George’s mouth thinned. “Haven’t the foggiest,” he said. “He wasn’t in.” He stepped away from the mirror and slipped past her. She followed him into the bedroom, and he headed to the closet.</p><p>“Did they say when he’d be back?” she asked.</p><p>George shook his head, flipping through hangers. “No, the attendant said it wasn’t public information,” he said. He plucked a jumper from the end of the row. “I understand, I mean, a bloke can’t have people knocking down his door at all hours, but—rubbish timing.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “George?” she asked.</p><p>George’s hands danced over the hangers. “Yes, dear?” he replied, distracted. Hermione warmed from head to foot at the name. She hesitated, then, impulse took control.</p><p>Hermione stepped into the space, slipping in front of him. “What are you looking for?” she asked.</p><p>“Something a little bit warmer, I suppose,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand along his jaw. He reached over her right shoulder. “I’m not working today, so—”</p><p>He lifted a brown, flannel sleeve. “Could go this route,” he said.</p><p>Hermione smiled and stepped back, easing the slightest bit closer. George paused.</p><p>“Or maybe, um—” he cleared his throat, and his other hand came up to rest lightly on her left shoulder.</p><p>Sparks.</p><p>He pulled at the sleeve of a jumper beside the flannel. “—something softer?” he said, and his voice almost dropped off at the question.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Brilliant,” he said lightly. He dropped the sleeve, and his hand slipped to her right elbow.</p><p>Hermione’s heart pounded.</p><p>George’s hand trailed down the outside of her arm, pausing at the back of her wrist. Hermione’s face flushed. Then, he moved it back up, to her elbow, shifting it. His thumb grazed the right side of her waist, warm through her flannel. His left hand hadn’t moved.</p><p>“I’d very much like to hold you right now,” he murmured.</p><p>Courage.</p><p>“That is why I came in here,” Hermione said softly, eyes fixed on the row of clothing.</p><p>“I wondered,” George said, and his right arm stole around her waist as his left wrapped around the front of her shoulders. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, speaking lightly. “See, I’ve learned that when you most want a hug, you tend to hover around me like a bumble bee.”</p><p>Hermione leaned back into him as the glow built, smiling at the image he’d painted.</p><p>“What do I do when I want a kiss, usually?” she asked.</p><p>George’s face turned, and he whispered, laughing softly in her ear. “Nick it like a—”</p><p>“Oi!” Fred’s shout boomed from the living room as the floo roared.</p><p>George exhaled, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. He cleared his throat and broke away, swiping the jumper from the hanger.</p><p>“Right,” he said. “Um—”</p><p>Hermione turned to face him, disappointment lancing through her.</p><p>George hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the door, then back to her. He swallowed. “Bugger,” he whispered. Then he stepped swiftly in, and his hands took her face, tipping it up.</p><p>He searched her eyes. “Ask me that again later,” he said, with no small amount of urgency.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and tried to smile as she nodded.</p><p>“Please,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>Hesitating, she looped her arms around his neck. “Okay,” she said.</p><p>George pressed his forehead to hers. A small, frustrated huff escaped his nose.</p><p>“George?” Fred shouted again, echoing from the living room. “It’s important!”</p><p>George grimaced. Hermione shifted her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.</p><p>“It’s okay,” she whispered, nodding at him again. “We’ll talk later.”</p><p>George’s eyes shut. “Granger—” he breathed.</p><p>“George!” Fred yelled, sounding more than a little frantic.</p><p>George’s eyes flew open, and he broke away, striding to the living room. “Something had better be on fire!” he bellowed.</p><p>Hermione followed.</p><p>Fred stood by the floo, hair sopping. His normally playful demeanor was absent, and a grim look occupied his features. A broom lay, forgotten on the floor.</p><p>“Come outside,” he muttered, jerking his chin to the door.</p><p>“What for?” George asked, halting.</p><p>“George,” Fred said quietly. “Come outside.” Something in the look he gave George made the other pale. George shoved his feet in his boots. He didn’t bother to lace them before bolting out the door. Fred rushed after him, head bowed. Hermione tripped down the stairs after them, tugging a slicker over her clothes.</p><p>The shop was empty, and the closed sign stuck to the window read, <em>“Mischief Managed: Come Back Later.”  </em>The bell rang over her head as she pushed the front entrance open.</p><p>Outside, rain dumped from the sky in sheets. Fred pulled George after him, and Hermione struggled to keep up.</p><p>The duo stopped in front of Gambol and Japes. Just in front of it, a large puddle stretched across the street, frozen solid on one side. Hermione blinked. The rain over the spot was ice. A few witches and wizards were clustered near, whispering.</p><p>George ducked his hand through the air over it, winced, and drew back.</p><p>“Some sort of snow-making charm?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Fred shook his head. “It’s-it’s not. I tried to warm it. I tried fire. I tried loads of things, just seeing if it would melt, but it didn’t.” He tipped his chin back. “It goes all the way up, too. Rode my broom for a good while, tracing it into the sky, and it’s cold the whole way.”</p><p>Fred scrubbed his hands over his face, then turned, pacing.</p><p>A reedy woman pushed through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mind your own!” she shouted, face red.</p><p>George backed away from the spot. “Sorry, Mrs. Japes,” he said. “Only trying to help.”</p><p>Her eyes narrowed on George. “Doubtful,” she spat.</p><p>George shoved his hands in his pockets. The ice yanked at her insides, and Hermione wheeled around, looking for other signs. An explosion. Any victims.</p><p>But there didn’t seem to be anything of the sort. Only a cold pocket, festering in the middle of Diagon Alley, doing nothing but sitting there.</p><p>Hermione started to creep closer, but George tugged her back, shaking his head and glancing towards Mrs. Japes.</p><p>Together, the three trudged back to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Fred caste a drying charm inside the door.</p><p>“Looks bad,” George said, finally.</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said, pacing through the main aisle.</p><p>“They’ll think we—” George said.</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said, clipped.</p><p>Hermione hopped up on the counter. “Did you tell Harry?” she asked. “Or Ron?”</p><p>Fred raised his brows. “Well, Ron’s not speaking to George,” he said flatly. “Which means he’s not speaking to me, and—”</p><p>“Why isn’t Ron speaking to George?” Hermione asked, turning to George.</p><p>George’s face was red.</p><p>“—And Harry’s already taken a look,” Fred continued. He turned, staring out the window, flipping the closed sign so it read “<em>Up to No Good.”</em></p><p>“Don’t sit on the counters while we’re open,” Fred muttered.</p><p>Hermione ignored him.</p><p>“George?” she asked.</p><p>“Ron and I went at each other when the curse was all—” George flung a hand up, wincing. “I don’t even remember doing it,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Ron doesn’t buy that,” Fred said.</p><p>“I’m giving him a bit of space,” George said, sighing.</p><p>“Granger—counter. Off. Now.” Fred snapped across the store.</p><p>George started, crossing his arms. “Hey—”</p><p>“You sit on the counter all the time,” Hermione said, watching Fred.</p><p>Fred’s jaw tightened. He spun on his heel and wheeled towards the workshop.</p><p>“Oi!” George shouted. “What’s got your wand in a knot?”</p><p>“Angelo burned himself on the ice,” Fred snapped, spinning at the door.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>“He was walking next to me, on our way back from ice cream, and I didn’t notice it in time, and he-he saw it, and he just—” Fred’s face contorted, and he lost his way through the thought, flinching. The next part was low and furious. “Hand’s all covered in blisters.”</p><p>The workshop door slammed behind him.</p><p>“Oh Godric,” George whispered, and then, not hesitating, he surged after Fred, whipping open the door.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and hopped off the counter.</p><p>“Oh, come off it!” Fred shouted. “I was right there, Mate.”</p><p>George’s response was a mumble.</p><p>“I dunno!” Fred cried, tone hiking. “She took him in, and-and told me to stay here.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. Wordlessly, she crossed to the counter and fished the key out from under the till. Then, she paced to the door, locking it tight. She replaced the key, steeled herself, and headed into the workshop.</p><p>“You have a kid, and then you can lecture me about it, alright?” Fred yelled. Hermione raised her brows, halting in the room’s entrance. George was the shade of a firetruck, blinking from Fred to Hermione, but his brother didn’t seem to care.</p><p>Fred was breathing hard, eyes red and fists clenched as he stared at George.</p><p>“Right, so set the security enchantments, because I can’t,” Hermione said, buttoning her slicker all the way up. “We’re going to Mungo’s.”</p><p>“Angie told me to stay here,” Fred said, not looking at her.</p><p>“Yes, well, we’ll blame it on me, seeing as I’m half gone,” Hermione said calmly. “Come on.”</p><p>Fred didn’t move.</p><p>“I’ll talk to her first,” Hermione said, kneeling at George’s untied shoes. He blinked down at her, but she proceeded to lace them anyway. “Test the waters, if you’d like.”</p><p>Fred huffed. “That’s not really—”</p><p>“I’m allowed to,” Hermione said. “She and I have an understanding about these things.” She tied the final knot and pushed to a stand.</p><p>Fred and George were still.</p><p>“How do you know that?” George asked slowly.</p><p>Hermione blinked. It had just seemed obvious. “Well, she stayed with me.” She shrugged.</p><p>She steeled her jaw and fixed Fred with an iron look. “I’m going to see your wife. You can Gryffindor up and come along, or you can wait here. It’s your choice.”</p><p>Fred’s look darkened, but the goading worked, and he strode to close up the front area.</p><p>#</p><p>The receptionist on the fourth floor nodded. “They’ve just gone back,” she said. “Room twelve.” Hermione thanked her and head toward the doors. Fred halted in the lobby, but Hermione took him by the wrist and pulled him after her.</p><p>They reached the exam room number given by the receptionist, and Fred jerked away, running his hands over his face.</p><p>“I need to—” he stopped. “I’m—” Fred turned. Turned again. He strode up the hall, then back down again, halting at the door. He whirled, repeating the path. George took a spot against the wall near Fred’s frantic pacing and nodded at Hermione, then eyed the door.</p><p>Hermione caught his meaning, and she reached out and knocked.</p><p>The door swung open, and Angelina stood inside, bedecked in a rumpled Harpies practice uniform.</p><p>“Thank God,” she muttered, tugging Hermione into the room. A wizard in a green robe bent over the table where Angelo laid, crying. Hermione peered at Angelo’s hand, heart pounding, but there were no curse marks. Only blisters.</p><p>Angelina crossed back to her son, laying a hand on his head. “Almost done, Sweetie,” she said. Angelo wailed.</p><p>“Looks like frostbite,” the wizard said, wand pulsing over the hand. “Is he magic? Could’ve been accidental casting.”</p><p>“We don’t know yet,” Angelina said, running her hand over Angelo’s arm. “And I wasn’t there—my husband floo-ed me just after it happened. We think the ice patch was already enchanted.”</p><p>“Highly unusual,” the healer said, and his brow furrowed. “It doesn’t look like abnormal damage.” He caste a series of diagnostic charms, studying the runes in the air.</p><p>“Fred’s outside the door,” Hermione whispered, leaning in while the healer studied the glowing marks.</p><p>“Why didn’t he come in?” Angelina asked.</p><p>“Maybe he’s worried you’re cross?” Hermione said. “He said you told him to wait at the shop.”</p><p>“That’s rubbish,” Angelina said. “I mean, yes, he let Angelo touch a strange puddle in the middle of the street in London—I should be livid.” She looked down at Angelo and sighed. “But I told him to wait there because he was clearly panicking, and it was scaring—” she nodded towards her son.</p><p>“Any previous injuries or medical history I should be aware of?” The healer interjected.</p><p>“Nope,” Angelina said, sounding a bit tired. “This is the first big one.”</p><p>“Should I get Fred?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Not if he’s pacing,” Angelina whispered. “Let him get the nervous energy out first.”</p><p>Hermione cracked open the door and peeked around it. Fred crouched in the hall, face in his hands. George knelt at his side, arm draped around his shoulders as he watched the opposite wall.</p><p>“Fred,” she whispered. Fred lifted his head, and his eyes were red. Hermione tipped her head towards the door. “Come on, then,” she said. Fred scrambled to his feet and through the door, into the exam room. The healer stepped back, allowing him some room.</p><p>Angie scooped Angelo up and nodded at the spot beside her on the table. Fred eased onto it, swallowing.</p><p>“I think a simple healing spell will suffice, but we’ve got some other things to try if it doesn’t,” the healer said. "Maybe Dittany."</p><p>“That safe?” Fred asked suddenly. “If the ice had something odd wrong with it?”</p><p>“Safer than letting it go untreated,” the medic replied. Fred’s jaw tightened. Angelina rested her head on his shoulder as Angelo’s cries built to a howl.</p><p>Fred’s gaze dropped. “I’m so sorry, Buddy,” he said, faltering. “I didn’t realize until—”</p><p>“Here we are,” the healer interrupted. He leaned forward, over Angelo’s hand, and white light filtered out of his wand. Slowly, the blisters retreated, fading, until the skin was smooth.</p><p>Angelo’s cries faded.</p><p>Hermione slipped out the door, into the hall. George sat on the floor, head tipped back against the wall, and Hermione slid down, joining him.</p><p>“He’s okay,” she whispered. George exhaled.</p><p>“Not, um—”</p><p>“No, there were no lines or anything like that,” she whispered. George nodded, eyes still closed. His shoulders slumped as he relaxed.</p><p>Hermione sighed.</p><p>“They should rent us a ward or something,” she said.</p><p>George snorted. “Yeah, twice in one day is a bit much, even for me.”</p><p>Hermione winced, looking toward the door. “Fred seemed pretty worried.”</p><p>George nodded. “Angelo’s never had a spill like the others, at least not yet.” He turned his head to face it. “Teddy jumped off a table at his third birthday party and broke his arm,” he said. “And Victoire levitated a vase onto herself at a Burrow dinner when she was barely two.” He grimaced. “That was messy.”</p><p>George gave her a faint smile. “Harry was distraught,” he said. “None of them handled it well, but Harry was the worst by far.”</p><p>“Including Fred?” Hermione asked. George nodded.</p><p>“Went full Chosen-One on the attendant from the way Ginny tells it,” he said. Hermione’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Were we there for any of this?” Hermione asked, drawing her knees to her chest.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“What was I like?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George breathed out a puff of air. “This,” he said, tapping a finger to her arm. “All calm and collected. Giving directions.” Hermione nodded. It made sense. She was well practiced in switching feelings off when things became scary. “You were the only one who could make Teddy stop screaming,” he murmured. “But it’s always been that way.”</p><p>George didn’t say anything for a while. Hermione propped her chin on her knees.</p><p>“Don’t mind what Fred said about—” He cleared his throat. “The-the kid, thing.”</p><p>Hermione turned. George wasn’t looking at her, his head facing the opposite direction as he played at watching the hall. His hands were still in his lap. But his frame radiated tension, like someone had dropped something heavy, and the sound had startled him.</p><p>Fred had said that George could lecture him when he had a child.</p><p>They’d been married for a while.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Was that a consideration, before?” she asked, halting.</p><p>George’s hands twisted, and he rubbed a thumb against the opposite palm. He didn’t turn.</p><p>Hermione’s ribs tightened.</p><p>“Were we going to—”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” George said lightly.</p><p>But he wasn’t looking at her.</p><p>“I’m thirsty,” he said suddenly, pushing to his feet. “Why don’t I get us some tea from the shop?”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>He shoved his hands in his pockets and strode away</p><p>#</p><p>By the time they floo-ed back to the flat, the day had mostly gotten away from them. Fred had insisted on running tests all afternoon, just to ensure that there wasn’t something more nefarious lingering.</p><p>Hermione didn’t blame him, considering the state of things.</p><p>Her feet hit the hearth. Out the windows, she could see a crowd gathered down the street.</p><p>George neared, bracing his hand on the window frame over her shoulder. “Brilliant,” he muttered darkly. “The spin on this one will be ruthless.”</p><p>Hermione shut her eyes. She didn’t want to think about the shadows, the cold, or the way George hadn’t properly looked in her eyes since she asked him about children.</p><p>George didn’t move from her side, and unthinking, she rested her face against the inside of his outstretched arm. His jumper was soft on her cheek. She took a deep breath. Parchment. Cinnamon. Nutmeg.</p><p>The dark clouds loomed overhead.</p><p>#</p><p>April 25, 2003</p><p>George stomped in, shivering.</p><p>Hermione looked up from the paper. On the cover, Magnus Vane proposed investigating nearby Goblin communities for information pertaining to what was now being called “the spot.”</p><p>As though Goblins had nothing better to do than randomly charm a single location in Diagon Alley—a place they operated a business, to snow perpetually and produce instant frostbite.</p><p>It wasn’t even <em>The Resonant</em>. It was <em>The Prophet</em>. She’d sent a letter to the editor earlier, but the odds of them printing it were low. Hermione threw the paper down, disgusted.</p><p><em>The Resonant</em> had taken a different tack—suggesting how lucky it was for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to have their competition plagued by such an unfortunate phenomenon. It was a thinly veiled accusation, but there was no proof.</p><p>George heaved a sizeable box into the study, then returned and yanked a dripping slicker from his shoulders. “Wind blows it every which way, might as well go out starkers,” he muttered, grimacing at his soaked clothes.</p><p>Hermione snorted at the ire in his tone as she reached for her notebook.</p><p>“Oi,” George said, pointing at her. “Don’t be cheeky. I’m freezing.”</p><p>Hermione raised her brows. “I didn’t say anything.”</p><p>Something in George’s gaze warmed, but then he sneezed. Sparks and light strobed over him. “Bugger,” he hissed. “All the rain is—” Another sneeze, and he jumped, slamming into the sideboard. It rattled against the wall, and George hissed, tripping back.</p><p>Hermione shot to her feet.</p><p>“M’fine,” he said, righting himself. He grimaced, then headed down the hall to the loo.</p><p>Hermione trailed after him.</p><p>“Are you sure?” she asked, faintly. George bobbed his head. His shoes squelched on the tile, and he turned to the mirror.</p><p>“You dripped water all over the floor,” she said, eying the trail from the flat door.</p><p>“It’s seen worse,” George said flatly.</p><p>Hermione leaned against the wall. “You’re in a mood,” she said.</p><p>“Got into it with Clarke at the post office,” he muttered. “Git had the nerve to make some comment about the Knockturn Alley run.”</p><p>“About me?” Hermione asked, brow wrinkling.</p><p>George shook his head. “No—about Harry,” he said, absentmindedly tugging his jumper over his head and chucking it into the tub where it landed with a wet splat. The striped shirt beneath it had faired no better.</p><p>Hermione sighed. Harry hadn’t provided much detail about the situation with Ron. His owl was short, but he was also working on investigating the spot, so Hermione couldn’t blame him.</p><p>“Must’ve heard about it at the Ministry from some of the people on the team, or put it together with what was in the papers,” he muttered. “He was spouting off some choice opinions on Harry’s leadership skills.” The sarcasm dripped from his tone, and his face was grim.</p><p>“Why was he talking to you about it?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“He wasn’t,” George said, quirking his brows as he shrugged, tucking the comb in the cabinet. “He was chatting up some witch, like it wasn’t confidential information.” He scoffed, but the sound came out with a small shudder, his shoulders jolting with a shiver.</p><p>“What did you say?” she asked, concern lancing through her.</p><p>George stopped and looked at her, voice going low. “I didn’t go off, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said.</p><p>What?</p><p>Hermione stepped back, and her brow furrowed. “I didn’t assume you had?”</p><p>George paused, mouth open. He bit his lips together and turned back to the mirror. “Nevermind,” he said lightly. “Anyway, I pulled him aside and advised him to shut it, because he didn’t have the information or the experience to back up his grandstanding.” He clutched the counter. “Smarmy git laughed in my face.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. George’s shoulders contracted again as another shiver ran through him, and he winced.</p><p>She saw the reflex hit him, the way it only could to someone who had grown up in a house with magic all around.</p><p>Hermione started.</p><p>The warming charm slipped over his tongue.</p><p>Light cracked between them, and the cabinet mirror shattered—pieces flying everywhere. The force of the blast threw Hermione back. She slammed into the wall, a sickening jolt zipping through her shoulder at the impact.</p><p>“Granger!” George yelped, scrambling out of the tub. Hermione blinked. George’s skin strobed rapidly, sparks popped. His eyes were coated in a thick glaze of gold.</p><p>Hermione stared.</p><p>The magic faded out, and George stood, frozen.</p><p>Something warm dripped down her cheek.</p><p>George’s eyes went round.</p><p>“Oh, Merlin—” he breathed. He whirled to the cabinet, glass crunching under his boots. “We’ve got um—” He yanked the door open, gingerly pulling at the wood to avoid the shrapnel. “Um—” His breath sped. “Um—”</p><p>He glanced at her, and he was pale. “Um—”</p><p>Hermione pulled her hand away from her face. It was red.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“I’m fine,” she said, realizing with a jolt why he was so out of sorts. “It’s-it’s okay.”</p><p>George pushed through the cabinet. “Can’t find—”</p><p>He yanked away, running past her, towards the kitchen.</p><p>Hermione pushed herself off the ground and tripped after him, ignoring the ache in her shoulder.</p><p>“I’m alright,” she said, rounding the counter.</p><p>George yanked the potion rack from the pantry, rifling through the bottles.</p><p>“George,” Hermione tried. “We can just use the paste.” The wet dripped down her neck, and she cupped her hand to her cheek, staving off the flow.</p><p>“Paste doesn’t work well on deeper stuff,” he said, yanking bottles out, staring at them, and replacing them. “Sit down.” The words were terse and frantic. Hermione lowered into the chair, silent. Finally, George’s fingers closed on a vial, and he held it up, squinting at the fine, tiny scrawl over the label.</p><p>“Dittany-dittany—okay,” he mumbled. He spun, face white, not meeting her gaze. “Chin up. Move your hand.” His eyes were fixed on her cheek.</p><p>Hermione stared at him, lowering her hand.</p><p>George tipped her head back, jaw tight. “Don’t move,” he said, sticking the bottle in his teeth. His hand darted forward, and a sharp pinch pricked her skin. Hermione flinched. “Got it,” George said. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and spilled the vial over her cheek. It seeped into her skin, tingling.</p><p>George strode to the bin, tossing something in.</p><p>“I’m okay,” she whispered.</p><p>“Did you hit your head?” he asked, pulling a rag from a drawer near the sink.</p><p>“No,” she said.</p><p>“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly. He made to reach out, but then his hand slowed, and he pushed it across the counter at her instead.</p><p>“I didn’t,” Hermione said. She took the rag and swiped it over her cheekbone and neck. The skin was slick, and Hermione blinked at the size of the stain.</p><p>He shook his head, bracing his hands on the countertop. “Granger, if you did, we need to—”</p><p>“I didn’t, George!” Hermione snapped.</p><p>George halted. “It looked like you did,” he said.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said, more softly this time.</p><p>George hung his head, leaning into the counter’s edge.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispered.</p><p>“You didn’t do it on purpose,” Hermione said.</p><p>“I wasn’t paying attention,” he muttered. He reeled back and turned on the kitchen floor, grinding his palms into his eyes.</p><p>Hermione stood, waiting beside him.</p><p>Hovering.</p><p>George paced to the fridge. She followed a few steps behind, waiting for him to say something.</p><p>His gaze flicked to her, but then he ducked his head. He still didn’t speak.</p><p>“Georgie,” Hermione tried. The nickname didn’t land like it usually did. He didn’t soften. Instead, George turned again, frowning like he was looking for something.</p><p>“Are you okay?” she asked.</p><p>George’s laugh was quiet and hollow. “Every time you get hurt, you ask me if I’m fine,” he said.</p><p>Hermione crossed her arms, biting back a wince at the sharp ache in her shoulder blade. It wasn’t broken. It would be alright. George, however—</p><p>“Because you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Hermione said. George swallowed. His eyes flickered over her for a moment, but then his expression shuttered.</p><p>And she didn’t know how to fix it.</p><p>Her ribs contracted.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he said gruffly, lifting the potions rack from the counter. “And this goes in the bathroom. It’s always gone in the bathroom.”</p><p>He strode away, taking the rack back to where the other Hermione had kept it.</p><p>#</p><p>April 26, 2003</p><p>“Ron will get over it,” Ginny said. The redhead stood at the flat’s kitchen counter, arms crossed.</p><p>“Yeah, give it time,” Harry added, pouring some iced coffee into a tall glass. Ginny took it from him, and Harry huffed, but reached to make himself a new one.</p><p>Teddy bounced on the sofa beside Hermione. His hair was blue, today.</p><p>“Mione, Mione—but I read two books this week,” Teddy crowed.</p><p>“Wait, wait—two whole books?” Hermione asked, widening her eyes. He’d already told her three times. “That’s incredible.”</p><p>Teddy’s smile grew.</p><p>Hermione propped her head in her chin. “That’s a great many books for a five-year-old.”</p><p>She’d missed the boy’s birthday during the chaos this month, and today was their make-up date. George was running late, and Hermione kept glancing towards the floo.</p><p>“Is it even more than you?” Teddy asked, hopping onto his knees and attempting to crawl over the sofa’s back.</p><p>“When I was five?” Hermione asked. She had no idea. “Definitely.”</p><p>Teddy’s chin piled up against his neck as he smiled.</p><p>Ginny snorted from the kitchen.</p><p>The door banged open. “Someone let in a Nargle!” George shouted, throwing his apron off. Teddy’s cry was shrill, and his hair flashed to copper as he bolted from the couch. Hermione blinked, shocked as Teddy’s ear melted away. George hoisted him up and flung him high. “My mistake,” he roared. “It’s a dragon, rather!”</p><p>Teddy’s shrieks of laughter climbed even louder, and George flipped him, dangling him in the air with a hand wrapped around the boy’s shin.</p><p>“What d’you think, Aunt Mione, Nargle or Dragon?” he asked, peering at Teddy.</p><p>It was the first time he’d directed a question at her since the incident. Hermione swallowed.</p><p>With his hair and parts of his face morphed, Teddy looked like a miniature George.</p><p>“Hard to say,” she said.</p><p>“Dragon,” Harry called from the kitchen. “Definitely dragon.”</p><p>George flipped Teddy right-side up. “Not a very large dragon,” he said, narrowing his eyes. He lifted Teddy’s right arm by the wrist. “Wings are not load-bearing, I’d wager.”</p><p>Teddy laughed, reaching for George’s shoulders. George grinned and swung him up, onto his back.</p><p>“Gin,” he called, nodding to the kitchen. “Harry.”</p><p>He turned in a circle. “Well, where’s Teddy?”</p><p>Teddy found this most amusing. Hermione covered her mouth with her hands, watching.</p><p>“Bugger,” George said. “Have we forgotten him?”</p><p>Teddy’s little giggles echoed from George’s back.</p><p>“I’m afraid so,” Harry said dryly, downing his coffee. He poured another, catching Hermione’s eyes. She nodded. Harry grabbed a third glass.</p><p>“Didn’t you know, George,” Ginny said. “Teddy’s so grown up, that he’s moved out.”</p><p>Teddy laughed louder.</p><p>George froze. “To where?”</p><p>“The moon,” Harry said, slipping the drink into Hermione’s hand.</p><p>“That’s brilliant,” George said. “But, terribly unfortunate. I was going to give him his birthday present, and now—”</p><p>“George I’m right here!” Teddy shouted into George’s scarred ear.</p><p>“Now I’ll have to find someone else who likes trains,” George said mournfully.</p><p>Teddy’s eyes went wide, peeking over George’s shoulder.</p><p>“Say, Harry, do you know anyone who really loves trains?” George asked.</p><p>“I love trains,” Teddy whispered.</p><p>Harry pushed his glasses up his nose. “A tricky question,” he said. “But I can’t think of single person.”</p><p>“Uncle George—” Teddy scrambled on George’s back, grabbing at his shoulders to pull himself higher. “I-I love trains.”</p><p>George loped over to the armchair, dropping into it and leaning back, squishing Teddy. “A dilemma,” he said, shaking his head. “See, I got it special just for Teddy, and I don’t think anyone else will like it as much.” Teddy squeaked. George rolled up his oxford sleeves, sighing.</p><p>Teddy shoved his way out, plastering a hand across George’s face as he grappled onto the chair’s arm. “You should give it to me,” he said eagerly. His feet landed on George’s knee.</p><p>George waved him off. “No, no,” he mumbled, acting distracted. “Dragons don’t like trains.”</p><p>Harry slid onto the seat beside Hermione, grinning.</p><p>Teddy thudded his feet on George’s knee. “Sometimes they do,” he said, lifting his chin as he protested.</p><p>“We should write to Charlie,” Ginny said, sitting on Harry’s lap. “He’ll know.”</p><p>George snapped. “Brilliant idea,” he said. “We’ll just wait the couple of days that the letter will take, and then—”</p><p>Teddy slumped forward, burying his head on his knees. “But I want to open it today,” he said softly.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth opened, and she flared her eyes at George, but he seemed unbothered, propping his arm on Teddy’s shoulders like they were part of the armrest.</p><p>“Any chance we can get Teddy back from the moon?” George asked. “Just for the day?”</p><p>Harry shrugged. “He’s awfully busy.”</p><p>Teddy lifted his head. “You know I’m right here,” he said loudly. “I’m not on the moon.”</p><p>“I know,” George said, turning and flashing him a wink. Teddy relaxed, and George ruffled Teddy’s copper hair, then turned back to Harry. “We could always owl the gift. D’you reckon Calliope could make it to the moon?”</p><p>“Uncle George!” Teddy cried.</p><p>“What?” George asked, raising his brows. “Wait your turn. This is very important business, Sir Dragon.”</p><p>Teddy narrowed his eyes. “I’m sitting with Aunt Mione,” he said, tucking his chin to his chest. George looked genuinely taken aback.</p><p>Harry let out a low whistle. “Oh, you’ve done it now,” he said, breaking into laughter. Teddy struggled off the arm of the chair and ran to Hermione.</p><p>“But you like me better,” George said weakly.</p><p>“No,” Teddy said, crawling onto Hermione’s lap.</p><p>Hermione melted, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m honored,” she said softly. “I do enjoy the company of a well-read gentleman.”</p><p>Teddy reached up, pulling at her shoulder as he tried to hug her back. Pain jolted through Hermione’s back, and she sucked in a breath, wincing, before she could school her expression.</p><p>Teddy settled back on her knee, chattering. Hermione nodded along.</p><p>“Teddy,” George said, cutting in. Hermione looked up, and George was leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. “I need to speak with Aunt Mione for a few minutes. Is that alright?”</p><p>Teddy hesitated.</p><p>“We can open your present when we get back,” George said.</p><p>Teddy nodded and scrambled off of Hermione. George stood and flipped the radio on. The room filled with the Weird Sisters. Then, without turning back, he walked down the hall, evidently expecting her to follow him.</p><p>Hermione shrugged at Harry and Ginny, then headed after him.</p><p>When she rounded the corner, George stood in the loo threshold, face in his hands. His posture had completely transformed, slumped over.</p><p>“George?” Hermione whispered, glancing back toward the living room.</p><p>George shook his head, inclining it to the loo. Hermione hesitated, but slipped past him. She crossed her arms. The door snicked shut behind George.</p><p>Fred had replaced the mirror that morning, and no sign of the incident remained. All the glass was cleared away, but there was a small dent in the wall above the tub, where there hadn’t been before.</p><p>Hermione rubbed her arm, waiting for George to say something.</p><p>Finally, he lifted his head and met her eyes. “Let me see it,” he said, hoarse.</p><p>“What?” she asked, stepping back.</p><p>“Hermione,” George said. “Turn around.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “It’s not bad, I just wasn’t expecting Teddy to—”</p><p>George opened the cabinet. “He barely touched you,” he said. “Stop trying to protect my feelings, and turn around.” There was an edge in his tone.</p><p>“I checked last night, there’s nothing,” Hermione said. George nodded at the cabinet. He backed away, watching her.</p><p>“Did you look this morning?” he asked. Hermione shrugged. She’d been busy, and Fred had been in and out, so she’d showered relatively quickly, not bothering to fuss.</p><p>George gestured for her to turn.</p><p>Hermione sighed and spun towards the wall. George stepped behind her, and Hermione huffed, pulling her flannel down her arm on one side, away from her camisole.</p><p>George didn’t make a sound. Hermione faltered, twisting back.</p><p>He looked stricken.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“George, it’s not—”</p><p>He strode to the cabinet, pulling a jar from the top shelf.</p><p>“Look at it,” he said, cranking the jar open. Hermione stepped to his side. Her eyes widened.</p><p>The skin on her shoulder was a mottled yellow and purple, stretching from the top of her shoulder blade, up to her neck.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione whispered. George nodded stiffly. He scooped some paste out of the jar and wiped it onto her hand, then dug in again.</p><p>“Rub it in,” he said softly.</p><p>Hermione blinked down at it. “Oh, this is what Fred gave me, after the punching telescope—”</p><p>George stilled.</p><p>Right. That might not be the best story for the moment.</p><p>“Do you want help?” he asked.</p><p>“Are you cross?” Hermione replied, watching the mirror as she started applying it to her arm.</p><p>George was quiet for a moment.</p><p>“Not at you,” he said softly.</p><p>Hermione pulled her plait aside. “I’d rather you not be cross at yourself, either,” she said. “But have at it, because Teddy’s waiting.”</p><p>George bobbed his head and began to apply it over her neck with his thumb. As the formula sank in, it pulled the ache out, and the bruises started to fade.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he murmured, drawing her flannel sleeve back into place once they’d finished.</p><p>Hermione shot him a stern look as she refastened the buttons. “I forgive you, but it wasn’t your fault, really,” she said. “Now, stop being a git and hug me.”</p><p>George exhaled. Slowly, hesitating, he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head to his chest. The sparks under her sternum were steady and soft.</p><p>They only had a few moments before Teddy pounded on the door.</p><p>“It’s time, Uncle George!” he shouted.</p><p>Hermione blinked, look up at George.</p><p>“Right you are, Nargle!” George called. He hesitated.</p><p>His eyes dropped to her mouth. Hope flared in Hermione’s chest.</p><p>Teddy rapped on the door again. George sighed and stared at the ceiling, laughing.</p><p>He popped a kiss onto Hermione’s forehead and swung the door open.</p><p>“Okay,” George said, picking Teddy up and hoisting him onto his hip. Hermione followed them back out, into the living room, and took her spot on the couch.</p><p>“Everything okay?” Harry asked. Hermione nodded.</p><p>George pulled the large parcel from the office, shoving it across the floor.</p><p>Teddy stepped back. It was half his height. “That’s very big,” Teddy said, looking from the box to George.</p><p>George nodded, heaving the box into the center of the room, beside the coffee table.</p><p>Teddy shifted from foot to foot. He glanced at Harry.</p><p>“Go on then,” Harry said, nodding toward the box. “It’s for you.” Something in Harry’s eyes had gone warm and soft, and the grin that spread over his face as he watched Teddy circle the package tugged at Hermione’s heart.</p><p>“Oh, wait!” George said. “You’ve got to be properly dressed.”</p><p>He darted back into the study, emerging with a little conductor’s cap. He plunked it onto Teddy head and sat back on the floor, beside the hearth.</p><p>“Now you’re ready,” George said.</p><p>Teddy ripped the paper off. The wooden box read was stamped with <em>“GWR 4900 Class 5972.”</em> Underneath, the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes logo was printed in gleaming, gold lettering.</p><p>The side of the box had a single phrase in the sparkling, golden script: <em>“Onward.”</em></p><p>Teddy went quiet. He looked from the box to George.</p><p>Harry leaned forward.</p><p>George reached around Teddy and pried the top off.</p><p>Inside, a massive, shiny, cherry red locomotive rested—an almost exact replica of the Hogwarts Express. The only difference was that there was a Teddy-sized seat affixed to the back.</p><p>Teddy’s mouth dropped open.</p><p>“What d’you think?” George asked, hauling the engine out and resting it on the floor. The top of the smokestack reached above Teddy’s shoulder.</p><p>Ginny snapped a photo.</p><p>Teddy paced around it. Every few moments, he turned from the train to George, to Harry.</p><p>Harry’s knee bounced, and he beamed as he watched Teddy’s face.</p><p>“Does it go?” Teddy asked softly.</p><p>“Well, let’s find out!” George cried. He dumped the rest of the crate out, and miniature railroad tracks toppled onto the floor. “They fit together, see?” George laid a section of track down, snapping two pieces into place. “I’ll do this side, and you put them down through the hall.”</p><p>Teddy sprang to life, and Harry followed him, laying down the track pieces.</p><p>“Please tell me you took off the whistle,” Ginny whispered.</p><p>George snapped another piece into place and shook his head.</p><p>“I hate you,” she whispered. George grinned, heaving the engine onto the track.</p><p>Teddy tore from around the corner. “We’re ready,” Harry said, leaning against the wall. Teddy circled the engine again, then stepped up to it.</p><p>George sat back, against the armchair. “Give it a go,” he whispered.</p><p>Teddy hopped onto the seat and buckled the little belt on. “Which ones?” he asked, looking at George.</p><p>George shrugged. “Better try all of them,” he said. Teddy bent over the controls and began to flip switches and crank levers. George watched, a satisfied expression on his face. Teddy’s hand closed on a little, red lever. The engine rumbled to life. Teddy started, and it chugged forward.</p><p>“It goes,” he said, turning in his seat to stare at George.</p><p>“Push that lever again,” George said, smiling.</p><p>Teddy hit it, and the train sped.</p><p>“Now the little one, on the other side?” George called.</p><p>Teddy grabbed it and pulled, and the train slowed. He turned, grinning broadly.</p><p>“What does this do?” he asked, pointing at a wooden handle that hung on a braided cord from the top of the frame.</p><p>“I think you know, Mate,” George said, cocking a brow.</p><p>Teddy yanked it, and the engine whistled loudly. Teddy exploded into yells and hit the throttle, his hair zinging from copper to red to blue to yellow. “Daddy, look!”</p><p>“I see!” Harry roared, clutching Ginny as Teddy sped by.</p><p>“This is the best!” he screamed, laying on the throttle.</p><p>Hermione crossed to George, sitting at his side as they watched Teddy loop the room, over and over.</p><p>“How?” she asked.</p><p>“Made it,” George said, eyes fixed on the train.</p><p>“You just—you just made it,” Hermione stuttered.</p><p>George nodded. “Last year, we gave him a model set, and Teddy wanted us to shrink him down, so he could ride in it,” he said.</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>“Couldn’t do that without turning his brains to goop, so—” George shrugged and gestured at the railway kit. “Did the next best thing.”</p><p>“That’s brilliant,” she whispered. Pink splashed across George’s cheeks.</p><p>“You helped a lot,” he said. His hand skated along hers. “You don’t remember it, but—” he swallowed. “We built it together.”</p><p>She blinked.</p><p>The locomotive rumbled into the hall, then back out again. Hermione stared at it, trying to imagine assembling such a thing in the workshop.</p><p>Nothing came to mind, and her ribs squeezed.</p><p>How would the other Hermione feel, watching this?</p><p>The thought hurt.</p><p>“Are you going to sell this in the shop?” Hermione asked around the lump in her throat.</p><p>“Eventually,” George said softly.</p><p>“That’ll move well,” Hermione said. George’s hand fell away from hers.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said faintly. “I hope so.”</p><p>#</p><p>April 27, 2003</p><p>“Hermione!” the soft call from the fire yanked her out of the unknown, and Hermione lurched forward. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa.</p><p>Her breath came in short gasps, sweat coating her.</p><p>The Dementor nightmares were getting out of hand—every time she slept, they’d creep into her dreams, fitting themselves into situations, places, and memories they’d never been present in before. She blinked, trying to remember the dream, but like always, it slipped away, and she was only left with the rough feeling of coldness, the faint memory of the tattered cloaks.</p><p>Her notepad spilled onto the ground, beside the copy of <em>Magical Tradition</em>. She’d been trying to sort who the descendants of the people in the photo might be, to give Harry some better leads to consider.</p><p>One was clearly a Malfoy, but as for the others, it was trickier.</p><p>Now, the thick volume was spilled over the floor, quill caught between the pages. Perhaps she should ask George. He had said that they did things like this together, before.</p><p>Before.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>Fleur’s face watched her from the flames. “Apologies for interrupting,” she said gently. Hermione shook her head, stretched, and walked over. The shop was silent through the floorboards under her feet. She glanced at the clock—it was nearing five. Usually, things would be bustling, patrons stopping by on their way home. It must be a quiet day.</p><p>“What can I help you with, Fleur?” she asked.</p><p>“Victoire, that is not for eating,” Fleur snapped, staring at something out of sight. “Down. All the way.” Fleur raised her brows. Rapid French spilled over her lips, then, and she darted out of frame.</p><p>Hermione waited.</p><p>Fleur reappeared, a fractured seashell in one hand, struggling toddler in the other. “I have your ensembles for the Remembrance Ball,” she said, vanishing the shell with a light wand flick. Victoire screeched, and Hermione stumbled back, clutching her ears.</p><p>“Bill,” Fleur called. Footsteps clattered. Fleur turned to Victoire. “Why do you sing the storm song, little one?”</p><p>Victoire stretched her hand towards the space the shell had been.</p><p>“A great loss,” Fleur whispered, cradling Victoire’s face. “But it will come back when you are ready for it.”</p><p>Victoire didn’t seem to appreciate this sentiment, and railed against her, flailing.</p><p>A set of black trousers walked into view, and Bill’s face appeared as he stooped down, grabbing Victoire off the floor.</p><p>“How are you, pet?” he said.</p><p>“My shell—” Victoire sobbed.</p><p>“She was eating it,” Fleur said, pinching the bridge of her nose.</p><p>“That’s no good. Shells aren’t for eating,” Bill’s voice echoed as he walked away. “Instead, you can have a biscuit or some toast. Which would you like?”</p><p>Hermione watched the exchange quietly, something wistful lodging under her sternum.</p><p>“Biscuit,” was Victoire’s faltering reply.</p><p>“Would you like to come through?” Hermione asked. Fleur looked behind her and nodded. She grabbed two garment bags off the sofa, and Hermione stepped back.</p><p>The floo roared.</p><p>“Veela children are hotheaded,” she said, dusting a flake of ash from her collar. “My apologies for the scream.”</p><p>“That’s alright,” Hermione said softly. “No harm done.”</p><p>Fleur raised a brow. “You say that now, but—” she grinned. “Give her a year or two. She’ll topple mountains.”</p><p>Hermione laughed.</p><p>“It takes mastery to hold it in when upset,” Fleur said. “But she is learning. Very strong.”</p><p>“Like her mother,” Hermione said, lifting a brow.</p><p>The compliment landed as intended, and Fleur brightened, preening a little.</p><p>“Thank you,” Fleur said. “That aside, we really do need to discuss the Remembrance Ball.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I understand why we have to—” Hermione started.</p><p>Fleur raised her brows. “It is a ball. To remember the war. To honor the departed, and to celebrate the victory.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lip.</p><p>“Not attending would be disrespectful,” Fleur said. Hermione sighed.</p><p>“Is Harry going?” she asked.</p><p>Fleur nodded. “And Ron.”</p><p>Rats. She’d forgotten that things were strained.</p><p>“The Weasleys always attend as a united front,” Fleur said. “We coordinate. We conquer, and we remind the world that it is not unprotected.” She straightened the garment bags.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Can’t we just put out a press release?”</p><p>“No,” Fleur said shortly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Besides, this year, we are wearing gold.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed, watching the bags.</p><p>“I promise, it is not as painful as you suspect,” Fleur said. She swooped through the flat, heading to the bedroom. “I’ll hang these in your closet. Don’t touch them until the night of the event.”</p><p>The flat door swung wide, and George trudged in, stack of parchment under his arm, yanking at his tie.</p><p>“Bloody—” he muttered, kicking the door shut. “Violation, my—”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“George?” she asked. George halting, turning. His shoulders slumped. “Rough day?”</p><p>Fleur emerged from the bedroom, gracefully moving through the space.</p><p>“The night of the event, we’ll meet here to prepare,” Fleur said, pointing at Hermione. George jumped, whirling at the sound. Fleur crossed the floor to Hermione, still chattering. “And Bill and Harry have spoken about the safety precautions, and the ministry has extended extra security—”</p><p>Merlin, she must look a sight next to Fleur. Her curls stuck to her neck, and the rumpled jumper on her shoulders sported a few crumbs. She swept them from herself hurriedly.</p><p>But George wasn’t looking at Fleur. His eyes were fixed on hers.</p><p>“Thank you, Fleur,” Hermione said, glancing over. “I’ll owl you.”</p><p>Fleur nodded, pecking Hermione on both cheeks before darting to the floo.</p><p>“Will you not be at dinner?” she asked.</p><p>“Hermione can,” George said quietly. “I’ve got to work.”</p><p>“I see,” Fleur said. “Next week, perhaps.” The fire whooshed.</p><p>George swallowed, and the motion looked raw.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>George kicked his shoes off, not speaking. A shadow filled his gaze, and as Hermione watched, he seemed to crumble inward, suddenly turning.</p><p>“George?” she tried again. He bobbed his head and trudged to the study. The parchment rustled as he dropped it on the desk. He didn’t say anything as he shrugged off his jacket, then his vest. His hands jerked at the tie, and the knot slipped out the rest of the way. He tossed it with the other things, staring at the parchment as he freed the buttons at his collar.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Hermione whispered, stepping closer. George dropped into the chair and pulled the top sheet from the stack.</p><p>“They’re fining us,” George said, not looking at her.</p><p>“Why?” Hermione folded her arms.</p><p>“Lease Violation,” George said, pulling his glasses on. “Won’t specify which one yet.” He was rattled, tightly wound up, but his voice sounded exhausted.</p><p>“How much?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Thousand Galleons,” George said, jaw working as he nicked the quill from its stand. Hermione gasped.</p><p>She’d seen the book. There was nowhere near that kind of money in the profit margin for the month.</p><p>“Fred’s over there now, licking their boots,” George said, and his eyes flashed. “Not that that will change anything.”</p><p>“He shouldn’t!” Hermione cried, straightening.</p><p>“Thinks it’s his responsibility or some rubbish, I dunno,” George said, scrubbing his hands through his hair in an aggravated gesture. He stopped and peered up at her. Then he took a breath. “Look, I have a lot to get through.” It sounded like a half apology.</p><p>“Alright,” Hermione whispered. “Let me know if you need anything.”</p><p>George jerked his head, hunching over the desk.</p><p>Hermione headed to the kitchen. Food would probably help. She propped open the fridge. It looked rather barren—they hadn’t restocked since the incident. Perhaps there was something in the pantry.</p><p>The clear, glass containers of dried pasta gleamed. In the far, back corner, she scrounged up a jar of Bolognese sauce. Makeshift Spagbol, then.</p><p>She set pot to boil, then wandered a few steps into the living room, peeking at George. His head was propped on the flat of his palm, and he muttered, scratching something out. Hermione’s chest tightened.</p><p>Tea as well, probably.</p><p>She dumped the flat-looking spaghetti into the pot, checking the time, then poured the sauce into a smaller pan.</p><p>A few minutes later, she started and flung a pinch of salt into the pasta water. Hopefully it wasn’t too late in the cooking process.</p><p>It came together relatively quickly, and she drained the water, then mixed the sauce in. It didn’t take to the pasta as well as it should’ve. Had she missed something? George would know.</p><p>She wandered over a few steps. He hadn’t moved.</p><p>Best not to bother him.</p><p>Hermione plated it up, biting her lip. One thousand Galleons was—was—</p><p>She squeezed her eyes shut.</p><p>That sort of money couldn’t be summoned from nothing. They couldn’t move a few things around to make up for it.</p><p>They’d have to sell some things or maybe take a loan.</p><p>But they were strong. They’d make it through. What else could she do? Hermione rested the kettle on the stovetop. A slight burning smell filled her nose, and she jumped, flicking off the burners under the pans. The leftovers scraped into the container, and she tucked it in the fridge before wincing at the scorched pan.</p><p>Soaking it might help. She filled the sink and rested the pot and pan inside. Finally, Hermione grabbed a fork, slid it into the steaming, somewhat sad looking pasta, and carried it to the office.</p><p>“Would you like something to eat?” she asked softly.</p><p>George didn’t look up from the parchment. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry,” he mumbled.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“Okay,” she said. The wood squeaked a little under her foot as she backed away.</p><p>“Remind me to fix that floorboard; charm’s getting old—” George muttered, lifting his head. He stilled at the sight of her. His face went slack.</p><p>“Did you make that?” he asked faintly.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head. “You don’t have to eat it,” she said.</p><p>“Is-is it for me?” he asked, lowering the quill.</p><p>“I thought you might want something, but—” Hermione stuttered as his look warmed.</p><p>“Now that I think about it,” George said, scratching the back of his neck. “I could eat.” He shrugged.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and walked over, easing the dish onto the desk. The corner of George’s mouth quirked up as he looked at it. “Thank you, Granger,” he said. Hermione nodded. He tucked in, reading over a parchment as he chewed.</p><p>Hermione smiled a little, then slipped from the room.</p><p>She ate in the living room, sneaking glances at him. When he finished, she pulled the plate away, and his eyes were a little round as he paused at the movement. “I can get it,” he said.</p><p>“I know,” Hermione said, but she took the plate anyway.</p><p>She scrubbed everything clean and set it out to dry. Then, she heated the kettle and fixed a few cups of Chamomile.</p><p>At this point, she was really only looking for excuses to check on him—hopefully without becoming too much of a bother. The hunched line of his shoulders snagged at her every time she looked over.</p><p>She carried his mug in two hands, pausing at the study door. He was absorbed again, his face lined as he shoved his hands through his hair.</p><p>Hermione stole to his side, leaning over his shoulder as she placed the mug on the coaster.</p><p>“I can’t find it,” he whispered, dropping the quill. “There’s not enough elsewhere.”</p><p>Hermione knelt at his side, and finally, he looked at her. The defeat in his expression sucked the air from her lungs. She reached up, pulling the glasses gently from his face. He blinked slowly, wincing.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry—” he said softly.</p><p>“I don’t accept your apology,” Hermione whispered. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”</p><p>George turned his head away. Hermione reached up, resting her fingertips on his jaw. Gently, she turned him back to face her.</p><p>“We’ll take a loan out, or sell some things,” she whispered.</p><p>“But that’s rubbish,” George muttered.</p><p>“Then we’ll fight it—take it to court,” she said. George shook his head.</p><p>“Vane’s got half the Wizengamot in his pocket,” he said.</p><p>“Look in my eyes,” Hermione said softly. George exhaled a tired sigh as his gaze met hers.</p><p>“Half the Wizengamot can sod off,” she whispered. George snorted.</p><p>“We’ll keep trying until a solution sticks,” she said. Her thumb skated over the scar of his ear, and George’s eyes fluttered shut, his hand coming to rest on her forearm.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispered.</p><p>They didn’t move for a long while, breathing in the dark. The threat pressed in, cold and cruel, but they held it at bay, just beyond the windows, with four hands and two hearts.</p><p>George Weasley-Granger smelled like parchment.</p><p>Some of the tension in her chest uncoiled, and she released the breath.</p><p>“You alright?” George murmured.</p><p>Hermione blinked at the stack of paperwork. “I’d like to forget about this for a while,” she said.</p><p>George nodded. “Me as well,” he said softly. He eased from the chair, pulling her up to stand beside him.</p><p>“Is this an Abba moment, or would you like something different?” he asked, voice quiet. Hermione blinked and turned.</p><p>“Surprise me,” she whispered, shrugging. George watched her for a moment.</p><p>“Alright, Granger,” he said. Then, he turned, heading into the living room. He pushed the coffee table aside, then moved to the bookshelf.</p><p>Hermione tucked her hands behind her back and watched by the wall. George hesitated at the shelf, his hand hovering over the records. After a moment, he cleared his throat.</p><p>“Would you like to be charmed, maybe?” he asked lightly.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, and her heart stuttered in her ribs. A crack of lighting strobed through the storm outside, and she jumped. George turned, something vulnerable in his expression as he waited for her response.</p><p>She could be brave.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>George turned and plucked a cardboard sleeve from the middle of the shelf. Like he knew exactly where it was. Like it was something he and the other Hermione had played often.</p><p>Her ribs constricted as she ached for the context, the history, the meaning that he had and she didn’t. Behind her back, Hermione fidgeted her thumb against her index knuckle.</p><p>The vinyl slid out, and he spun it in his hands, heading to the turntable. But then he paused, as though debating. He looked back at the shelf. His hand fidgeted.</p><p>Was he nervous as well?</p><p>Hermione tilted her head, stepping closer.</p><p>George flexed his hand, bouncing a bit on his toes as he looked at the record, and something about the gesture warmed her from head to foot.</p><p>Hermione forgot to be scared.</p><p>“Right,” he whispered. “Okay.” He shook his head, then rested the vinyl on the table.</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile.</p><p>George switched it on, moving the needle. He turned to look at her, fingers poised over the lever. “You should be warned, this is fairly lethal,” he said, assessing her with a cool expression. “You might be in a bit over your head.”</p><p>“Play the record, Georgie,” Hermione said, clasping her hands at the base of her spine.</p><p>He flipped the switch, and the needle fell.</p><p>George pivoted on his heels to face her and took three, easy strides to the center of the room. Then, he cocked a brow, lifted his hand, and beckoned her over with a single wave of his fingers.</p><p>The gravity in the room shifted.</p><p>The speakers buzzed with static.</p><p>Hermione took one step.</p><p>Two.</p><p>The needle caught, and Hermione placed her hands in his.</p><p>A familiar guitar riffed, and Hermione grinned, interlacing her fingers in his.</p><p>
  <em>“Love, Love is strange,”</em>
</p><p> George nodded slowly along with the beat, mouthing the words. His feet began to move in a simple box pattern, and Hermione watched the floor, trying to move in tandem with him.  </p><p>
  <em>“Lot of people, take it for game.”</em>
</p><p>Suddenly, he surprised her, tipping her chin up. “Look in my eyes,” he said, winking. Hermione’s face flooded, but George’s expression was warm and more than a little playful. He pushed her out, spinning her under his arm.</p><p>Hermione forgot to mind the steps.</p><p>
  <em>“Once you get it, you never want to quit,”</em>
</p><p>As he tugged her back in, his hand grazed the small of her back. Hermione bit back a smile, and George stepped closer, placing her hands on his shoulders.</p><p>
  <em>“Many people don’t understand,”</em>
</p><p>Then, George swallowed, and his fingers ghosted over her waist. He cocked an eyebrow at her.</p><p>
  <em>“They think loving is money in the hand.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione nodded, a little breathless.</p><p>George’s eyes sparked, and his hands closed on her. He stepped back and forth with the beat, guiding her under his palms, and Hermione followed the flow, going a bit ragdoll in his hands.</p><p>George’s right hand rose from her waist, cupping her cheek as they moved.</p><p>Sparks.</p><p>Hermione’s feet twisted, but George kept her balanced. His eyes crinkled as he studied her, and the sight was like a hook, snagging at the soft place under her ribs.</p><p>
  <em>“When you leave me, sweet kisses I miss,”</em>
</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>Hermione’s fingers drifted up, along his shoulders, towards the back of his neck. George’s gaze dropped, and his face went pink.</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Mm?” George replied, watching the floor.</p><p>The guitar twanged in the background.</p><p>Hermione stepped closer, shifting her fingers into his hair, just above his collar. George’s movement faltered.</p><p>“What do you usually do when you want me to kiss you?” Hermione asked softly.</p><p>
  <em>“Sylvia?”</em>
</p><p>George raised his gaze. “It depends,” he said lightly.</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, Mickey?”</em>
</p><p>Hermione nodded, brow furrowing as she pretended to puzzle over his words. George’s hands coasted up her back, and she thought about the words he’d said before, at the kitchen table.</p><p>
  <em>“How do you call your lover boy?”</em>
</p><p>She knew what song she’d like to play.</p><p>“Is this a kissing record?” Hermione asked.</p><p>
  <em>“Come here, lover boy.”</em>
</p><p>George swallowed and shrugged. “It’s whatever you’d like it to be, Love,” he whispered.</p><p>
  <em>“And if he doesn’t answer,”</em>
</p><p>“Be honest with me, Georgie,” Hermione whispered back, easing closer as a slow grin spread over her face. George exhaled in a rush, and his lids lowered partway.</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, lover boy,”</em>
</p><p>George rested his forehead on hers. “It’s a kissing record,” he breathed.</p><p>
  <em>“Baby, oh baby—” </em>
</p><p>She tipped her chin up, and her nose brushed his.</p><p>
  <em>“My sweet baby, you’re the one.”</em>
</p><p>Suddenly, George’s brow furrowed, and he closed the gap, tugging her to him as his mouth descended on hers.</p><p>Finally<em>—</em></p><p>Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, and she breathed out, tilting her head. George leaned into it a bit more, working the kiss over her like a slow dance.</p><p>She stood between his feet, and the record fizzled, spinning dry, but neither of them noticed.</p><p>The glow swelled, ebbing away the remaining pinch in her ribs.</p><p>George took his time.</p><p>He tucked a hand in her curls, steadying her head. The fingers of his other hand splayed over the small of her back, holding her snug to him.</p><p>Snogging wasn’t the right word for it.</p><p>It felt like being seen and appreciated, and the longer it went on, the softer Hermione became.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” George whispered into her mouth.</p><p>A gentle unravelling. Twine slipping from her internal string board, pooling on the floor.</p><p>She’d never been so weak for another person.</p><p>The thought made her insides swoop. Terrifying and wonderful, all at once.</p><p>After a minute or so, Hermione broke away, taking a breath. For a moment, George’s head followed her, his eyes half-closed. But then he caught himself, blinking and flushing a little as he straightened.</p><p>“Merlin, Weasley,” Hermione whispered, laughing in disbelief. “That was—” she halted, unable to find the words.</p><p>The world had gone quiet and still. George stumbled forward a step, closing her in his arms and pulling her head to his chest.</p><p>“Wonderful?” he asked hoarsely. His heart raced under her ear, a staccato rhythm pounding in time with her own.</p><p>Hermione nodded, not sure of how to speak.</p><p>A moment passed.</p><p>“What would you like to listen to next?” he asked softly.</p><p>“Something kind,” Hermione whispered. George drew away for a moment, moving to swap the vinyl out.</p><p>Outside, the rain howled.</p><p>The record player was quiet, and soft piano trickled through the room like cleansing rain.</p><p>George gathered her back into his arms as before. This time, however, they didn’t dance. Instead, they let the music sweep over them as the night crept in.</p><p>Four hands.</p><p>Two hearts.</p><p>George didn’t move, cradling her close—as though she might fade.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Langlock</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Langlock: A jinx which glues the tongue to the roof of the mouth.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello Lovelies!</p><p>I hope your week was wonderful, and that the new year has been treating you well thusfar. &lt;3<br/>Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and/or commenting/leaving a kudos. You are all so very kind and encouraging, and wonderful.  &lt;3 &lt;3 </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters. </p><p>Playlist: "Irish Coffee" by WYS (December 25), "Anything Could Happen," by Ellie Goulding/"You Make My Dreams" by Daryl Hall and John Oates (First part of Dec. 26), "In the Blue Hours of Morning" by The Oh Hellos (When Hermione opens the card/Dec. 26), "Afterglow" by Ed Sheeran (When Hermione brings up movies, Dec. 26), "Really Deep Snow" by Lindstrom (December 28), "Man on a Mission" by Oh the Larceny (December 29, conversation with Fred), "Farther We Go" by Walk Off the Earth/"Wild" by John Legend (December 29, at the pond), "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid (When George looks in the trees), "A Little Bit Yours" by JP Saxe/"Shield" by WYS (December 29, apparition), "Smoke Rising Like Lifted Hands" by The Oh Hellos/"Afterglow" by Ed Sheeran/"Friedrich Dances With Jo" by Alexandre Desplat ([I can't pick one, so go with what you like] December 29, when the world quiets).</p><p>Please pardon any errors. &lt;3 I edited this rather quickly.</p><p>OKAY.<br/>Grab your snack (I suggest peanut butter or chocolate fudge, if you can get your hands on some), your drink (definitely hot cocoa this week), and a blanket at least twice your size. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Eight: "Langlock"</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>George </em>
</p><p>December 25, 1998</p><p>Plates and mugs piled high in the sink’s basin, and George and Mrs. Weasley’s wands worked, sorting the stacks into something more manageable. They’d have to caste the cleaning charms more carefully, as the family had used his mum’s special plates for supper.</p><p>“Honestly, dear, your father was beside himself when you didn’t come home with Ginny,” Mrs. Weasley said, staring at the dishes.</p><p>“Was he, now?” George replied, casting a well-aimed scrubbing charm on the pie pans. Across the kitchen, Arthur snorted.</p><p>“Cried my eyes out,” Mr. Weasley said flatly, prying his wand tip against a large, rubber duck. “Thinking about you, all alone in Hogsmeade during the holidays.” He rested the duck on a rough, wooden shelf. “Then I slipped on my pink housecoat and baked an extra three dozen biscuits.” He paused. “Oh, wait—no, that was your mum.”</p><p>George stilled. Mr. Weasley crossed to the sink and clapped George on the shoulder. “I understand you’re very busy, but you could’ve sent an owl.”</p><p>“Sorry,” George said, wincing. Mrs. Weasley sniffed. George’s eyes widened, and he set his wand on the counter.</p><p>“Haven’t been coming to dinners, either,” she said, blinking. “Did we do something?”</p><p>“No—not at all,” George said. “I-I, um—I’ve just been busy.”</p><p>Hermione’s face flashed through his mind, and he shook his head, trying to focus.</p><p>Molly wiped a crocheted sleeve over her eyes and redirected her wand. “I worry about you out there. I know you’ve got Ginny, but you’ve always done best with family around, and this is your first year living apart from Fred.”</p><p>“I do alright,” George said.</p><p>“Yes, I’d imagine you do,” Mr. Weasley said lightly.</p><p>George refused to acknowledge the comment.</p><p>Instead, he tilted his head and turned back to the dishes. “Besides, I’m not alone,” he said, trying very hard to keep his voice casual and unbothered. “I’ve got friends there.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Mr. Weasley asked slowly. A broad grin spread over the older man’s face.</p><p>George nodded. “There’s um—Ginny, obviously, and I still see plenty of Fred, Angelina, and Lee. And Luna, actually, and Aberforth—” Bugger, he was running out of names. “—nice bloke named Marcus, um, Professor Flitwick—”</p><p>Mr. Weasley was laughing, now, and George huffed.</p><p>“And Hermione,” Mr. Weasley said. Heat flooded George’s face.</p><p>George shrugged and levitated the pie pans onto a towel waiting on the countertop. “Obviously Hermione,” he said, staring intently at the clear glass. After the cleaning, he could see straight through them to the worn, red towel underneath.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley sighed. “I’d hoped she might come with you and Ginny,” she said softly.</p><p>George paused. “Yeah, me too,” he said. The plates clinked as the magic whisked the sudsy rag over their surface, clearing away the bits of sauce. The small, carrot pattern around the edge gleamed in the faint light.</p><p>“You did ask her, right?” Mr. Weasley asked.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“Not ready yet?” Mr. Weasley asked again, prying deeper. George didn’t know how to respond to that question. He didn’t want to speak on Hermione’s behalf. Especially when it was something this sensitive.</p><p>“Maybe? Hard to say,” George said.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley placed her wand in her apron pocket and crossed to her bedroom door. It squeaked open.</p><p>“And McGonagall’s got a photo of Fred and I on her desk,” George continued, redirecting the conversation’s flow. “So, I could probably count her as well.”</p><p>“Did you have fun at the holiday party?” Mr. Weasley asked softly. Molly had disappeared into the bedroom. George took a breath and nodded, casting the cleaning charm on the silverware.</p><p>“Fred said something about a scarf?” Mr. Weasley said. George cleared his throat and began to stack the plates. Mr. Weasley shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting.</p><p>“She made me a scarf, yes,” George said.</p><p>“That’s very nice,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“And-and mittens,” George said, not looking at his father. George’s heart picked up pace, a small trickle of excitement mixed with anxiety zipping about in his chest.</p><p>Why had he added that? Now, it sounded strange.</p><p>“Did she really?” Arthur asked, sounding immensely satisfied. There was a pause. “Molly made me mittens once—sixth year.”</p><p>George paused. “But, it’s not like that,” he said.</p><p>Arthur nodded. “Wasn’t like that for us either, at the time,” he said.</p><p>“Dad—” George started, sighing.</p><p>Arthur stepped up to the counter, bracing two hands on the edge of the sink. “Then, one day, she jumps back after helping me up from the library floor—Fabian had just tripped me, see—and she says ‘Arthur Weasley, did you just shock me with that blasted muggle contraption?’”</p><p>Arthur’s shoulders began to shake as he laughed. “I had this old alarm clock under my arm, and she thought—”</p><p>George halted, looking at his father. “What are you on about?”</p><p>Mr. Weasley patted George on the shoulder. “Well—that’s when I knew,” he whispered, nodding as though what he was talking about made a lick of sense. “So, I set that clock on the table, and I looked at her, and I said, ‘Molly, it’s about time.’”</p><p>“Alright, Dad,” George said. He lifted his wand to the stack of dripping plates.</p><p>“Oh—don’t levitate those,” Arthur said, jumping in front of George’s wand.</p><p>“Wasn’t going to,” George said, voice mild. “I was only doing a drying charm. Hold them steady, would you?” Arthur placed a hand on the dishes, and George caste the charm. The hot air whistled, and water flung from the glass.</p><p>Mr. Weasley seemed to lose his train of thought, and George proceeded to lift the stack of plates to his chest, heading for the hutch in the other room. As though he would levitate them. If he dropped them while doing charm work, his mum would never get over it.</p><p>They’d been a gift from Gideon, and she was little protective of them, silly and chipped though they were.</p><p>Mr. Weasley watched quietly, leaving the conversation behind them.</p><p>Good.</p><p>George made his way back to the kitchen just as his mum emerged from the bedroom, lumpy bit of tissue paper in hand. “Now you give this to Hermione, dear,” she whispered, tucking it into George’s arm. “Just a little something for her reading.”</p><p>George blinked at the package. She’d tied it with a gold ribbon, and the paper was a deep, maroon shade. A brown envelop was affixed to the top.</p><p>“Molly,” Mr. Weasley said. “Did you know that Miss Hermione knitted George a scarf <em>and</em> mittens for Christmas?” His voice was lit and merry.</p><p>George bit the inside of his cheek together, face flaming. He should’ve known that wasn’t the end of it.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley stilled. “Arthur,” she said, a bit of a reprove in her tone. “When I said to let it be—”</p><p>“I wasn’t saying anything!” Mr. Weasley replied, lifting his hands. Mrs. Weasley shook her head and pinched a rag from the towel bar.</p><p>“The last thing these young people need is more pressure or expectations,” she muttered. “Leave it.”</p><p>The pounding in George’s heart settled.</p><p>“You make sure she reads that note,” Mrs. Weasley added, nodding at the parcel. George turned it over in his hands.</p><p>“What does it say?” he asked.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley didn’t put the rag down, continuing with wiping along the counter in a peculiar, muggle fashion. “Don’t you worry about it, Georgie,” she said.</p><p>Anxiety lodged in his throat. What was his mother up to?</p><p>Briefly, a faint memory flickered through him—his mum’s reproach at the stories in <em>The Prophet</em>, during the Twiwizard Tournament. How she’d misunderstood and thought Hermione—</p><p>“You haven’t been reading <em>The Resonant</em>, have you?” George said lowly.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Weasley snapped. “I won’t let that filth frequent our home.” She laid the rag down, and her movement was stiff and stilted.</p><p>“Ginny told me about the year she’s had,” Mrs. Weasley murmured. “Thought she could do with a little bit of mothering.”</p><p>George nodded. He didn’t say another word, pushing from the kitchen to add the gift to his shoes near the door. As he re-entered the living room, Harry shouted.</p><p>“Fred, you’re a right git!” But the accusation was tinged with laughter. The playing cards on the tabletop exploded, and a small wisp of smoke filtered over their heads. Fred bounced Teddy against his shoulder, leaning over the table to swipe up a card.</p><p>“I did nothing wrong—” Fred said, grinning. “Say it again, Teddy, come on, now!”</p><p>Teddy’s eyes were round, and his face was pink.</p><p>Fred grinned and leaned in and spoke slowly, egging the eight-month-old on. “Da-Da—” he said. “Da-Da.”</p><p>Like a charm, Teddy complied.</p><p>“Dada,” Teddy said, his hand flying out to grab Fred’s fringe. “Dadadadada.”</p><p>“Hate you,” Harry said. George snorted and headed for the sweets, prying open a fresh tin.</p><p>“What d’you think, Ange,” Fred called. “Should we take him home?”</p><p>Angelina looked up from the sofa where she’d been chatting with Ginny.</p><p>“He calls everyone that,” Ginny said flatly. She paused. “Even me.”</p><p>The room erupted into laughter, and it rebounded deliciously off the Burrow’s walls. George smiled and began to shift some of the spread into the tin, where it would rest, safely in the wax paper.</p><p>The chorus of laughter was lovely, but it was missing a voice.</p><p>And George heard that silence louder than the noise.</p><p>#</p><p>December 26, 1998</p><p>George’s thick rubber boots crunched through the fresh layer snow coating High Street. Overhead, his breath puffed into white fog, dissipating softly. His wool coat wrapped tight around his frame, and Hermione’s mittens and scarf shielded him from the slight wind that danced between the lopsided buildings.</p><p>Just now, he felt as though anything might happen.</p><p>George slanted the tin and the tissue parcel in the crook of his elbow, dashing across the street. The dormer window above Tomes and Scrolls glowed in the fading light.</p><p>George leapt up the steps, light on his feet.</p><p>The chill nipped at the scar of his ear, but George didn’t mind. He had very important goods to deliver, after all. Couldn’t wait another moment, really. He’d promised his mum and everything. He rapped a mitten-clad knuckle against the door, then leaned back against the railing, waiting with a grin.</p><p>The door cracked open, and Hermione’s face appeared on the other side. She jumped a little at the sight of him, and her eyes widened, lighting up.</p><p>“You’re wearing them!” she said, eyeing the mittens and scarf. She pulled the door open further, revealing the terrycloth robe wrapped around her frame. A pair of light, blue, snowflake-print pajama bottoms peeked out from the hem.</p><p>“Course,” George said, grinning at her pajamas. “Tried to pawn them off on Bill, but he wouldn’t give me more than a Sickle, so I’m holding out for a better deal.”</p><p>Hermione pushed at his arm, smirking. “Git.” She stepped back, and George tried to clear the snow from his boots before crossing the threshold.</p><p>As he stepped into the hallway, it hit him like a flash.</p><p>She’d kissed him. Right here.</p><p>His breath hitched. He didn’t let himself look upwards. Surely, it was gone.</p><p>Why was he thinking about it? George coughed, tugging his mittens off and sticking them into his pockets.</p><p>Hermione held a silent hand out, and George rolled his eyes, adjusting the things in his arms as he peeled his coat from his shoulders. Her gaze flicked to the tin, then back to his face. “How’s the Burrow?” Granger asked.</p><p>“Managing, I suppose,” George said. “Mum kicked me out after I set the tree on fire, and now I’m woefully alone.”</p><p>“You’re impossible,” Granger said. She darted up and plucked the scarf from his neck. As she did so, her fingers brushed the skin, and George clenched his teeth. Hermione, thankfully, was turned around, straightening the knitwear over the hook.</p><p>He was jumpier than usual.</p><p>They needed to get out of this corridor.</p><p>George hurriedly kicked his boots off.</p><p>“I’ve got something for you,” he said, brushing past her, turning his head slightly to call back at her in the hall. “Gift from Mum.”</p><p>Hermione’s footsteps were slow.</p><p>In the living room, a few books laid open on the tabletop, and the old television set buzzed in front of the window. To the side, a fire cracked in the grate.</p><p>Winky laid on a cushion on her stomach, controller in hand. She wore the cloak from the night of the trip, but it fell to the side, over her shoulders. Underneath, she had on a pair of denims and a small, cable knit, grey jumper that seemed to have been taken from the children’s section of a muggle store.</p><p>“It’s a Wheezy,” she said looking over him flatly. Then, she turned and reached into a large, red bowl of popcorn in the center of the floor.</p><p>“Winky!” George grinned, dropping to the floor beside her. “Are you winning?”</p><p>“Yes,” Winky said, staring at the screen. “Until the interruption.”</p><p>“I only need a moment,” Hermione called, sounding a little frustrated as she headed into the kitchen. “Tea, George?” The words were a bit clipped.</p><p>George peered more closely at the game. Winky held the first-player controller, and the corresponding side of the screen was a full lap in front of the second-player’s side.</p><p>Helga’s Garden.</p><p>He roared with laughter.</p><p>“No, you won’t use me to escape this thrashing,” George said, turning back to look at her. Hermione’s face was red.</p><p>“You try playing with her!” Hermione cried. “Honestly, her reflexes!” She whirled, placing the kettle on the stovetop.</p><p>“Don’t be cross, Granger,” George taunted, crossing his legs at the ankle and propping his hands on his knees.</p><p>“I’m not cross,” Hermione said, but her posture was more than a little stiff as she yanked mugs from the cupboard.</p><p>“Winky gave her a head start,” Winky said. She smelled like evergreen and fire. The smell reminded him of what he’d heard from Madam Pomfrey.</p><p>“How’s Biddy?” George asked, voice going low.</p><p>“Safe,” Winky said, not looking away from the screen.</p><p>“Can I see her?” George asked, leaning forward.</p><p>“No, Wheezy,” Winky said, glancing at him. “Humans are not welcome in the Gablehaven.”</p><p>George waited, hoping for more details, but Winky didn’t seem to feel he needed any, calmly reaching into the bowl for another few kernels of popcorn.</p><p>Alright, then.</p><p>“Budge up,” Hermione said, nudging him with her slipper. George scooted closer to Winky, and Hermione knelt, reaching over his shoulder to rest the three mugs on the coffee table behind him. George’s face warmed.</p><p>Winky snorted, and George whirled. The elf watched him with a small smirk.</p><p>“What?” George asked, feeling a little exposed.</p><p>“Nothing,” Winky said. Her eyes returned to the screen. “It will be easier to beat the Wheezy.”</p><p>“Oi—” George started, and Hermione burst into giggles.</p><p>“I resent that implication,” George tried again. Hermione laughed harder, tipping forward. George leaned in, excitement flitting up his chest. “You think that’s funny?” George asked. Hermione nodded, carrying on.</p><p>The sound hit him like a charm.</p><p>Impulse took him.</p><p>“Yeah, okay, I’ll give you something to laugh about—” George said, frowning and nodding. Suddenly, he lunged over, taking her by the sides. Hermione’s laughter built, and she shrieked as he jostled her a bit, falling onto her shoulder. “Can’t believe this!” George cried, grinning. “You’re terrible! Never met a ruder person in my whole life! See if I let you have any sweets!”</p><p>Hermione popped upright, curls askew. “Are there sweets?”</p><p>George turned to Winky. “Are there sweets, she asks,” he said dryly. “Like she hasn’t been eyeing the tin since I arrived.” Winky’s expression was guarded, but she snorted, just the smallest bit.</p><p>“See, I brought them to share with friends,” George said, sighing dramatically as he pulled the tin out. “Unfortunately, Hermione has voided that contract through flagrant disrespect, and now the two of us will have to polish them off.” He pried the lid off and popped a fudge square into his mouth. “Shame.”</p><p>Winky looked at him. Then, slowly, she reached in, grabbing a cube for herself. George grinned.</p><p>“You’ll get cavities,” Hermione said, scooting closer.</p><p>“I’m a wizard,” George said, taking out another square. “I’ll gargle some Skele-gro and be right as rain.” He winked at her as he chewed.</p><p>Hermione’s cheeks flushed.</p><p>Merlin, she must be cross. He should probably lay off and quit teasing.</p><p>But then Hermione swiped at the tin, and George lifted it away, into the air. “Admit that I’m just as good at this game,” he said, nodding at the screen.</p><p>Granger plopped back down at his side. “I don’t tell lies,” she said. “Not even for chocolate.”</p><p>George shrugged and brought the tin back towards Winky.</p><p>Winky took another, and something like amusement flashed over her face.</p><p>Hermione picked up her controller. But she didn’t unpause the game. Instead, she watched him.</p><p>George smiled. “Oh, it’s killing you, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Are you really not going to let me have any?” Hermione asked, brow furrowing.</p><p>George took another square out. “No,” he said lightly, grinning.</p><p>“But—” Hermione said slowly. “I’m family.”</p><p>George halted.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Wordless, he extended the tin.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes sparked as she nicked a square and stuck it in her mouth. “Honestly, you’re too easy, Weasley,” she said around the sweet. George put the tin on the floor, beside the popcorn bowl.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” he muttered, elbowing her gently. Hermione shoved him back, then hit the play button.</p><p>Ultimately, Winky hadn’t been wrong. Even when she let them start a lap ahead, Winky’s car landed the turns just right—every single time, and George wasn’t nearly practiced enough to put up a serious fight. Hermione seemed to have resigned herself to her fate and laughed merrily every time Winky’s car lapped George’s.</p><p>After an hour or so and more than a few circuits, Winky stood, adjusting her cloak.</p><p>“Leaving already?” George said, lowering his controller. “Honestly, just give us a few more tries—”</p><p>Winky’s large eyes crinkled with a smile. “It would not make a difference, Wheezy.” She paused, glancing between the two of them. “Maybe if you practice.” Her smile shifted to a small smirk, and she apparated out with a crack.</p><p>George flopped back on the floor, holding his face in his hands. “That was merciless,” he groaned.</p><p>“Serves you right for making fun of me,” Hermione said, kicking her foot against his.</p><p>George shook his head. “But that’s my job,” he said, raising his hands out of the way to fix her with a serious look. “My life’s work, Granger—making fun.” Hermione shook her head, smiling, but her gaze skittered to the side. Suddenly, the flat seemed a bit quiet. She twisted her plait in her fingers.</p><p>Perhaps he ought to rile her up again.</p><p>“Besides,” he added. “Between the two of us, I was winning.”</p><p>Hermione gasped. George kept his expression cool.</p><p>“As if,” she spat. The controller smacked into his chest. “Rematch.”</p><p>George let her get a lap into the race before he reached over and shoved at her controller, knocking it out of her hands.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted. “That’s cheating!”</p><p>George bit his lips together to keep from grinning as his kart zipped by hers. A moment later, Hermione lunged, but he saw it coming, and he ducked forward and out of the way, laughing as she collided with the floor.</p><p>“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to—”</p><p>Hermione picked herself off the floor, pushing her forearms into his shoulders. George swayed forward. “Prat,” she said, shoving against him. George laughed.</p><p>“You’re not even good at cheating,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s arm darted over his shoulder, towards his controller, and George twisted, lifting it out of the way. Their karts careened over the track.</p><p>“It doesn’t count if you don’t play fair,” Granger cried, yanking his elbow as she tried to pull the controller within reach. Her other arm scrambled around his opposite shoulder, tugging him back.</p><p>“Horrid behavior, and from a prefect no less!” George shouted, easily warding off her attempt to topple him.</p><p>“We’re on holiday!” Hermione cried. George barked out another laugh and turned in her grapple to reply.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Hermione’s face was inches from his, red and breathless, plait falling apart. Her arms were wrapped around him, and her eyes flashed with determination.</p><p>George forgot how to speak.</p><p>Hermione smacked the controller from his hands, and it skittered onto the rug.</p><p>“Ha!” Hermione shouted. She dropped away, onto the floor at his side. George swallowed, blinking as he reached for the controller. Hermione’s arm pressed against his, and his magic whirled from his chest to the spot in sweeping currents.</p><p>“Still going to lose,” he muttered.</p><p>Her kart zipped by his as he mangled the final turn.</p><p>Merlin, his heart was going to beat out of his chest.</p><p>“See?” Hermione said, triumph singing through the taunt as she crossed the finish line. “You don’t have to break the rules to win.”</p><p>“But you did break the rules,” George said, glancing at her.</p><p>Hermione pushed at his shoulder. “Prat,” she said. George smiled and reached back to the coffee table, then plunked the tissue parcel into her lap.</p><p>“Mum said to make sure you read the note,” he said.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>“Um—” she halted, looking at it. “Alright.” The spark had left her eyes, and he could see the anxiety building as she slid the envelop open.</p><p>George took a slow breath, then turned to gather the empty mugs, giving her a bit of privacy. When he emerged from the kitchen, Granger was hunched over the parchment, fist pressed to her mouth as her eyes skated over his mother’s script.</p><p>She took in a shaky breath, and George stepped forward, concern scrambling under his sternum.</p><p>“Granger?” he asked, voice quiet. Hermione shook her head. He faltered. He knew his mum meant well, but what if she’d accidentally said something that—</p><p>Granger’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.</p><p>George stepped around the sofa as the concern flared to panic. “Granger—” he breathed.</p><p>“This is so kind,” Hermione said, and the sentence hiked softly as she spoke. George stopped.</p><p>“Yeah?” he asked softly, crouching at her side. Granger nodded. George brushed a hand on her head. “She mentioned that she wanted you to come along this Christmas.” Granger nodded again. She tucked the parchment back in the envelop. George dropped his hand, settling beside her.</p><p>On the tissue, under the place the note had been fixed, script looping over the paper: “<em>To Hermione</em>,” on the top, and “<em>Love, Mrs. Weasley/Mum</em>” on the bottom. Hermione’s hands paused over the words, and a sharp sniff cut through the silence.</p><p>George stared at the words, then at Granger. Merlin, what had his mum said?</p><p>Granger pulled the tissue apart at one end, and a large, knitted pouch fell onto her lap. It looked like a pocket, only it was held closed with a flap over the top that held a large, brown button. A small slip of parchment was pinned to the front:</p><p>
  <em>“It expands or shrinks to fit any book; it should keep them safe in your bag.”</em>
</p><p>George’s brows shot up.</p><p>“Oh, this is perfect,” Hermione cried, swiping a palm over her cheek. “I’ve got some older volumes for my research, and—” she sucked in a breath, gazing at it like she couldn’t quite believe it was there. “Will you tell her I love it?” she asked quietly.</p><p>“Could tell her yourself,” George said, tilting his head.</p><p>Hermione unfastened the button, then refastened it, silent.</p><p>“Maybe,” she whispered. “I could owl, I suppose.”</p><p>“Or you could come to Sunday dinner with me sometime,” George said lightly. Hermione stilled.</p><p>Bugger, he hadn’t meant that to sound the way it did.</p><p>“Or Ginny,” he added, face heating. “Or—I mean, you don’t need to go with anyone, really, you’ve got an open invitation, but if—”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “I appreciate it,” she said. She shook her head, swiping at her cheek again. “I’m a mess, sorry.”</p><p>George leaned back on his hands. “I think I can forgive you,” he said. “Dirty cheat though you are.”</p><p>Hermione dropped the present to her lap. “You started it,” she said.</p><p>George frowned and glanced at his hands. “Controller pushing is fair game,” he said. He lifted his brows and cocked his head. “Fist fighting, however—”  </p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “It didn’t come anywhere close to that,” she said. “And even if it did, it’s nothing you didn’t have coming to you.” A slow, mischievous grin sparked over her face.</p><p>George’s mouth dropped open, and he scoffed. “You can check that cheek at the door, Miss,” he cried. Hermione erupted into laughter. “Really!” George’s voice climbed, her giggles urging him on. “I’ve met kinder Bludgers!” Hermione choked out a squeak of protest. “Should I bring my Quidditch padding next time?”</p><p>“As if!” Hermione said, burying her face in her hands. She peeked at him from between her fingers.</p><p>“Oh, don’t play at that,” George muttered, shaking his head. “I already know you’re a bundle of trouble.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes lit, and she ducked her head. The tips of her ears were pink.</p><p>“One of these days, you’ll open up a shop of your own, and Fred and I will be out in the cold,” George said, flopping back again.</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>“And I’ve already let you in on so many trade secrets,” George said, sighing loudly. “Foolish of me.”</p><p>Hermione laughed and stood, crossing to the table. “You’re impossible. Besides, I usually have far too much homework to run a storefront.”</p><p>George propped himself on his elbows. “Homework already?” he asked, raising his brows.</p><p>Hermione tucked the book cover under the novel on the table. “Not yet,” she said. “My professors have refused to give me the assignments for next term ahead of time.”</p><p>“How dare they,” George said flatly. Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“Now I’ve got a week or two to occupy,” she said, picking up another book and staring at its spine.</p><p>Hope leapt inside him. “What do you plan to do with it?” he asked.</p><p>“Research,” she mumbled. George swallowed and nodded. “Besides that—” she paused, and her brow furrowed. “It’s a little tricky.”</p><p>“How do you mean?” George asked, tipping his head back to look at her. Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>“I’m not used to free time,” she said.</p><p>George nodded. “Alright then,” he said. “What are some things you enjoy, but haven’t found time to do since the war?”</p><p>Hermione tucked the book against her chest. “I used to watch movies,” she whispered, glancing at the television. “During holidays, I’d see them with my parents.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said, pointing a playful finger at her. “Do that.”</p><p>A shadow passed through her eyes, and George pushed himself upright, swiveling to face her.</p><p>“Granger?” he asked.</p><p>“It’s not the same when you’re watching alone,” she said. “So, maybe something else.” She shrugged again.</p><p>“I’ll watch them with you,” George said, the words bursting from his mouth before he could think better of it. “If—if you want.” Granger blinked.</p><p>“You wouldn’t mind?” she asked.</p><p>George shrugged, pushing aside the pounding in his chest. “Muggle stuff is interesting,” he said. “It could give me some ideas for the shop.”</p><p>Hermione paused, watching him. “Alright.”</p><p>George ducked his head. Maybe he’d sounded a bit too eager.</p><p>“And ice skating—” she said suddenly.</p><p>George lifted his gaze, confused.</p><p>“We used to go ice skating,” Hermione said. She swallowed.</p><p>There was something unreadable in her expression.</p><p>“I’ve never been ice skating,” George said slowly.</p><p>“Oh, it’s really fun!” Hermione said, starting and stepping closer. “I think you would like it.” She reached up and slipped a stray curl behind her ear. Her eyes were wide, watching him.</p><p>Waiting.</p><p>“You think so?” George asked. His mouth went dry. Hermione bobbed her head.</p><p>“I asked about it at the town hall the other day—the weather reminded me,” she rambled, watching her hands. “I wasn’t sure if I’d go, but if you’re not busy, maybe you’d like to come along?” she asked.</p><p>Something like euphoria bloomed in his ribs. The thought of spending time with Granger in the snow sent sparks zipping through him.</p><p>George tamped it down. She was asking him as a friend. A brother. And—and that was alright.</p><p>“Yeah, I mean—” George folded his arms and glanced at the wall. “Shop will be slow until start of term,” he said. He rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be just as bored as you.”</p><p>“Excellent,” Hermione said, grinning. “I’ll teach you to skate.” She bounded across the room and settled back at his side. “There’s a pond in the woods that’s suitable. We could try there?”</p><p>George nodded. “Okay,” he said. Hermione beamed.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Then, she picked her controller up and hit the button.</p><p>“This time, I’ll win fair and square,” Hermione said, stretching a distracted hand into the tin to take a piece of fudge. The screen darkened, and the only light in the room spilled through the grate.</p><p>It danced over her, flickering.</p><p>For a moment, George lost himself in it.</p><p>The glow of the fireside on her face.</p><p>Her quiet laughter as she plunked the second controller into his hands.</p><p>The spark in her eyes as she glanced up at him, chewing.</p><p>George couldn’t speak.</p><p>“This is lovely,” she said, nodding at the sweet in her left hand.</p><p>George nodded. A lump formed in his throat.</p><p>And so much better than last year.</p><p>#</p><p>December 28, 1998</p><p>George dunked a hand into the box and withdrew a fistful of quills. The glass cups on the new display were almost filled, and the instruments rattled as he placed them in the empty slot. He gave the rack a gentle turn, checking to ensure the pricing was correct. The bottom two rows held the usual Spell-Checking, Smart-Answer, and Self-Inking Quills. He’d gone out on a limb and ordered some nicer models, though. The middle of the stand held Everlasting Ink cartridges and a variety of empty quill casings. The top held a few of the sort he’d made for Granger.</p><p>Probably wouldn’t move many, considering Scrivenshaft was just down the street.</p><p>George dragged the stand near the front, so shoppers (or anyone, really) could see it through the window.</p><p>Couldn’t hurt.</p><p>He paced back to the counter. There was a hole in his sock, and over the course of walking around, restocking, and helping the occasional customer, it had widened. His big toe poked through against the inside of his boot, and the skin was starting to rub raw.</p><p>George winced and stooped to fix it.</p><p>A heavy step sounded behind him, and the hair on the back of his neck pricked.</p><p>A spell whizzed, just to the side of George’s head, and he felt the presence dart, one hand colliding with his shoulder, while the other swiped at him, narrowly missing his ear.</p><p>The spell splashed against the sideboard in a smattering of light.</p><p>George’s eyes narrowed, and he shot upright, coming chin to chin with the intruder.</p><p>Marcus Flint loomed over him, arms crossed.</p><p>Not many people could loom over George.</p><p>“You missed,” George spat, lifting his wand.</p><p>“An accident” Flint said, shrugging. “Lost my balance,” Flint said, shrugging. His teeth were straight and neat, and his dragon-leather robe shifted on his shoulders.</p><p>“Yeah, I bet,” George said as he worked his thumb over his wand handle. “What are you doing in Hogsmeade? Aren’t you a bit old to throw your weight at first years?”</p><p>“I’m here to buy something,” Flint said coldly.</p><p>He was trying to goad him into a fight. George was almost certain of it.</p><p>But Fred wasn’t here.</p><p>And George wasn’t going to do something rash.</p><p>He swallowed back the irritation and nodded at the door.</p><p>“There’s nothing here for you,” George said. “Leave.”</p><p>Flint smirked and turned. His shoes clicked on the floor as he headed to the quill display. A small, brown rectangle of fabric dangled from a single pin on Flint’s hood.</p><p>George scoffed. Sod hadn’t even taken the tag off.</p><p>“Good that you found something to occupy yourself,” Flint drawled. “Even if it is rubbish.”</p><p>Smarmy git.</p><p>George rolled his eyes. “Get out, Flint.”</p><p>“Wasn’t the least bit surprised when I heard about the two of you—” Flint’s voice was loud and brash. “After all, Weasleys never have been able to keep their hands out of the bin.”</p><p>George tilted his head. “What?”</p><p>He shouldn’t have asked.</p><p>“Picking up your brother’s leftovers,” Flint muttered, spinning the rack. “—like a scavenger.”</p><p>George went cold, fury pounding in his throat, down his arms. Flint backed away from the quill display, watching him.</p><p>George started forward, hands clenched into fists. “She’s not—”</p><p>Granger’s bright, laughing face flashed through George’s mind. The sound of her giggles as she bent towards the television. The smell of chamomile.</p><p>George blinked, and his fists relaxed.</p><p>“You’re a fool,” George said quietly. “Leave.”</p><p>Flint’s face contorted, and he opened his mouth.</p><p>“I won’t ask again,” George said, and the words were light and cool. He glanced over the entryway. No customers. If Flint decided to strike, he’d caste a Protego and follow up with a stun.</p><p>Flint waited.</p><p>George didn’t flinch.</p><p>Suddenly, the other man whirled, and the bell jangled as he left.</p><p>It’d all been bravado, then.</p><p>George exhaled. His toe bumped the front of his boot.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George spun and started on the closing enchantments. His wand work was a little shaky. That was unusual. The exchange had set him on edge, and with the other man gone, his insides jittered around, as though expecting something terrible.</p><p>He flicked off the light and tugged his coat on. If he hurried, he’d have time to find some socks at Magical Miscellaneous before they closed.</p><p>He locked the shop door. The light in the street was fading, and George’s shoulders were tense. He peered around, but no one was there.</p><p>Right.</p><p>He double-checked the lock. It held. George fished one mitten out of his pocket, watching the lane as he slipped it on. Then, he turned and headed north on High Street, pulling on the other mitten.</p><p>Something crunched behind him.</p><p>George whirled.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>He fished his wand out of his pocket and gripped it.</p><p>George strode a bit faster than he normally might, but he pressed forward, telling himself it was the cold. The shop’s bell chimed, and the heat from inside spilled over him.</p><p>“Welcome,” the clerk muttered at the till by the door, turning the page in her copy of <em>Witch Weekly</em>. “We close in ten minutes.”</p><p>“I’ll be quick,” George said, grimacing.</p><p>Right. Right, he could do this.</p><p>George scanned the aisles, and at the sea of colors and textures, a wave of unease rose in his throat. Where were the bloody socks?</p><p>“Accio socks,” he muttered, moving his wand discreetly. A small, white bundle flipping through the air, zipping to his chest.</p><p>“No summoning in the store,” the employee said. “We’re happy to point in you the right direction if you need something.” She sounded a little put out. George winced.</p><p>“Right, sorry—” George said, staring at the little bundle.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>They were baby socks. Did babies wear socks?</p><p>George’s face contorted as he turned it over in his hands. Did Teddy need socks? Had Harry thought of that?</p><p>A bright strobe filled the air, and George shoved the package behind his back, whirling.</p><p>A dark, purple cloak billowed as the figure ducked through the entrance, hurrying away.</p><p>“Oi!” George shouted, dropping the socks and following. The loud crack of apparition echoed outside the shop, and George huffed, his arms falling to his sides.</p><p>Brilliant. Could he do nothing without being followed? George firmed his jaw.</p><p>He watched for a moment, waiting to see if they’d return. They didn’t.</p><p>Cowards.</p><p>As though it mattered. He’d have to look forward to a story on his inability to properly dress himself.</p><p>George rolled his eyes and headed back inside. The clerk was stooping, picking up the bundle George had dropped.</p><p>“Sorry about that,” George said. The clerk crossed her arms. “I need socks,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Outside, the street was empty. George’s gaze flicked to it.</p><p>“Back wall,” the clerk said. George bobbed his head and headed back.</p><p>Each bundle was secured with twine, and gold slips of paper announced the size and any charmwork. Most boasted of warming charms. That could be useful. Near the end of the row, the numbers matched the stamp on the inside of his shoes. Simple enough.</p><p>George reached for a pack. He hesitated.</p><p>Buying socks felt like a waste when he could make them.</p><p>He picked up the bundle, mulling it over. The striped pattern was nice, and socks still took him a while to make. He wouldn’t bother his mum about it when he could afford to help himself.</p><p>It would work for now.</p><p>George shoved the socks under his arm and headed to the till. The clerk rang him up. George watched the windows as he stuck a hanful of Sickles on the counter.</p><p>Outside, shadows stretched over the street.</p><p>Looming.</p><p>#</p><p>December 29, 1998</p><p>“George?” Fred’s voice boomed as the door between his flat and the shop swiped open. “There a reason we’re not open at a quarter-to-nine on a Tuesday?”</p><p>George jumped, and his boot squeaked on the kitchen chair he had it braced on. Fred raised his brows, munching on a slice of toast. His apron was loose around his shoulders, and his shaggy hair was mussed. The door snicked shut, and George’s face heated as Fred looked him over.</p><p>George paused, his hands half-tangled in his boot laces. He was kitted out—layered in a Henley, jumper, and coat with his boots and scarf, clearly on his way to do something other than work.</p><p>“Where are you off to?” Fred asked.</p><p>George gritted his teeth.</p><p>The floo whooshed, and in a cruel twist of fate, Granger chose that moment to tumble through without a warning. “Are you ready?” she called, laughing as she hopped down from the hearth’s stonework.</p><p>Fred grinned.</p><p>George shot him a furtive look, but Fred spun and stepped around the corner, in front of Granger. He crossed his arms. “I suppose you’re responsible for this?” he asked.</p><p>Granger jumped, blinking at Fred then George. “What?” she asked. Fred circled Hermione like a shark, and George yanked the laces tight on his boot before standing straight.</p><p>“It seems George has decided to skive off,” Fred said. As he crossed behind Granger, he shot George a wink. “And it appears that you have something to do with it?” His voice lilted. “A terrible influence.”</p><p>The git.</p><p>But Granger lifted her chin and straightened the knit hat on her head. “George deserves a break,” she said, a swotty quality entering her tone.</p><p>Now that was interesting. George leaned back against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle.</p><p>“Yeah, Fred, I deserve a break,” he said, grinning.</p><p>Hermione nodded to him, but her eyes were trained on her hands. “Besides, the last time I checked—” She quirked her brows as she said it.  “He’s just as much in charge as you, so stop trying to boss him around.” She dusted a bit of soot from her coat sleeve.</p><p>Fred halted. Behind Granger’s shoulder, his mouth dropped open and he bugged his eyes out at George. George snorted. Fred schooled his expression and paced in front of her.</p><p>“And what is so important that we’re depriving the till this morning?” Fred asked.</p><p>Hermione’s face washed in a pink glow. “I promised to teach him to ice skate, because he really wants to learn,” she said.</p><p>Fred frowned and nodded. “That true, George?” he asked, glancing over. “You want to learn to ice skate?” The mirth oozed from the question, and George’s face heated.</p><p>“Yes,” George said. “Hermione graciously offered to show me how, and I figured I might as well.”</p><p>“I don’t know how to ice skate,” Fred said, shrugging. George stiffened, and Fred’s eyes sparked.</p><p>“It’s—it’s really better to teach one person at a time,” Hermione said, faltering.</p><p>George relaxed.</p><p>“A shame,” Fred drawled.</p><p>“But maybe we could go another time?” Hermione offered. “Or you could ask Ginny—I know she’s gone with Harry this winter.”</p><p>Fred nodded. “Brilliant,” he said. Then: “Ice skating.” He said the words like he would a new product name or something novel and brilliant.</p><p>Hermione shrugged and crossed to the counter, beside George. “I’d offer to take you along today, but—” Hermione twisted her hands. “You’re very loud.”</p><p>Fred threw his head back and laughed.</p><p>“Oh, stop it,” Hermione said, huffing. “It would be distracting, and I need to focus so George can learn.” Her face colored more violently as she spoke. George watched her, a line between his brows. “And-and he asked first, so it’s his turn today.”</p><p>“Naturally,” Fred said, nodding.</p><p>“I’m loud too, sometimes,” George said, cocking a brow.</p><p>Hermione snorted and picked a bit of lint from her sleeve. “Yes, but it’s funnier when you do it.”</p><p>Dear Merlin. His insides flooded with warmth.</p><p>She-she didn’t mean anything by it, but still.</p><p>Fred clutched his chest. “That’s wounding,” he wheezed. “See if I come to your graduation.”</p><p>“Oi.” George snapped his fingers at him. “No school talk. It’s hols.”</p><p>Hermione’s hands closed on his elbow, and George tripped a bit as she tugged him towards the door. “Come on,” she said. “He’s-he’s only grumpy that he can’t come along.”</p><p>Fred smirked. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said dryly. He followed them into the shop and headed to the floo. “Have fun—” he sang before shouting “93 Diagon!”</p><p>#</p><p>The pond was mostly empty, but a few individuals skated over the long stretch over ice. On the far end, a figure knelt near the edge. With the hats and coats, it was hard to make out faces.</p><p>He took a deep breath and tried to push the anxiety down.</p><p>“Are we sure this is safe?” George asked. Hermione nodded brightly and pulled him to sit beside her on a fallen log.</p><p>“It’s always frozen,” she said. “And the ice is even thicker now, with it being winter.” She leaned over their boots. “Are those laced tightly?”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>Hermione pulled out her wand and began to whisper under her breath. Slowly, George’s left boot transfigured, growing a shining blade beneath it. Her forearm brushed his knee as she reached across to do the left shoe, and George’s leg jumped.</p><p>“Hold still,” Hermione said, bemused. “Honestly, the two of you are so fidgety.”</p><p>“Sorry,” George said. The air was cold and dry, and a slight breeze ran through the pines, stirring the light snowfall.</p><p>Hermione pulled back, flipping her plait over her shoulder. “There,” she said, smiling. He watched as she did her own, then slipped a pair of crimson mittens over her hands. Finally, Hermione clambered to a stand, lifting her feet a little higher than normal as she held out her hands to help him up.</p><p>“I think I can manage,” George said, snorting. Hermione shrugged and stepped away. He stood, adjusting his balance. The skates felt odd under him. Not entirely pleasant, but Hermione was beaming, so that was—that was—</p><p>The look on her face shifted to something almost wistful as she watched him.</p><p>Probably thinking about her parents.</p><p>“Okay,” she said. “Ready?”</p><p>George shrugged as he shifted experimentally back and forth. It wasn’t so bad.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze sparked, and she couldn’t quite keep her grin back as she hopped onto the ice. “Come on, then.” She skated backwards, watching him.</p><p>It couldn’t be that hard. He’d spent years on a broom.</p><p>George stepped onto the pond, and instantly realized his error.</p><p>His feed slid forward, and his arms pinwheeled out as he leaned back, attempting to slow himself. Gravity knocked him flat on his back.</p><p>“Salazar,” George wheezed. A flake of snow descended on his cheek.</p><p>Hermione exploded into laughter.</p><p>George sucked a breath in and blinked hard. “Did you do something to these?” he asked, pushing up to his elbows at staring at the skates. “Jinx them?”</p><p>Hermione’s blades scraped as she coasted to his side and reached down. “No,” she said. This time, George took her hand, gingerly picking himself off the pond’s surface. One foot wobbled and slide, and instinctually, he pitched backwards, tightening his grip on Hermione.</p><p>“I thought beaters had good balance,” Hermione mused. She tipped her chin up, grinning at him.</p><p>George’s face heated. “I do,” he said. He cleared his throat. Hermione’s face was rather close, and he was holding her by both arms.</p><p>She seemed unphased, tilting her head and glancing at George’s unsteady feet. “Seems so,” she said.</p><p>George scoffed in disbelief, and his breath’s white cloud whorled up amongst the snowfall.</p><p>The nerve.</p><p>“Well, aren’t we a cheeky little chit this morning,” he said, fixing her with an incredulous look. Hermione laughed, and her knit beret slipped lopsided on her head. George’s skate lurched, and his hand shot out, grabbing her shoulder. “Mind, there’s a bit further for me to fall.” He winced, remembering the hard impact of ice on his back.</p><p>George was no stranger to taking spills, but he prided himself on never having fallen off a broom, and usually, when he hit the ground otherwise, he was in the midst of doing something brave.</p><p>Not flailing around like a git.</p><p>“Let’s focus on standing, first,” Hermione said, a merry ring entering her tone.</p><p>It took a minute, but he managed it. They hadn’t even left the pond side, and he was already bruised. His face was thoroughly red by the time she let him go.</p><p>“Enjoy this while you can,” he said, grimacing at the sky. Hermione hummed lightly. George peeked down at her. She bit her lips together, adjusting her mittens. But then her mouth quirked.</p><p>Right.</p><p>George raised his brows and cleared his throat. “I didn’t laugh at you on the broom.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I’m a terrible person,” Hermione said. Part of her grin slipped free.</p><p>The mischief in the comment made his insides swoop, and George’s skates veered. He tried to right himself, but his legs were too far forward. He sailed backwards, accidentally taking Hermione with him. His shoulders thudded against the snowbank on the pond’s edge, and Hermione slammed into his ribs.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>Hermione roared with laughter, and she stuck a hand in the snow, pushing herself up to crouch on her knees.</p><p>“Stop trying to lean back to slow!” she cried. Her plait tumbled down over her shoulder, dangling over his chest, and her eyes were bright. “It’s not a broomstick!”</p><p>George’s reply caught in his throat.</p><p>One of those terribly meddlesome thoughts crept into his mind. What it might be like to pull her in and kiss her in the snowbank.</p><p>She leaned closer, and George’s eyes widened.</p><p>Oh—oh please.</p><p>Her brow wrinkled, and she swiped a mitten over his hair. “Covered in snow,” she said, snorting. Then, she darted back and stood, holding her hand out to help him up.</p><p>Heat pounded through him as he struggled to his feet. That had almost been a reckless disaster. He sucked in a sharp breath, clearing his head. Hermione, thankfully, hadn’t noticed his lapse in sanity and calmly watched the trees as she tugged her mittens off and tucked them into her coat pockets.  </p><p>The next several minutes were spent close to the pond’s edge, turning in circles as they took it slow, waiting until George sorted how to stand without toppling.</p><p>He’d barely had a moment to celebrate that victory when she took his hands and slowly pushed back, tugging him forward. The ice moved beneath their feet, and George was rigid, watching it. Her hands were pink, her fingers wrapping around the dark, blue stitchwork.</p><p>Why was he still wearing mittens?</p><p>“Balance on one foot, and try pushing a little with the other,” Hermione said. George blinked up at her.</p><p>“How?” he asked.</p><p>“Watch,” she said, coming to a stop. George wobbled, grimacing as Hermione let him go. She skated a few paces slowly. That looked possible. She turned, waiting on him. George eased his foot out and slid one push at a time until he reached her.</p><p>When he neared her side, Hermione’s eyes sparked. “Race you!” she shouted, and she spun, tearing across the ice like a banshee.</p><p>As if.</p><p>“Granger!” George called.</p><p>Hermione’s laughter rang over the pond as she looped around, rounding back to him. George crossed his arms at the smug look on her face.</p><p>Hermione shifted her skates without looking down. She circled him as she grinned. “I win.”</p><p>George knit his brows together. “I’m starting to think I’ve been had,” he said lightly, following her with his eyes.</p><p>“It’s your first time,” Hermione said, shrugging. “I fell loads of times on my first go.”</p><p>“And when was that?” George asked, tone dry.</p><p>Hermione came to a stop in front of him. “About four?” she said. “This is my first time here, though.” She peered around at the trees. “It’s a muggle hobby, so Hogsmeade hasn’t ever opened the pond for it before.”</p><p>George nodded at the other skaters. “Your doing?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione glanced at her hands. “I only brought it up. I think some of the other mugglebornes were excited about the idea as well, because someone from Town Hall owled me to confirm the ice was suitable much faster than I expected.”</p><p>George raised his brows. “That’s impressive. They haven’t answered any of my questions about instituting a village-wide prank on the school.”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “Yes, well, I expect Aberforth had something to do with it, since he’s on the business council.”</p><p>George started.</p><p>“You could’ve asked me,” George said. “I’m on the business—” Suddenly, Hermione took his hands and pushed off. George lurched, grabbing her forearms, but his grip in his mittens was clumsy, and he nearly fell.</p><p>“Yes, well, you don’t go to meetings,” Hermione said, laughing. The world whipped by, much faster than George was expecting.</p><p>“Careful—” George muttered, steadying himself. “And I would, if they weren’t massive wastes of time.” Granger slowed as they reached the opposite end of the pond, and George grabbed her elbows, sucking in a breath as he tried to lean back.</p><p>“You think this is funny, but if I fall, I’ll take you with me,” George said, fixing her with a serious look.</p><p>Hermione laughed and took off again, pulling him along. “You stop us this time. Drag your foot,” she said.</p><p>“That’s a rubbish suggestion,” George said, watching the ice.</p><p>“Trust me,” Hermione whispered. George hesitated, then dragged his foot. They slowed. “See?” Hermine said. Her hand closed around his forearm.</p><p>He raised his eyes from the ice.</p><p>Hermione’s grin sucked the air from his lungs.</p><p>George’s foot caught, and he toppled to his hands and knees.</p><p>Hermione’s peal of laughter chimed over the pond.</p><p>George resolved to fall at least a dozen more times before they left.</p><p>Hermione had managed to keep her balance, and she watched with approval as he hoisted himself back on his feet. He straightened his shoulders. “You’re getting it,” she said warmly.</p><p>“You think so?” George asked. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Try going on your own,” she said, tugging her mittens from her pockets.</p><p>“If I spill my brains over this ice,” George said lightly, straightening his collar. “I will come back and haunt you.”</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>Okay. He could do this. He was a Weasley, after all.</p><p>“Won’t have a moment’s rest,” George said, staring at the other end of the pond.</p><p>He shoved off.</p><p>The wind whipstreamed around him, and he leaned into it. He tried to slow as he approached the other side, but the movement threw him, and he tumbled. Ice shavings coated his knees, shoulder, and face, but Hermione was laughing.</p><p>So they made a bit of a game of it.</p><p>George built up to reckless speeds, and they raced back and forth over the surface, yelling at each other. Slowly, the other patrons filtered out, likely bothered by their volume, but George and Hermione didn’t pay them any mind. With time, George got better at stopping and turning, and then things got far more interesting. George swiped the hat from Granger’s head as he passed, and the racing devolved into a high stakes game of keep-away.</p><p>Hermione chased him all over the pond, and her shrieks of laughter sang through the trees. All the while, George darted, ducked, and spun, letting her close enough to reach for it, but not so close as to get it back. Each time she narrowly missed it, he snatched it behind his back and taunted her, egging her on before dashing away.</p><p>At some point, the skates had become familiar, and George felt as though he might’ve been made to do this.</p><p>Finally, she managed to cut him off in a corner, and she yanked it from his grasp. They stood, breathing hard and grinning at each other.</p><p>The exhaustion hit him in a wave—the hour or so of skating had left him winded and drained, but in the way that an extended Quidditch practice might.</p><p>It was wonderful.</p><p>Hermione plunked the beret back over her head, tucking it over her pink, wind-whipped ears. “I told you would like it,” she said, eyes sparking.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands through his hair and grinned. “Right you are, Granger, but I think I’m done in,” he said. “I’m knackered, and my feet are killing me.” Slowly, he began backing toward the fallen log. “Maybe, um—” he paused. He’d been just about to ask her if she’d like to do it again sometime, but that might sound odd. Like it had been a date, and it wasn’t a date. It was just two friends, ice skating and—and holding each other, and—</p><p>“Granger, would you like to do this again sometime?” The question burst out of him before he had time to think better of it.</p><p>Hermione laughed and nodded. “Alright.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“We can bring Fred, and you’ll help me teach him!” Hermione said, beaming.</p><p>Right.</p><p>What had gotten into him?</p><p>George cleared his throat and forced a bright smile onto his face.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said, nodding firmly. “Brilliant.”</p><p>He turned hurriedly, and his face burned as he headed toward the fallen log.</p><p>“I’ll be there a moment!” Hermione cried, pushing off her skates to loop the pond. “Just a little longer.” George glanced back. Her hat was coming free, and she tipped her chin back, flying through the air to the opposite end of the ice.</p><p>Magic.</p><p>George grinned and knelt on the log, tugging his mittens off. His wand was stiff in his numb fingers.</p><p>“Reparifarge,” George murmured, and the blades melted away, restoring his boots.</p><p>He reached for his pocket watch.</p><p>A flash whistled past him.</p><p>George started.</p><p>He wheeled towards the trees.</p><p>A veiled figure loomed behind the branches, and their wand slashed. George leapt forward, raising his own. The Protego burst forth in a stream of blue.</p><p>For the slightest moment, the light refracted through the pines, gleaming off the dark scales on the figure’s robe. But the shield didn’t land in time. The spell zipped through, over the pond as the man spun, apparating with a loud pop, cloak whipping.</p><p>It was—</p><p>A loud rumble cracked over the ice.</p><p>A bone chilling screech.</p><p>George whirled.</p><p>Hermione was gone, and in her place, a crater had opened, revealing dark, broiling water.</p><p>Time sputtered to a halt.</p><p>A small, thin stick spun across the ice, away from the hole.</p><p>He-he was misunderstanding.</p><p>A crimson mitten broke the surface, then resubmerged.</p><p>No.</p><p>George spun on his heel, but a cold wall slammed into his ribs, holding him in place.</p><p>Then her face appeared, gasping over the water. “George!” she screamed.</p><p>“Granger!” George shouted. He bolted towards her. “Hold on!”</p><p>Her voice was shrill, strangled, and gurgling. “I can’t—I can’t—”</p><p>The dark tugged her back under.</p><p>No.</p><p>No no no.</p><p>George yanked his wand free to freeze the broken edge as he hit it hard on his knees, searching frantically for any sign of her. The water was dark, and her mitten didn’t come up again.</p><p>He plunged an arm in, past the thick, icy edge and groped for her. The water sank its claws deep, and his bones cried out, but he didn’t find anything. His hand swiped uselessly through the dark.</p><p>He couldn’t see her to levitate her out. Couldn’t—couldn’t think.</p><p><em>“I was so afraid of hitting the rocks and the waves,”</em> her voice flashed through his mind.</p><p>“Fianto Duri,” George said, and he stuck his wand in his teeth. “Lumos Maxima.”</p><p>Without a second thought, he dove in after her.</p><p>He tried to caste the Bubblehead charm, but he was too rattled, and it wouldn’t stick.</p><p>His body locked up, screaming against the cold. Light refracted from his wand tip, through the dark water, but it didn’t reach all the way down. The pond seemed to stretch for an infinity, supernatural in its depth.</p><p>Deep, deep below, a flash of crimson disappeared into the black.</p><p>There.</p><p>George surged forward, kicking and pulling with all his might. His boots were heavy, his coat and layers dragged him back as he struggled to reach her.</p><p>Down.</p><p>Down.</p><p> </p><p>Down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Down.</p><p>His lungs burned, but he kept kicking.</p><p>He would come up with Granger, or not at all.</p><p>The light hit a large, flat stone that rose from the murky depths, and a small figure was caught on its side.</p><p>Grey.</p><p>Still.</p><p>George’s insides capsized, but he pushed on. She was limp as he snagged her around the waist.</p><p>He reached up, around her shoulder and yanked his wand from his teeth. He focused on the bank, but a cold wall slammed into him.</p><p>Again.</p><p>Someone had caste an anti-apparition ward.</p><p>George tightened his hold on Hermione and aimed the wand at his left hand. “Alerte Ascendare!” The spell was garbled in the water, the precious air escaping his lungs in a clutch of bubbles.</p><p>But the magic yanked them upwards, and his wand darkened—one continuous charm substituted for another as the water ripped at them.</p><p>Darkness crept at the corners of his vision. George shot off a smashing spell, and faintly, he could hear the ice cracking over them.</p><p>The charm tore them from the pond, and George yelped “Finite,” as they broke the surface.</p><p>It dumped them over the ice, and the hard surface slammed into his ribs. Something cracked. George gasped as his head spun. Everything was numb and his body quaked, but they needed to move to safety.</p><p>“Hermione?” he wheezed.</p><p>She didn’t answer.</p><p>His hands shook as he flipped her.</p><p>Her braid stuck to her coat, stray curls plastered over her face and neck.</p><p>“Hermione!” he shouted, jostling her shoulders.</p><p>The forest was silent, and the wind felt like a whip over his face.</p><p>“No—” he hissed, yanking her head into his lap. “Come on—” He tilted down, pressing his ear to her nose and mouth.</p><p>She wasn’t breathing. Cold dread gripped his chest.</p><p>Grey.</p><p>George’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.</p><p>What was it? What was the spell?</p><p>“Ana—” he choked, “Anap—”</p><p>Oh, she was going to die, and it would be all his fault.</p><p>The wind whistled softly through the trees, like a whisper.</p><p>He could hear her voice in his head as the memory came back to him. <em>“We’re going to clear your airway, right?”</em></p><p>“Anapneum,” he cried, pressing the wand to her throat. Hermione jerked, then heaved, and George twisted her frame to the side as water spewed from her nose and mouth, over his legs.</p><p>But she gasped at the end of it, and George tipped his head back, closing his eyes.</p><p>“George—” Hermione said. Shudders wracked them both. And then she sobbed.</p><p>She was crying.</p><p>The chill bit clean through his core.</p><p>“It’s okay,” George said, gasping. He grunted and dragged her back, toward the bank, pulling them along horizontally with his left elbow. After several pulls, he tried to apparate again, but the cold wall slammed in, and Hermione yelped. “Sorry—” The word came out of his mouth in a pained hiss.</p><p>He gritted his teeth and scrambled to his knees, gripping under Hermione’s arms. “Hold on,” he said. George stumbled to his feet, hoisting her with him. He hauled her to the edge of pond, panting in ragged, shaken breaths.</p><p>She was crying.</p><p>“I’ve got—” he tried, wheezing. “—got you.”</p><p>She didn’t seem to hear him. His ribs ached under his numb skin. Hermione’s feet tangled, and his arms rocked. He couldn’t hold her aloft much longer.</p><p>“M’gonna ap-apparate us a-again,” he mumbled, shoving the words out between shudders. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.</p><p>“—wand,” she choked. He sucked in a single breath and cast the summoning charm.</p><p>Her wand zipped from the ice, and he caught it, sticking it in his pocket.</p><p>George steadied himself, blinking hard, hoping.</p><p>The world compressed. A pop.</p><p>George gasped in relief as they fell onto his flat’s floor in a loud tumble. The air was chilled, and the noises coming from Granger knotted up his insides.</p><p>George shoved himself onto his knees, urging himself forward, past the shrapnel that seemed to have lodged itself between his ribs. His wand shook in his hand as he whispered the warming charm.</p><p>Nothing happened.</p><p>The drying charm.</p><p>It whooshed over her, but it hardly made a dent in her sopping coat.</p><p>Hermione hunched and shook, and her lone, remaining skate scraped on the wood as she drew her knees to her chest. Her gasps ran together, chipping each other short. Her skin was grey.</p><p>She was crying.</p><p>Anxiety pushed its claws under his ribs, squeezing tighter.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he said, gulping. George’s hands were frantic as he sent a bolt of fire into the grate and tugged off her remaining shoe. Her cheeks were the color of ash. “It’s okay—” He didn’t know what he was saying. Panic throttled his movements, and he couldn’t feel his fingers as they slipped uselessly over her coat buttons. “It’s alright—” Granger’s teeth chattered as he flung the sopping wool to the side.</p><p>She was crying.</p><p>“I-I don’t understand,” Hermione sobbed. “The ice was fine.” George nodded, blinking hard as he tugged her upright and pulled her jumper away from the red flannel she wore beneath it.</p><p>He was so tired.</p><p>But Granger looked like his nightmares.</p><p>“It’s okay—” he said between shivers. Her hand stuck in the jumper sleeve, and she twisted, trying to free it. “I’ve got you—” The cableknit slung droplets when he tossed it away.</p><p>“George,” Hermione choked, reaching for him.</p><p>“Dry first,” he wheezed. He caste the drying charm on her, and with fewer layers, it stuck better. But as it hit, she tumbled back, making a high, strangled sound.</p><p>The noise clashed through him like lightning.</p><p>George’s hand stuttered. “Hermione?”  </p><p>Hermione’s eyes squeezed shut, and she shook her head, pushing his wand back.</p><p>He was—he was useless.</p><p>She was crying, and he was useless.</p><p>If he’d been paying better attention, she wouldn’t have fallen.</p><p>The thought slammed into him like a cold wall, and he blinked hard.</p><p>Water dripped from George’s hair, hitting her cheek. He grimaced, trying to wipe it away, but he was still soaking, and it only made things worse.</p><p>“Hold on,” George said, desperate. He gritted his teeth, hissing at the twinge in his ribs as he struggled out of his own coat and jumper. His boots thudded across the floor, and he turned the wand on himself.</p><p>The drying charm tore across his raw skin.</p><p>George’s voice hiked, and he tripped forward, onto his hands and knees. It was like being flayed alive. Suddenly, Hermione’s reaction made sense. George sucked in one breath. Two.  Exhaustion grabbed at him, and he faltered, swaying over the rug. It felt as though the ice had punctured clean through his middle, and he was leaking out and away, onto the floor.</p><p>He hadn’t moved fast enough.</p><p>“My—my wand—” Hermione sobbed.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“I’ve got it,” he said faintly, forcing himself upright. Where was it? He stretched out a trembling arm, trying to fish it from the pile of sopping things. But when he pressed it into her hand, it dropped, tumbling to the rug.</p><p>Her fingers caught on his wrist, and George stilled.</p><p>“George, I-I’m cold,” she sobbed. Her breath dragged in and out, and her plait dripped over her shirt. The skin on her face, neck, and hands looked a faint blue.</p><p>George’s stomach twisted. He’d seen that color on himself, after the worst of the early morning Quidditch practices, when Oliver made them go out in the sleet and Madam Pomfrey had been so cross because the lot of them had gotten—</p><p>George froze.</p><p>If she had frostbite, she shouldn’t be this close to the fire. It needed to warm the loft, not them.</p><p>“I’ve got you,” he said. He firmed his jaw and braced an elbow on the ottoman. Then, he heaved himself upright.</p><p>Oh, Godric.</p><p>Everything hurt.</p><p>He stooped and gripped beneath her arms, gasping as he tugged her up in front of him. He swayed a bit as he carried her back. Her feet tangled around his as she tried to help, but she couldn’t hold her own weight.</p><p>“Hurts—” Hermione’s voice was faint between her ragged sobs.</p><p>“I know,” he said. She shook her head slowly, rambling at him. Something about muggles and trenches, and Bathilda Bagshot, but most of the words were inaudible, and none of it made sense. “I’ll—” he hissed as he hoisted her higher against his ribs. “—sort it, okay?”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>The armchair was too close to the fire.</p><p>George grimaced, rasping as he wedged his knee against the ottoman and shoved both pieces of furniture back, inch by inch. Granger felt far heavier than usual.</p><p>He was tired.</p><p>But she was crying.</p><p>His knees wobbled. George pitched backwards, collapsing into the crook of the armchair, Granger clutched to his chest. Her forehead was ice on his neck. George’s ribs constricted, and he yanked the quilt from the back of the seat.</p><p>“Alright?” he wheezed. Hermione nodded the slightest bit.</p><p>Her knees draped over the chair’s arm, tilting away from the hearth. Just above the hem of her socks, her ankles held the same grey caste as the rest of her.</p><p>George blinked hard.</p><p>He reached around her, shifting her weight on his leg as he lifted his feet onto the ottoman. Then, gently, he propped her legs over his, running slightly diagonal, parallel to the fire. Despite the precaution, the flames’ heat bit into his soles. George’s face contorted in shock as he let out a clipped, shaken gasp.</p><p>Alright, that was rubbish. That was—</p><p>He hissed as the burning intensified.</p><p>One breath. Two.</p><p>Focus.</p><p>Gingerly, he nudged her feet between his shins, shielding them. Then, he threw the blanket around them, trying to pin it in place with his heel before drawing it up to Hermione’s chin.</p><p>He was fading fast, and his movements were halting and clumsy. He nearly dropped the fabric as he tucked it around her. Finally, he fell back into the chair, tipping his head against the side panel attached to the seatback. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.</p><p>At some point, Hermione’s sobs had quieted to occasional sniffs.</p><p>“Alright, Granger?” George asked, dragging in a slow breath.</p><p>Hermione nodded against his chest.</p><p>“Okay,” George managed, closing his eyes. His exhale spilled out, and he let himself take a moment to gather a bit more strength.</p><p>Merlin, his ribs hurt.</p><p>“Okay,” he said finally, swallowing and forcing his eyes open. “Let’s see your hands.” He wrapped his arms around her frame, taking her fingers between his palms. Her skin was red and raw, but so was his.</p><p>Her hands in his.</p><p>The world quieted.</p><p>The tension in her body began to slip away. First, her shoulders loosened, and she relaxed back into the right side of his chest and shoulder. Then, her head wobbled, landing just beneath his chin. The shaking in her right arm stilled against the chair’s side panel.</p><p>Granger’s breathing slowed.</p><p>George stroked a thumb lightly over hers. “I’ve got you,” he said thickly. Granger’s hair was damp against his Henley. “It’s alright.”</p><p>The feeling crept into his fingers, and her breath grazed his neck.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>A small flutter of sparks trailed over his skin. His magic stirred then sank, swirling through his middle. The sharpest part of the ache receded, as though blunted by a shield of some kind. The burning in his feet, the hurt in his ribs—it felt distant. Muted.</p><p>George blinked, again. A fuzzy, drowsy feeling crept over him. He exhaled.</p><p>That—that was nice.</p><p>The most wonderful glow soaked through his chest. The light swam through his center, down his arms and legs. But not painfully.</p><p>No—no, it was gentle.</p><p>Pulling the ice free, washing it to nothing in sweeping tides.</p><p>George’s eyes fluttered shut.</p><p>Hermione mumbled something, but he couldn’t follow it.</p><p>Couldn’t speak, words taken from him in some sort of tender Langlock.</p><p>He faded like the embers of a dying fire.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Clockwork</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Things take time.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and offering encouragement/kudos. &lt;3 I am consistently left smiling and/or speechless by everyone's kindness. Thank you for taking the time to read. Truly, it means a great deal. &lt;3 I hope you all had a lovely week with lots of tea and coziness, and that 2021 has treated you well thus far. &lt;3 </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or to this story world.</p><p>Please forgive any typos or mistakes. I need to adjust my writing schedule, because we've been stuck editing rather late in the week for several weeks in a row. (Yikes). I hope to get back to the earlier Monday morning uploads soon!! &lt;3</p><p>Playlist: "Satellite" by WYS (April 28, library), "Hit the Road Jack" by 2WEI feat Jon and Bri Bryant (April 28, Ministry until Harry leaves, and then after he returns, again), This is going to sound weird, but the first 35 seconds or so of "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" by ABBA (April 28, Ministry, when Harry's out of the room). "Godspeed" by James Blake (April 28, back at the flat), A clock ticking sound effect of your choice (April 29, Gringotts), "Hit the Road Jack" again (April 29, in Gringotts when Hermione pulls out her book until they leave), "Wait" by M83 (April 29 when Hermione enters the shop), "Warriors" by 2WEI and Edda Hayes (April 30, when you see the little building until reality sucks away), "Are You With Me" by nilu (April 30, at the flat until the last scene), "Satellite" by WYS again (April 30, after eating/last scene).</p><p> Random note: Happy birthday Aurora! :) &lt;3</p><p>Grab your snack (Maybe oatmeal with almonds in it or something similarly warm and satisfying?), your drink (I've got coffee and Earl Grey tea in front of me), and your warmest socks. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine: "Clockwork"</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>April 28, 2003</p><p>They had fewer than seven days to get a thousand Galleons.</p><p>The fine was due on May fifth, with the rent. The clock was ticking, and Hermione Jean needed a miracle.</p><p>She took a swig from the tea thermos before sneaking it back under the table. The Wizarding study room’s occupants were few—they’d come just after the library’s opening. She stretched, shaking the exhaustion from her limbs. The fine’s papers had arrived just before midnight, and they’d forgone sleep in favor of preparation. Six days to get a loan, or to successfully challenge the fine in court.</p><p>Now, they were attacking the problem from both sides. She scratched out a section of the legal draft, rewording the claim they were making to better emphasize the fine’s sporadic nature. She couldn’t support “unprecedented,” but she could support “sporadic,” seeing as Vane had waited quite a while to levy it. Hermione pulled another notebook from her bag, and the note from Healer Marcus tumbled out.</p><p>It’d arrived just before they floo-ed.</p><p>
  <em>“A likely result of stress or strain sustained during the altercation. Take it easy, and come in if you feel the need, or if there’s any further regression.” </em>
</p><p>His signature was scrawled across the bottom.</p><p>She couldn’t stop looking at the word <em>“Regression.”</em></p><p>Earlier that morning, George had bobbed his head as he read it, then paced over to make the tea. Hadn’t said a word. Only started the kettle and laid a warm hand on her head when she crossed over to help him.</p><p>Hermione blinked at the note, then tucked it away.</p><p>Angelina yawned at her left side, tilting her head to rest on Hermione’s shoulder.</p><p>“Did you bring coffee?” Angelina muttered.</p><p>Hermione passed over the thermos. “George made this, so it’s—”</p><p>“Tea?” Angelina sighed. “I know you fancy him, but you can’t let him finesse you like that.”</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>Across the table, Lee, Fred, Verity, and George hunched over a reference volume and a set of record books they’d brought from the shop. Parchment stacks coated the work surface from end to end. Hermione and Angelina’s side held the lease agreement, fine paperwork, and still developing documentation for overturning the blasted thing in Wizengamot, while the other held the materials for putting together a loan proposal.</p><p>The soft buzz of the Muffliato kept the other group’s words away—focusing was easier if the groups get their tasks separate. But even still, Hermione found herself glancing over near constantly, worrying her lower lip.</p><p>George reached between the other three, annoyance flickering over his face as he pointed at something in the volume. Fred shook his head and made to flip the page, but Lee’s hand shot out, stopping him. Verity scratched her temple and stepped back, looking put out. Fred held up a hand, and the others settled.</p><p>George’s white Oxford sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and he adjusted the left cuff before bracing his fists on the table’s edge, nodding along to whatever Lee was saying. Suddenly, George glanced up from the materials, catching her watching.</p><p>He raised his brows in question.</p><p>Heat crept over her ears.</p><p>George’s expression shifted, amusement lighting his eyes. “Focus,” he mouthed.</p><p>Hermione’s face flamed, and she dropped her gaze to the record box in her lap. “Honestly,” she muttered.</p><p>Angelina pulled a file folder from the box, replacing it with the one she’d just finished. “What?” she asked.</p><p>Hermione flipped through the record box. The Wizengamot had handled plenty of civil cases on similar matters, but thus far, they’d been unable to find a precedent to dismiss the fine.</p><p>“George is just being George,” Hermione said, huffing and firming her jaw. She flipped back through the lease.</p><p>“Oh?” Angelina said, sounding thoroughly entertained.</p><p>“I glanced over, and he told me to focus,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.</p><p>“The nerve,” Angelina said. “Especially considering that he’s watching you right now.”</p><p>Hermione lifted her gaze. George’s head whipped down.</p><p>Interesting.</p><p>“If you really want to wind him up,” Angelina said dryly. “Take your plait out.” She handed over a parchment. “Another Vane case—”</p><p>Hermione blinked at Angelina’s comment, then glanced the document over. He’d won this one too. Every time Vane’s name came up, the outcome swayed in his favor. Like he’d stacked the pieces just right before laying the final blow. Most of the cases were property acquisition disputes. The man owned half of Diagon Alley.</p><p>He was either paying people off, or he didn’t let himself fight in court unless he knew he’d win.</p><p>Or both.</p><p>Either way, they hadn’t been able to locate a loophole yet. So far, the fine was legal. Petty, but legal.</p><p>“I’m not trying to tease him,” Hermione muttered, scratching the case details into her notebook.</p><p>“Shame,” Angelina said with a shrug. “It’d make his day.”</p><p>Hermione’s quill paused. She cleared her throat softly and tilted her head.</p><p>They were focusing. Doing something important.</p><p>They had a deadline fast approaching.</p><p>But, also, little moments of fun seemed to make everything easier, didn’t they? That’s how it had always been, even back during the war.</p><p>At the thought, images washed over her. George’s smiling face, Gryffindor tie askew as he caste a Stupefy across the Room of Requirement. Fireworks in the corridors. The way he and Fred had needled Harry just before the Battle of Seven Potters. Breathless, spinning, dancing at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.</p><p>Seeking out joy, even when he had no right to be smiling.</p><p>None of that had drawn from their ability to fight. No. If anything, the silliness had made them stronger.</p><p>And surely that was worth a shot.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and pulled the ribbon from her plait slowly, letting it drop to the floor. She combed her fingers through the ends of the braid, copying down the final details from the parchment, then handed it back to Angelina.</p><p>She returned to the lease and the fine paperwork, reading as she distractedly reached higher, untangling curls.</p><p>It was ridiculous, really.</p><p>The extension charm on the shop’s backroom was several meters over the permitted allotment. But they’d measured, and the charge was correct. She frowned. The shop had been set up that way for ages—she remembered the shelving’s presence even before the horcrux hunt, when she’d asked for help with the memory charm and George had given her that book.</p><p>She paused.</p><p>George had always been there, hadn’t he?</p><p>She glanced up. George’s cheeks were splashed with pink, and his gaze flickered over her hair, distracted. His throat bobbed. He hadn’t noticed her watching, didn’t seem to register Fred and Lee’s animated discussion beside him. Hermione tilted her head, and their eyes met. George blinked.</p><p>“Focus,” Hermione mouthed, then she stuck her tongue out. George started, and his mouth dropped open, as though affronted. She grinned and returned to her paperwork.</p><p>She got through another three files before a quick step at her side made her turn. George crouched on her right, bracing his hand on the back of her chair.</p><p>“Can I help you?” she asked. She could feel the heat coming off of his arm, close to her shoulders.</p><p>“Thought I’d check in,” he said, tone casual. Hermione fought the urge to look at him, biting back her smile.</p><p>George shifted, reaching down, then pulled back up. “You dropped your ribbon,” he said, and his voice went soft. Almost reverent.</p><p>Hermione cracked, turning to face him. “Did I?” she asked.</p><p>George’s smile sparked with playfulness. “Yes,” he said. He twisted it in his fingers, studying her.</p><p>Hermione lifted her brows. “Oh,” she said. “Well, thank you.” She lifted a hand for him to return it.</p><p>His hand closed and opened in a flourish, and the ribbon was gone. “Oh dear,” he said. “Seems I’ve misplaced it.” George’s grin turned mischievous.</p><p>Hermione faltered. “George—”</p><p>George raised his brows, playing at innocence. “Truly, Granger, I haven’t the foggiest as to where it’s gone.”</p><p>“That’s not funny,” she hissed, leaning in. “We have a meeting at the Ministry in several hours, and I can’t go in there with my hair like this.” It was a distraction, but for an important cause, and Harry had assured them that it would be quick.</p><p>George’s grin widened. “I’m sure it’ll turn up before then.” He shrugged.</p><p>“Don’t be a—a—” she stammered, blinking rapidly.</p><p>“A what?” George asked, eyes crinkling.</p><p>“A goob!” Hermione said. George laughed aloud. Hermione winced, but the Muffliato seemed to keep the noise contained, and the witch at the help desk didn’t react.</p><p>George ducked in, whispering near her ear. “Yes, well, I’m <em>your</em> goob.” He popped a quick kiss onto her temple and stood. “Study hard, Granger. But not too hard. We’ll reach our purpose one way or another.”</p><p>Faint, dizzy magic sparked in her chest.</p><p>She forced her attention to the papers, working resolutely for the rest of their time, his words circling in her mind.</p><p>
  <em>Purpose.</em>
</p><p>As everyone began to pack up to leave, Hermione made her way to the reference desk.</p><p>She had a strange request. An impulse.</p><p>#</p><p>“Frankly, there is cause for concern,” Magnus Vane’s loud voice echoed through the Ministry’s atrium. The crowd gathered around him stood, rapt. Hermione rolled her eyes and shoved through, towards the lifts. George’s steps were swift, close to her side.</p><p>“With a second spot discovered and the auror office fumbling the investigation—” Hermione’s fists clenched. “Wizarding Britain is depending on the Wizengamot to take legislative action. We need a deeper investigation into the likely culprits.” George pulled a hand from his pocket as they waited before the lifts, and it grazed against the back of hers.</p><p>Camera flashes strobed over the black, glossy stone. Quills floated over those gathered, scrawling into notepads at a rapid pace. Questions peppered from the crowd.</p><p>“Does Shacklebolt support this plan?” one question cried above the rest.</p><p>Vane held up a hand.</p><p>“If he does, he hasn’t informed me,” Vane said smoothly, adjusting his cloak. “As Minister of Magic and interim Chief Warlock of Wizengamot, the man is understandably quite busy.”</p><p>The lift dinged, and George and Hermione stepped inside.</p><p>“You think he’s falling behind, sir?” the reporter asked. Vane lifted his brows.</p><p>“Allow me to make clear—I’m not saying Shacklebolt’s a poor Minister. Anyone in his position, working two, very demanding jobs would be stretched thin,” Vane said. “You can be assured that I’ll do my best to work alongside his demanding schedule to resolve the dangerous insurrection we’re facing.”</p><p>Hermione’s chest filled with fire. The gate closed.</p><p>“And you still maintain that the spots are goblin activity?” Another reporter cried. Hermione’s nails bit into her palms.</p><p>“I think that’s a possibility that should be explored—”</p><p>The lift yanked them away before they could hear the rest of Vane’s answer.</p><p>“Breathe.” George’s voice was soft.</p><p>Hermione glared at the buttons on the wall. “He’s stoking anti-goblin sentiment.”</p><p>“I know,” George said. The lift’s dial clicked as they climbed floors.</p><p>“And he was undermining Kingsley,” she said. “And-and Harry.”</p><p>“Kingsley can hold his own,” George said quietly. “And so can Harry.”</p><p>Hermione whirled. “Why aren’t you angry?” she asked, facing contorting.</p><p>George’s eyes didn’t stray from hers. “I am.”</p><p>She blinked. She could see it now—the way his hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, the rigid slope of his shoulders, the cord of tension running up his neck, to his jaw.</p><p>George dropped his gaze and swallowed. “But I’ve got to be very careful in this building,” he said. “Especially with Vane.”</p><p>“Because of the lease?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George shook his head. The floor rattle a bit as they changed directions, going sideways.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” Hermione said.</p><p>George rubbed his hands over his face. “Blimey—um—”</p><p>The lift dinged. They stepped out, into the Auror office. George hesitated. People crowded the space, and memos rushed through the air in a near-constant stream. Hermione bit her lip and nodded towards Harry’s office. They could chat about it later.</p><p>The rigidity in his frame didn’t fade as they strode down the hall.</p><p>#</p><p>“I find it more than a little concerning that he seems to be targeting you so aggressively,” Harry said. He pushed his glasses up and glanced between George and Hermione. “I mean, you’re hardly the first business he’s done this to, but—” Harry hesitated, leaning into the floor fire. “Given the history.”</p><p>“Let’s not talk about the history right now,” George said, glancing at her. “We’ll manage, okay?”</p><p>George hadn’t relaxed once since they left the lift. Even now, she could see the tension riding up his arms and into his shoulders.</p><p>“It’s only because I keep fighting him in Wizengamot,” Hermione said, firming her jaw. “He’s trying to intimidate us into silence.”</p><p>“Well, don’t let him,” Harry said, waving a hand. “I can lend you the Galleons.” George tipped his head back and grimaced.</p><p>Hermione’s brow furrowed. What was the issue with that?</p><p>“It’s the easiest solution,” Harry said. “And Gin, Teddy, and I aren’t going to use all of that. It’s just sitting there.”</p><p>George scrubbed his hands down his face. “That’s not why we’re here, Mate,” he said. “And besides, it’s not a good idea.”</p><p>Harry folded his arms. “I did before,” he said.</p><p>George nodded. “Yes, and we’ll never forget it, but that was before you were one of the public faces of the Ministry,” he said, leaning forward. “Anyway—”</p><p>“Hold on.” Harry lifted a hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>George leaned back. He scrubbed his hands over his face again. Finally, he crossed his arms, watching the desk.</p><p>Was he alright?</p><p>“Look, Fred and I need to be able to invent without worrying about how it’ll reflect on you lot,” George said, pulling at the scar of his ear and wincing. “We’ve not been strangers to controversy in the past, and I don’t care to drag you and this administration into things should it happen again.” He propped his elbows on the chair’s arms and laced his fingers together. “Besides, we don’t fancy taking money from family.”</p><p>Harry nodded slowly, but he was frowning.</p><p>“Anyway,” George said again, clearing his throat. His hands unfolded and refolded. “You wanted to talk about the case?” His knee jittered.</p><p>Hermione watched it, brow furrowed.</p><p>“Right,” Harry said. “Sorry—Ron’s running a bit behind. Let’s give him a minute.”</p><p>George nodded, knee jogging. He unfolded his hands again and fidgeted them over the chair’s arms.</p><p>Hermione shifted in her seat, easing closer. “How’s Teddy?” she asked, smiling. As she spoke, under the lip of the desk, she slipped her hand into George’s.</p><p>She felt him falter and turn.</p><p>Faint sparks.</p><p>“Brilliant—” Harry started in on the topic with zeal. Hermione gave George’s hand a little squeeze and didn’t let go.</p><p>George exhaled a short burst and gripped her back, tight. His leg slowed. Hermione nodded along to Harry’s story and stroked her thumb up and down George’s hand, in time with his breath.</p><p>After a few minutes, George’s frame relaxed. Hermione held on. Her arm was pressed into his. She spared him a glance. George was still watching her, something soft in his eyes.</p><p>“—Should I tell Ginny that would work?” Harry asked.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>Harry raised his brows, awaiting a response.</p><p>“Pardon?” George asked.</p><p>Harry’s expression went flat as he assessed them. “Merlin,” he muttered. “This is worse than the first time.” He sighed and shoved out of his chair. “I’ll go check on Ron.” He stopped at the door, pointing back at them. “Don’t snog in my office.”</p><p>Hermione’s face went molten. “As if!” she cried.</p><p>Harry fixed George with an intense stare before leaving the room, door ajar.</p><p>“Ridiculous,” Hermione muttered. “Honestly.” George’s laugh was low and soft, and he skated a thumb over her knuckles. She shook her head, staring at the Gryffindor banner over the desk.</p><p>“I would never,” Hermione said, stiff. George’s lack of response crept under her skin, rankling her. She glanced at him. “I mean, obviously, right?” She prompted, waiting for assurance.</p><p>George nodded, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile from his face as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Sure, Granger,” he said.</p><p>“George, we-we didn’t—” she said, faltering.</p><p>He broke into a grin and turned to the floo as he laughed. “Don’t worry about it. He was only winding you up.”</p><p>Hermione exhaled, narrowing her eyes at him. “Right.”</p><p>He peered over his shoulder, towards the door. Then, he leaned in, grinning. “Y’know what would really stick it to him, though?” George whispered lowly, eyes sparking.</p><p>Hermione scoffed and shoved his shoulder away. “Git.”</p><p>George ducked forward, laughing. The sound was boisterous and warm and reassuring. He collapsed back into his seat and watched her, smiling.</p><p>She glanced down. Their hands were still tangled.</p><p>His leg had settled.</p><p>“Are you alright, though?” she asked, peering back up at him. George hesitated.</p><p>He lifted her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Yes, Love.”</p><p>“You seemed—” The thud of footsteps cut through her question, and Hermione quieted.</p><p>“Okay, sorry about that,” Harry said, rounding the desk. Ron carried a stack of files, his under eyes dark and his beard scraggly. He didn’t look at them as he entered, leaning against the floo.</p><p>George cleared his throat and lowered their hands back, onto the chair’s arm.</p><p>“We finished our interviews with the suspects list,” Harry said, pushing a parchment with a list of names across the table. Vane’s name was wedged in the middle, between Draco Malfoy and Delvin Rosier. Hermione blinked at it. “Essentially, nothing’s changed. They’ve all got solid alibis.”</p><p>“For the night of the Knockturn run?” George asked. Harry winced.</p><p>“No, um—this is for the knife attack,” Harry said. “Although we did ask a handful of them about the spot, as well.”</p><p>George glanced at the list. “Rosier’s out of prison?” he asked.</p><p>Harry groaned. “As of March, yes,” he said. George’s mouth thinned, and for a moment, his hand went tight around hers.</p><p>“The knife attack was almost a month ago,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“Some of them were harder to track down,” Harry said. Hermione blinked again and nodded. </p><p>“There are a lot of names here,” Hermione said. Her breath felt tight in her lungs. She bit her lips together, grappling for composure as she skimmed the list. “And none of them? Not a single one was unaccounted for?”</p><p>Harry sighed. “Yes. At this point, I’ve watched April fourth so many times that I think I’ll skip it next year.”</p><p>Ron snorted.</p><p>The list had so many names. Too many. And—and if these people weren’t carrying out the attacks, then who was?</p><p>Suddenly, her idea—her work in the <em>Magical Tradition </em>book felt silly and stupid. Useless.</p><p>A waste of time.</p><p>She pulled her hand from George’s and rubbed at her shoulder. “Could they have tampered with the memories they supplied, though?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Harry blinked. “I know how to spot that, Mione,” he said slowly.</p><p>Right.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“If they’re involved, they’re using some sort of network. Getting others to do the dirty work.” His expression shuttered. “There’s a broad network of former Voldemort supporters across Europe, and the magical consulates there are on varying terms with ours, so—”</p><p>“What, then, are we back to square one?” George cut in.</p><p>“They’ve got to have some sort of base where they’re working,” Harry muttered. “At first, we’d thought they may have bought the cursed objects off a crime ring in Siberia. There were whispers of similar contraband there.”</p><p>“Waisted a heap of bloody time trying to sort that,” Ron muttered, facing the floo.</p><p>“And when the portkey—” Harry said, waving a hand. Hermione nodded. “It felt like a solid lead. It felt like it was lining up.”</p><p>Harry swallowed and pulled his glasses off. “But the knife—” He paused, grinding the heels of his palms against his eyes. “We knew it was likely connected, after you’d been targeted with the portkey, and the Dementors at Liatach, but—”</p><p>Harry exhaled in a whoosh.</p><p>“What?” Hermione asked, tightening her grip on the chair’s arms.</p><p>“They’re developing it,” Harry said quietly. “They’re not just buying it off of someone. They’ve-they’ve been experimenting.”</p><p>Hermione’s ribs squeezed inwards.</p><p>“Should’ve thought of it earlier, honestly, especially with the cursed objects,” Harry said. “But it didn’t occur to me that they might’ve mixed it into the venom. I mean, I’ve never seen Dementor magic condensed like that—into a liquid.”</p><p>“Did you sort what else might’ve been in it?” George asked quietly. Harry winced.</p><p>“We tried to pull the traces from the Mungo’s research team, but when we went to retrieve them, the vials were empty,” Harry said.</p><p>George’s chair clattered as he shot to his feet. “Brilliant,” George said. He inhaled sharply, and his hands flexed at his sides. Suddenly, he turned, pacing to the wall beside Harry’s office door. Tension locked his shoulders, and his fists were clenched at his sides. </p><p>“George,” Harry said, watching the other man.</p><p>George shook his head, silent.</p><p>“Well, what about, um—” Hermione said, distracted as she peered at George. “—the, the spots? Do you have any leads on those?”</p><p>“Yes,” Harry said. “They’re probably related.”</p><p>George let out a hollow laugh and tipped his head back.</p><p>“If you concentrate a Patronus over them, it does made the ice melt a bit,” Harry said, glancing between Hermione and George. “But once you stop the charm, it grows right back.”</p><p>“But that’s positive, at least,” Hermione said quietly. “I mean, it’s effective way to—”</p><p>“Most witches and wizards can’t caste a Patronus, Mione,” Harry said softly. “We need an accessible solution. To get rid of it at the source, preferably.”</p><p> “I know,” Hermione said. She’d always had difficulty with it herself, especially after waking up in Mungo’s this year, but it had given her problems long before that. It was as though she was predisposed to fear by nature.</p><p>“Well, what about Knockturn?” George prompted, whirling from the wall. “The sod who tried to—” he glanced at Hermione, swallowing.</p><p>What?</p><p>Harry unfolded his hands on the desk. “We were actually hoping to hear from Hermione about that.” He twisted to the side, and the drawer there scraped open. Hermione froze. George hesitated at the look on her face.</p><p>“Um, Harry—” George turned back to Harry, lifting a hand as he crossed back to the desk.</p><p>But Harry didn’t notice as he pulled a small, black box out. “See, Ron and Dagforth had already been removed from the premises when things devolved, and due to some—” Harry stuttered. “—some, um, complications at base, our recordings aren’t complete.” Ron scoffed. Harry ignored him and pushed a muggle tape player across the desk. He hit play, and sound burst out of the little speaker.</p><p><em>“Going somewhere?”</em> The voice was cold and angry.</p><p>A choking sound cut through the static. George stiffened, and his hand jolted out, landing on her shoulder. Hermione reached up and took it, confused.</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t touch me.” </em>
</p><p>It was her voice. Hermione blinked.</p><p>The tape erupted into chaos—cracks of what sounded like lightning and incoherent shouting, warbling static. Hermione winced. George’s hand slipped from her shoulder, and he reached up, dragging it over his face.</p><p>Harry pressed the skip button. “It goes on like that for a while,” he muttered. “Until—” He released the button and it clicked.</p><p>A rush of static and cracking, then a new voice filtered through.</p><p><em>“We’ve got her!”</em> </p><p>Harry hit the stop button, but it stuck a bit, and the tape continued to play.</p><p>
  <em>“Get-get off—”</em>
</p><p>It was Ron’s voice, and it cracked into a shout as a thud echoed from the speaker.</p><p>
  <em>“You left her! Again!” </em>
</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. It was George, but it wasn’t. He didn’t sound like himself. No, he sounded cold. Angrier than she’d ever heard him. At her side, George ducked his head.</p><p>
  <em>“You left—” </em>
</p><p>Harry banged the stop button down.</p><p>No one spoke for several moments.</p><p>Harry tried for normalcy. “So, as you can see,” he said lightly. “We don’t have a clear recording of what was said during the last bit, before you made it out of The Spiny Serpent.” He drummed the desktop. “If we could see the memory, it may help us look for things we might’ve missed.”</p><p>“I-I wish I could,” Hermione said. “But I don’t have them.”</p><p>Harry’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” he asked.</p><p>She twisted her hands. “I can’t remember anything from that night.”</p><p>Harry looked stricken.</p><p>“What?” Ron spoke, blurting the word as he turned from the floo.</p><p>“You heard what she said,” George said, voice tight.</p><p>Ron balked.</p><p>Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. “I-I don’t understand,” he said.</p><p>Hermione blinked hard.</p><p>“They think what happened put too much strain on her, given everything,” George said. He adjusted the chair at her side, then eased into it. His knee brushed against hers, and she anchored to the touch.</p><p>“Are you doing alright?” Harry asked, and his tone had taken on a hushed, frightful quality that made Hermione stiffen.</p><p>“Yes, I’m fine,” she said briskly. “So, it would be lovely if we could just move on.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Would you like an overview?” Harry asked quietly.</p><p>Hermione shrugged.</p><p>“You didn’t miss much,” Ron said. He paced to the wall behind Harry and leaned against it. “As I’m sure George has told you, the whole thing was my fault.” His voice was hard. “We went in, and you were talking to a sod named Shyverwretch when some bloke grabbed me from behind and apparated me into the street before popping away. Splinched part of my hand.”</p><p>Hermione winced and glanced at it. “Is it alright?”</p><p>“He’s fine,” Harry said.</p><p>“Hand’s fine,” Ron said, lifting his brows. “Face actually needed more work.”</p><p>Harry closed his eyes and exhaled. “This is not what we’re doing right now.”</p><p>“Sorry?” Hermione said faintly, blinking at Ron.</p><p>Ron shrugged, folding his arms.</p><p>George and Ron exploded into words at the same time.</p><p>“What, he didn’t say? Ask your—”</p><p>“I told you already, I—”</p><p>“Okay, so we are, then,” Harry snapped. “Fine. Alright.” Suddenly, he twisted in his chair and wrenched open a drawer, rifling through it. “Bloody—” he muttered. He yanked a stick out, slapping it on the desk.</p><p>It sort of looked like a trick wand from the shop, but it was painted yellow and blue with a big, wooden ear affixed to the top.</p><p>“This is what we use for the actual child who lives in my house,” Harry said, sounding quite put out. Ron spun away.</p><p>“Really, Mate?” George asked tiredly, scratching at his eyebrow.</p><p>Harry tapped it with his wand, and Hermione felt the Silencio hit. Harry lifted the toy and glanced between George and Ron.</p><p>“Now,” he said, taking a breath. A sarcastic looking smile lit his face as he spoke slowly and deliberately. “This is the listening stick. It helps us learn to be better listeners, so we can be better friends.” He nodded, glancing around. “I believe we have some things to sort, and we will do so one at a time, in order.”</p><p>Harry handed the stick to Hermione. The Silencio faded.</p><p>She turned it over in her hands. A small “<em>WWW</em>” was stamped on the handle’s base.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Hermione straightened and cleared her throat. “I would like to point out that I wasn’t talking over the others,” she said.</p><p>Harry nodded.</p><p>“Furthermore, I have only a faint idea of what happened that night, but I am under the impression that George did not intend to hit you, Ronald. He was cursed, and you should show a bit more understanding about that,” she said, swallowing.</p><p>Ron’s shoulders constricted.</p><p>“Um, I may have more to say later, but that’s all for now,” she said. Then she handed the stick back.</p><p>“Very good,” Harry said. He turned to Ron, who had spun away from the group. “Would you like a turn, Ron?”</p><p>There was a long pause. Ron scoffed, but without the sound, it just looked like a frustrated jolt. Finally, he extended his hand.</p><p>“And I would like to point out that I should get to hit George,” Ron said.</p><p>The stick rattled and jumped back to Harry. At her side, George scrubbed his hand over his face.</p><p>“Wow, managed to break one of the listening stick’s few rules,” Harry said dryly.</p><p>Ron held his hand back out. Harry relented.</p><p>“I had to regrow teeth,” Ron said, jaw tight. “He beat my face in like—like I was—” His expression hardened.</p><p>George darted forward in his chair, but his words didn’t make a noise.</p><p>“While I was splinched, I might add,” Ron said. “And-and working a mission that I’d orchestrated in part to help him, specifically.” Ron’s voice went cold. He tossed the stick on the desk and turned around.</p><p>Harry pushed it to George.</p><p>George took it, but he didn’t say anything.</p><p>He stood, thrusting his hand into his pocket. Walked three steps to Ron.</p><p>Hermione tilted her head. What was he—</p><p>“Come on, then, Ron,” George said, tone firm. “Do it.”</p><p>The Silencio turned Hermione’s call of protest into a silent wisp of breath.</p><p>Ron turned. His eyes flickered over George as he took the listening stick.</p><p>And he snapped it in half.</p><p>“Oi!” Harry snapped.</p><p>Suddenly, Ron reeled back, clocking his fist across George’s face.</p><p>George let out a clipped shout as the blow knocked him back. He tripped, and his hands and knees hit the floorboards in a loud smack.</p><p>“Ronald!” Hermione shouted, leaping out of her seat. George wheezed, and the spiderwork lit, sparks snapping over his lips. Just as quickly, it faded.</p><p>George pulled in a breath, then lifted his face toward Ron. “Do you feel better, you git?” he yelled. Red gushed from his nose, between his fingers.</p><p>Ron blinked at his hand, as though startled. “I-I—” Then his face contorted. “No!” Ron shouted, flinging the stick pieces aside.</p><p>“Honestly!” Hermione cried, snagging George beneath the arms. He shook his head and lifted a hand, trying to ward her off, but then Harry joined her, and together, they heaved him upright.</p><p>“He told me to!” Ron shouted. Harry shoved Ron aside, pointing his wand at George.</p><p>“Hold still,” Harry said.</p><p>“I didn’t think you’d actually do it that hard!” George shouted back, clutching the side of his face. Harry’s nonverbal hit. A second crack. George’s face contorted and he hissed, bending over and lurching further to the side. “Bloody—” he sucked in a gasp, steadying himself on the chair.</p><p>Harry stepped around George to allow Hermione through. George shook his head as she attempted to help, pushing himself upright.</p><p>“If you didn’t mean it, you shouldn’t have said it!” Ron shouted. He swallowed, and his look darkened. “But you did mean it, didn’t you?” His voice went low. “You think I would willingly leave her in that situation?” Hermione blinked. “After all this time, you still—” Ron stopped, and his jaw clenched.</p><p>George glanced at the tape player on the desk before returning his gaze to Ron, glaring. “I was cursed, Ron.”</p><p>Ron nodded rapidly, but his expression was a mask of furious lines. “You must think I’m thick.”</p><p>George grimaced and flung his hand up, gesturing to the mess of his face. “A little bit, now!”</p><p>Ron stepped forward, breathing hard. “I’ve worn a Horcrux!” His voice pitched upwards. “I know how it is! I know how it feels to have dark magic pull at you! It doesn’t just invent stuff into your head.” His eyes were hard and cold. “You have to believe it first, at least a little.”</p><p>Hermione stiffened. “That’s not true,” she said, without thinking.</p><p>Ron halted. “Yes, it is,” he said, blinking at her, confused.</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. “I spent quite a lot longer wearing that bloody locket, Ronald, and-and-and the only things it put in my mind were—”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>George’s face wasn’t visible as he ducked his head, wiping at his mouth. His quiet “Bugger” echoed through the space.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Mione?” Harry whispered.</p><p>George pulled in a rattled breath, then shuffled across the floor, wordlessly taking her into his arms.</p><p>“S’alright,” he mumbled. Hermione went numb.</p><p>#</p><p>Harry had floo-ed them back, then left them with a quiet apology.</p><p>“Are you alright?” George asked finally, blinking at her. Hermione shrugged and pointed at the sofa.</p><p>“Not really, but that’s probably to be expected,” she said, heading for the loo. The flat was quiet as she pulled open the cupboard and grabbed up the items. The potions rack rattled.</p><p>“I take it you knew?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. She closed the cupboard.</p><p>“We’d, um, talked about it, yes.” George’s reply was distant, down the hall. Hermione exhaled, bracing her hands on the sink.</p><p>Right.</p><p>Disappointment and revulsion twisted her stomach. She’d prided herself on soundly rejecting the years of vitriol, and apparently, it had taken root after all.</p><p>She lifted her face to the mirror, gritting her teeth. “You are not a mudblood,” she whispered. “You’re not. They don’t get this.”</p><p>The tins clanked into the basin and she gripped the edge, staring into her own eyes. “You’re not.”</p><p>Her throat closed.</p><p>“You’re—you’re smart,” she whispered. “And brave.”</p><p>She swallowed.</p><p>“And loyal.”</p><p>She inhaled, holding it.</p><p>The floorboards creaked. Hermione blinked rapidly, then swiped the products out of the sink. She strode past George in the hallway, not looking at him.</p><p>“You should sit down,” she said.</p><p>“Hermione—” George said, stepping up behind her.</p><p>“I’m not quite ready to talk about it,” she said, staring at her hands.</p><p>It was quiet for a moment.</p><p>“Okay,” he said finally. “Well, I’m here when you are.”</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head, then pointed to the couch again. George brushed a hand over her shoulder as he passed her, then eased onto the middle cushion.</p><p>She winced at his battered face and crossed to the kitchen to nick a clean rag. “You look ghastly,” she called.</p><p>“Not bloody cute?” he said. Hermione snorted and walked over.</p><p>“I’m not sanctioning this,” she said. She gave him a hard stare as she dropped the Dittany and bruise paste tins onto the seat beside him.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” George said, swallowing. “Shouldn’t have told him to hit me. I was trying to prove a point, and it backfired.” He cocked his head up against the back cushion as he gingerly pinched the bridge of his nose. His lip was split, and an ugly bruise was already blooming across his cheek and jaw.</p><p>“And what plan was that?” Hermione said, voice dry as she double checked the potion label. George’s eyes were closed, and he shook his head. Hermione sighed and unstoppered the liquid Dittany. “Sit still.”</p><p>She leaned over the back of the sofa and pinched a few drops into the gash on his mouth. George winced.</p><p>“I was being stupid,” George said, shrugging. “I thought if he actually looked at me, he’d realize that he didn’t care to.” Slowly, his skin knitted back together.</p><p>“Ron shouldn’t have said what he did,” Hermione said. “And he definitely shouldn’t have punched you.” She untwisted the tin. “Wish you hadn’t given him permission, though. That was ill-advised.” George didn’t say anything, but he nodded a bit. “Don’t move,” she muttered, dabbing the paste over his cheek. His skin was flecked with stubble, and the faint embers of magic stirred under her touch.</p><p>The purple faded from his skin, taking the swelling with it, and the mottled red crusted under his nose and down his chin was the only thing left.</p><p>“He’s lucky I didn’t have my wand,” Hermione said, taking the rag to the dried blood. George’s mouth quirked. Slowly, she cleared the rest of it away, studying him. He looked worn.</p><p>Perhaps he was less accustomed to lack of sleep. But everything had piled up. The case, the fine, the horrible deadline looming over them. And now this.</p><p>She hesitated. Then, she darted in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. George’s eyes flew open.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “We should get back to work on the loan presentation,” she whispered.</p><p>George nodded, but a wistful look had entered his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t have a lot of time,” Hermione said, glancing at her hands. “We go in tomorrow.” George nodded again.</p><p>“But first, um—perhaps you missed,” he said, throat bobbing. “Just then.” Hermione quirked her brows and twisted the tin shut.</p><p>“Oh?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“Best try again, then,” she said lightly. This time, she applied it to his cheek.</p><p>She pulled away slowly, hovering over him. George clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he winced. “Not quite.”</p><p>Hermione nodded and scrunched her nose, then leaned in again.</p><p>The stubble on his jaw scratched softly under her lips.</p><p>“Merlin, you’ve got terrible aim,” he said faintly.</p><p>Hermione cracked into a grin and smacked the rag against his shoulder.</p><p>George cocked his head to the side. “No, really, this is concerning, I mean—”</p><p>He quieted, exhaling slowly as she brushed her mouth over his.</p><p>Faint, thrumming sparks and residual potion.</p><p>Hermione eased back. George’s eyes fluttered open. “Ten points to Gryffindor,” he mumbled, smiling.</p><p>Hermione breathed out a laugh and bit her lips together.</p><p>The Dittany potion tasted familiar. Soft. Soothing.</p><p>She glanced at the bottle on the sofa.</p><p>“Did you give this a flavor?” she asked, lifting it.</p><p>George looked at the bottle with a wry expression. “We didn’t intend to when we developed it, but every time I brewed it, the magic, um—” he shrugged and waved a hand. “—carried it off, you could say.”</p><p>Hermione peered through the glass. “What is it?”</p><p>George’s thumb brushed over her cheek, and then his hand dropped to his chest. “Chamomile.”</p><p>#</p><p>April 29, 2003</p><p>The newspaper handcart rattled over the cobblestone, and Hermione darted away to avoid the splash as its clerk shoved it through a particularly deep puddle. The spray flecked up, bouncing off the charm surrounding the stacked <em>Prophet</em> copies. Today’s headline echoed up and down the street, but no one here needed it announced. They could see for themselves by simply glancing down the lane:</p><p>
  <em>“New Spot Discovered Near Quality Quidditch Supplies.”</em>
</p><p>The old one had yet to fade, and the cold bursts seemed to soak the denizens of Diagon with a pernicious anxiety. The Ministry maintained that walking through the spots was harmless, so long as one took care to avoid touching the ice with any exposed skin.</p><p>“I don’t even have a Gringotts account,” Verity said. “You’ve got to have a wand.”</p><p>“Yes, but you have money, and a stake in the business,” Lee said, straightening his tie and helping her across the street.</p><p>“Half of a third?” Verity said, raising her brows. Apparently, Lee had shifted a portion of his ownership over some time ago, claiming that he didn’t need the money, and that seeing as Verity spent far more time watching his location while he travelled, she deserved a fair cut.</p><p>“The best third, mind you,” Lee said. “Hogsmeade’s outperforming Diagon ten-to-one these days.”</p><p>“Also, they like you a great deal better than us,” Fred said, snorting. Verity rolled her eyes and jumped onto the pavement in front of Gringotts.</p><p>George hadn’t said a word since they left the flat. His face was pinched as he adjusted his jacket sleeve, gathering the stiff, brown, pinstriped material over the starched cuff on his wrist.</p><p>At least it wasn’t raining, for once. Though it did look rather overcast.</p><p>Through the stately front, she could see the gleaming chandeliers hanging over the polished, marble floor.</p><p>All in one piece, as though nothing had ever smashed it to bits.</p><p>“I haven’t really been to visit since, um—” Hermione said.</p><p>“Absolutely do not bring up the dragon,” Fred said, staring at the clear, glass doors.</p><p>George breathed out a laugh at her side. Hermione glanced over. As quickly as it had come, the mirth vanished. Fred pulled the bank door open, and they filed in.</p><p>Fewer goblins were working the front, and the majority of the desks lining the foyer stood empty. That was strange. She remembered it being rather crowded with tellers. Fred waltzed up to the head desk, hands in his pockets.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Fred said in a light, friendly tone. “We have an appointment with Mr. Bradnok and Bill Weasley.” Fred held his wand out, so the attendant could examine it.</p><p>The goblin laid his quill aside and took it gingerly. “She will have to wait here,” he said, flicking his gaze to Hermione.</p><p>George huffed.</p><p>“That’s alright,” Hermione whispered. They’d expected that going in. Making an appointment wouldn’t change the standing policy that the goblins had. Apparently, they’d burned some bridges through the escapade during the war. To access their accounts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to send a surrogate or wait at the desk for the items to be brought up for them.</p><p>She wouldn’t be permitted past the main desk again.</p><p>The goblin returned Fred’s wand, then snapped, and the attendant standing to the side strolled back and around the marble pillars.</p><p>Fred pocketed his wand and drew their group aside. “Have we got it all?” he asked, bouncing a little. “Hermione?”</p><p>Hermione dug into her shoulder bag and handed over the materials she’d helped to prepare. Income estimates, fixed and unfixed costs, contingency plans. Collateral suggestions. They’d been working nonstop, and George had done a large portion of it. But she’d sorted the contents into something more cohesive and readable.</p><p>Something that would convince the bank to give them a loan.</p><p>George’s fingers brushed hers as he took the stack. He wouldn’t look at her, and his shoulders were slumped.</p><p>“Right this way, please,” a high, friendly tone warbled, and the group started forward. Hermione snagged George’s sleeve. George halted, turning to her. His eyes skated over her face.</p><p>“Granger?” he whispered, concern flitting over his features.</p><p>“Remember, um—” Hermione stammered. George glanced at the retreating group, then back at her, waiting. He raised his brows as the silence extended past a moment.</p><p>The words wouldn’t come to her. So, instead, she darted up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. George breathed out a short laugh and looked down.</p><p>“Okay?” she whispered.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>Then he strode towards the others, polished brown boots clicking on the stone. They disappeared behind the column.</p><p>Hermione paced up and down the sweeping, dark swath of tile. Curving toward the desk, then away.</p><p>Again and again, like an uneasy pendulum.</p><p>The head teller’s eyes never left her.</p><p>“Is there somewhere I could sit?” Hermione asked, faltering. Something in the goblin’s gaze softened, and he lumbered down from his stand. Without answering, he crossed to the desks near the door and pulled a secondary, short footstool from behind one. Not the tall, stately seat that the tellers used, but the squat, little one that was traditionally occupied by the assistants.</p><p>He plunked it into the aisle beside her, then returned to his desk.</p><p>“Thank you,” Hermione whispered. A group of three wizards breezed in, and Hermione shifted the stool a bit further from the door, careful to keep it within the marked area in which she was permitted. Then, she sat, crossing her legs and tugging a book from her bag.</p><p><em>Magical Tradition</em> again, and the aged Daily Prophet clippings that the library had replicated and owled to her the evening before. The small note slipped out with it.</p><p>
  <em>“Happy to help with anything you need. –Styles”</em>
</p><p>Kind of him to say, but it was almost certainly a waste of time. It’d started with a casual interest, but then she’d become fixated, returning to <em>Magical Tradition</em> every time she got stuck on the stringboard, or became bored. She’d thought there was something there, but Harry’s list of names had been long. The fledgling thought wouldn’t leave her, though, that maybe, there was someone they’d missed. Someone they’d failed to consider who might have valuable information.</p><p>Someone who would talk.</p><p>She was desperate and grasping at dead straws.</p><p>Hermione reached for her notepad and looked over her list. The books were slanted precariously on her lap, as the stool lifted her knees a bit high. But Hermione was proficient at studying in odd locations, and this was no different.</p><p>From the start, she’d been able to identify the Malfoy family—that much was obvious from the front figure’s flowing, blonde hair. But, with Lucius in prison, the Malfoys were rather quiet these days. They were hardly ever in the papers, and George had mentioned their assets had taken a blow after the war.</p><p>Perhaps they’d be willing to—</p><p>The iron gates before the Manor flashed through her mind. Fenrir’s horrible breath in her ear. The hard floor under her back.</p><p>Hermione’s stomach wrenched, and she stiffened.</p><p>They-they wouldn’t be connected, anyway. Not anymore.</p><p>She firmed her jaw, taking a few deep breaths.</p><p>She scanned <em>The Prophet</em> clippings. The slips of parchment featured congratulatory, graduating class ads from the late 20’s and early 30’s. Usually, there was a photo with at least several people, and the names were almost always printed below. Placing the ads had been costly, so they were normally taken out by families with money. There were quite a few purebloods featured.</p><p>By slowly comparing the documents, she’d been able to locate several more families—the Flints, the Parkinsons, the Evermondes, the Rowles, the Notts, and the Tufts. Some of them, she’d suspected from shared features that she recognized from her school days, but others were a surprise. Some of the families still held seats in Wizengamot. Some had died out completely.</p><p>Hermione firmed her jaw and flipped to the last clipping.</p><p>
  <em>“Wolfric Vane, Erich Luckhardt, and Alfred Dolohov.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes.</p><p>The three boys stood, chins lifted, shoulder to shoulder. While Wolfric and Alfred wore Slytherin robes, Erich bore the Durmstrang crest on his cloak. Hermione suppressed a shudder at Alfred’s face—he shared Antonin’s dark eyes and wispy, long hair. Erich, however, looked bored, with a squared jaw and light curls that fell over his brow. Finally, she stared hard at Wolfric Vane. The pale, drawn face with high cheekbones reminded her a bit of Magnus, but it seemed Romilda had taken more after her mother, whoever that may have been.</p><p>Hermione glanced at the image in the book.</p><p>There, near the end. Wolfric and Alfred, hidden a bit behind the edge of a hat. She skimmed the photo carefully, but it seemed Erich was missing.</p><p>She moved through the image from left to right. There were a good many faces that weren’t yet accounted for. Like the short, square-faced man close to the front. Or the woman in the floppy hat at the end of the row. Her eyes returned to Vane.</p><p>The ancestor of the supposedly Imperiused Death Eater. Member of Wizengamot. Mogul. The man who was trying to ruin George’s livelihood.</p><p>She swallowed. The Wizengamot had already tried most of the former Death Eaters, ages ago. While most who’d been found had been convicted, some of them had got off on technicalities or claiming to have been Imperiused, like Vane.</p><p>And-and Vane wasn’t the only one with that sort of story. But of every family she’d identified in the photo thus far, the Vanes had held onto power best after the war, and without leaving the country. She furrowed her brow as she scratched the names into her list. Vane clearly had the motive. The thought had occurred to her more than a few times.</p><p>But his success gave him far more to lose than others, and she’d lost the ability to count her enemies sometime during second year.</p><p>Besides, he had an alibi. And even if he wasn’t involved, he wouldn’t talk—whether he knew something or not.</p><p>She needed to keep looking.</p><p>The sparse lobby was cold and quiet.</p><p>What was taking them all so long?</p><p>Hermione glanced at the hall behind the desk, but it was still empty.</p><p>If they didn’t get the loan—</p><p>She laid the quill down, glaring at the name. Vane’s violence wasn’t physical, these days. It was emotional—money and power and subtle moves to undermine his opponents.</p><p>Sort of like Lucius Malfoy, after the first wizarding war. But even Lucius Malfoy had picked up his wand, after a time.</p><p>Chess.</p><p>Was she playing one game, or two? How many opponents was she facing?</p><p>Too many moves.</p><p>Too many variables.</p><p>Even if Vane was only acting in a legal capacity, his pressure drew resources and energy from the string of crimes. They were trying to fight attacks on two fronts.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. She ought to check his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, just to see where his expertise lay.</p><p>The door blew open, and a gust of wind tore at her papers. Hermione snapped the book shut, enclosing the clippings and her notepad inside.</p><p>As though summoned by Hermione’s reflections, Romilda Vane stood in the entry, tugging dragon leather gloves from her fingers. Her ice-blue, scaled cape matched to her boots and the stone in her choker. Hermione stiffened, watching as Magnus crossed to the counter, muttering lowly, then returned to Romilda’s side, checking his pocket watch.</p><p>What were they doing here? Hermione stuffed her book in her bag.</p><p>Magnus’s gaze flitted over the space, and he rose a single brow when it landed on her. “Making a withdrawal, are we?” he said. Romilda breathed out a soft laugh.</p><p>Hermione stood. “As if,” she said. “Drop the fine. We both know it’s nonsense, and I’ll prove it in court.” Her voice echoed through the Gringotts lobby, and her face heated. They could be here for something else. Anything else.</p><p>Suddenly, it felt quite important that Vane remain ignorant to the meeting George was having.</p><p>“The extension charm on the shop’s backroom is several meters over the permitted allotment,” Vane said lightly. “Your husband’s signature is on the agreement, is it not?”</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin. “That’s not—” </p><p>Vane continued, tucking his cane under his arm. “I’m sure it seems terribly unfair, but if we had no rules, there would be no order,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s for the greater good.”</p><p>“Funny,” Hermione said. She dropped her bag to the tile and crossed her arms. “Another wizard used say that.”</p><p>Vane’s brows lifted higher. “You mean your precious Dumbledore?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes.</p><p>“Down, Weasel,” Vane whispered. Then, he spun, taking Romilda’s elbow.</p><p>She tipped her head back, giving a little wave. “See you at the ball, Hermione,” she said cooly.</p><p>Hermione clenched her fists.</p><p>“I’d rather be a Weasley than a—a—” Hermione’s shout cut. George, Fred, Lee, and Verity stood near the pillars, faces pinched as they watched Romilda and Magnus disappear with an attendant. George’s shoulders opened as the Vanes passed, but despite shifting, Magnus clipped him on the arm on their way toward the vaults.</p><p>George’s jaw tightened. He blinked at his hands. The paperwork was stacked high, there. The group approached slowly, but he trailed further behind.</p><p>Fred nodded toward the doors. George reached for Hermione’s bag, but she darted down, beating him to it. He had enough to carry. He didn’t acknowledge it, only straightened and fixed his eyes on the street as he pushed his way through the threshold.</p><p>“How—how did it go?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“They agreed,” Fred said, scrunching his face at the sky.</p><p>Lee snorted.</p><p>“Sort of,” Fred said. He leaned back on his heels, examining Gringotts’ front. “Even with Bill pulling strings, the rate is far higher than it should be. We tried to negotiate for a better one, but—” he paused, scratching the back of his head. “With rent as high as it is, they don’t view us as a profitable investment.”</p><p>“Even with the projections?” Hermione asked softly. They’d managed to scrape out a few positive estimates, should things go well moving forward. With operating costs, payroll, everything accounted for, if George and Fred took lower salaries, and they moved enough product—they could’ve scraped by with the loan.</p><p>But with a large interest rate—</p><p>“It seems they were already made familiar with our situation,” George said, and his voice was soft, barely audible over the hum of pedestrians. He didn’t meet her eyes.</p><p>“It was the high interest rate, or Hogsmeade as collateral,” Fred said.</p><p>“I-I said they should take the Hogsmeade offer,” Verity added.</p><p>George’s hands tightened on the paperwork.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Fred said. “We own that lot. We’ll do the rate, and if we lose the Diagon storefront, it is what it is.” His voice went hollow. “Cut our losses.”</p><p>“But isn’t Diagon your favorite?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“No,” George said quietly. The group paused, staring at Hermione.</p><p>Fred let out a shaky laugh. “Merlin, that’s like asking Dad to pick his favorite kid.”</p><p>Lee snorted. “You mean it’s not Ginny?” he asked. Fred shoved Lee’s shoulder, and the latter laughed a bit.</p><p>Suddenly, George pulled away, stepping into the street and striding towards the shop. The group stilled.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Um—” she stuttered. “I’m just going to—” She backed towards the direction George had headed.</p><p>“We’ll give you some time,” Lee said quietly. Hermione turned and ran.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione was winded as she pushed against the cherry-red doors. The shop stood empty, the closed sign displayed prominently in the window. The handle gave, and she slipped through the entrance. The door clicked shut.</p><p>Muted gasps trickled from the back aisles.</p><p>Oh George.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. Then, slowly, she headed towards him.</p><p>On her way, she passed the Canary Creams. A towering stack of Skiving Snackboxes. A whole aisle of Daydream Charms. The counter, laden with Whizbangs and fireworks, waiting to be shelved. The painted stairs cut up to the landing, where the Muggle magic line rested. Just past the stairs were the potions and sweets and shield hats. Crush blush and sticky shoes and the Quill section, visible on the righthand side of the shop. Enchanted knitting kits in brown, paper bags. An endcap of large, wooden boxes with stars stamped on their sides. There was so much of it. Like a history, housed in a building. Hermione’s throat closed tighter and tighter as she followed the winding path through the aisles.</p><p>And she found George at the end of it.</p><p>Bracing his hands on an empty shelf, hunched over.</p><p>Crying.</p><p>Coughs cut through the gasps, and the network of light strobed through his face. Fainter than it had been, fewer sparks, but still visible. It sputtered, fading.</p><p>Hermione ducked under his left arm and pulled him in around the middle. George’s hands fell from the shelving to her arms, and then he seemed to collapse inwards, folding over her like he’d received a horrid blow, right under the ribs.</p><p>Probably because he had.</p><p>They could still fight it in Wizengamot, but with a loaded court at Vane’s disposal, their odds were slim. If the interest fee was too high, if the rent didn’t come down—</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. He clung to her shoulders.</p><p>“It’s not the Galleons,” he managed. His voice was hoarse, and his breath was warm at her hairline, just over her forehead. “It’s—” he couldn’t finish.</p><p>Hermione nodded against his tweed vest. “I know,” she whispered. “I may not remember most of it, but I know—at least a little.”</p><p>At this, George sucked in a breath. Maybe—maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say.</p><p>George lifted his hand to the back of her head while winding the other under her arm, up her spine. Suddenly, he lurched, dragging her in like he was lost as sea, and she was a bit of driftwood. Tears pricked at Hermione’s eyes. His hold felt different as he gripped her close. Tight. Strained as he cried into her shoulder.</p><p>She didn’t move for several minutes, not until long after his gasps grew softer and more spaced apart.</p><p>#</p><p>April 30, 2003</p><p>Rain pounded her slicker, and Hermione yanked her hat lower over her face. They were supposed to be incognito in public, but while George’s own hat hid his hair, his height was a bit of a giveaway. His shoulder brushed her arm as they hurried through the street, gripping their groceries. They’d taken a short trip into muggle London to grab the food, but now that they were back in Diagon, they’d have to be careful.</p><p>The loan hadn’t processed yet when they left. Hopefully, the owl would be waiting for them when they arrived.</p><p>At times like this, Hermione actually missed apparating.</p><p>They rounded the bend. A large crowd surged around the second spot, shouting. Someone had drug an empty birdcage from the front of Eeylops Owl Emporium and was now using it as a stand.</p><p>“All I’m saying is you lot had better watch your backs!” The man shouted, flailing toward the shaft of sleet amongst the water. “This is goblin rot!”</p><p>A few cries of agreement rose up from the crowd.</p><p>Hermione stiffened, and she started forward. “It is not!” she yelled. “You’ve no proof.”</p><p>The man turned. His cheeks were ruddy, soaked, and lined. Rain spilled the sleeve hems of his robes as his grey eyes narrowed. “You calling me a liar?”</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione said, lifting her chin.</p><p>“It’s no different from the rebellions,” the man spat.</p><p>“Which rebellion?” Hermione snapped and dropped the sack of food, and the paper split open at her feet. “The one of 1612, when the wizarding community forbid goblins wands?” An apple rolled, thudding over the cobblestone. “Or the one of 1752, when they were refused representation in Wizengamot, despite being held under British Wizarding law?”</p><p>The man’s face contorted, and he hopped off the cage, striding over. His wand lifted. Hermione pulled hers from her pocket. He didn’t need to know that she had barely a lick of magic. George stiffened at her side, stepping forward.</p><p>
  <em>Boom.</em>
</p><p>The blast ricocheted down the street, rocking the air as it reached them. The man faltered, whirling.</p><p>Several shops down, just beside the bank, several people tore from a squat, little building. A thick sheet of ice climbed over the blown-out windows. The crowd exploded, screams and apparition pops cracking across the cobblestone.</p><p>Hermione bolted, hat flying from her head.</p><p>Rubble littered the road in front of the explosion. A section of brick tumbled from the upper level, blocking the entrance.</p><p>The thick sign over the building’s door was scorched, but she could still make out the words.</p><p>
  <em>“Muggle Liaison Office.”</em>
</p><p>Sound faded.</p><p>Hermione shoved her way through, gasping. Faintly, she knew that the crowd was drawing away—everyone except one person. A woman in muggle clothes, pressing her shirt to her mouth, bent over, stumbling towards the building. She gripped a small, yellow backpack in her hand.</p><p>Hermione grabbed her.</p><p>“Timothy—” the woman gasped.</p><p>“Stay here!” Hermione shouted, throwing her back, towards the crowd.</p><p>She had precious, little magic.</p><p>But someone had to go in.</p><p>Iron.</p><p>Hermione’s body turned to lightning, and her mind clicked off.</p><p>Legs pumping. Heart pounding. She vaulted, clearing the upcropping of smoking brick.</p><p>She landed in a crouch. Ice skated under her trainers, but she didn’t give it a chance to stick, darting through the space.</p><p>The frigid air stung her face.</p><p>Where was the boy?</p><p>“Timothy!” Hermione screamed. The walls were blackened, and the desk at the reception had been smote into pieces.</p><p>Near the back, a door hung off its hinges. The ice had yet to reach here, but the blast had reduced the stairs to wood and shrapnel. A shadow moved against the wall, high above her head.</p><p>Hermione surged.</p><p>She leapt, gripping the broken edge of the next floor. She didn’t feel the pull at her muscles as she hoisted herself up.</p><p>The shadow darted back.</p><p>Hermione turned, wand out.</p><p>Desks lined the room, and part of the front wall was open to the street, but she couldn’t see it through the ice creeping in through the hole. It made a hollow cracking sound as it spread, closer and closer.</p><p>Soon, it would cover every surface.</p><p>And then her.</p><p>A flash of movement caught her eye on the far wall, and Hermione advanced on it.</p><p>The figure spun. Wide, frantic eyes and dark hair. He clutched a wand, shaking. Couldn’t be much older than a seventh year. A boy, really.</p><p>His eyes widened at the sight of her.</p><p>Then he swooped his hood down, apparating with a crack.</p><p>An unsteady wheeze echoed in the corner. Hermione turned. A small arm spilled from behind a desk, close to the stairs. Scorched fingers, limp, palm up. She dashed.</p><p>Yellow, woolen jumper—singed stitches rattling, rising.</p><p>“Timothy?” Hermione called.</p><p>His head turned.</p><p>Glazed, frightened eyes blinked up at her. Hermione knelt. Suddenly, Timothy shook his head, flinching away, something like anxiety flaring in his expression.</p><p>The ice quickened, lurching across the floor. There was no time for explanations. She snatched him up.</p><p>The faint trickle of magic in her center sputtered as she lifted her wand. Only one apparition. Only one. She only—only needed one.</p><p>Destination.</p><p>Determination.</p><p>Deliberation.</p><p>The ice reached her shoes.</p><p>No more time.</p><p>Hermione Jean screamed as she bent the world in half.</p><p>#</p><p>She popped onto the street, gasping, and the child sagged in her arms. The world spun. Flashes. Her magic had strained, and it felt like a pulled muscle, right in her center. But she’d made it out.</p><p>“She’s out here, get out—get out now—” someone shouted. A chorus of pops.</p><p>Someone pulled Timothy away, and rough hands grabbed her, yanking her slicker open and tearing it from her body.</p><p>“What were you thinking!” Ron shouted, flinging the coat away. Hermione blinked at the garment. Ice skated up the surface, towards the hood.</p><p>It must’ve gotten hold at some point.</p><p>Ron blasted it back, towards the building. He was still yelling, circling her, but it was muffled by the chaos. He crouched, yanking her shoes up and off of her feet, chucking them one by one towards the rubble. Then he stood, continuing to yell. His grey auror uniform was drenched, and as he spoke, he occasionally halted, hurling blue light over his shoulder, towards the ice.</p><p>Her ears rang. Water soaked her socks.</p><p>Where was George?</p><p>She whirled.</p><p>The pedestrians had been pushed back, and grey uniforms swarmed around her.</p><p>Harry stood at the head, wind and rain tearing his dark hair from his brow. Like a conductor before an eerie orchestra, Harry faced the oncoming ice and lifted his wand. She couldn’t see his eyes through the mist coating his glasses.</p><p>The dance was precise, brutal, and elegant.</p><p>Phoenix feather and holly sang through the gale, wand slashing again and again. She recognized the movements for an Impervius. A bright, blue stag stalked to and fro along the pavement, and the aqua light refracted across Harry.</p><p>Harry’s face was a mask of steel. Fury.</p><p>But—but—</p><p>Where was George?</p><p>“Ronald, where’s George?” Hermione yelled, spinning.</p><p>Ron stilled, then grabbed her arm and tugged her through the group.</p><p>She heard him before she saw him.</p><p>“Get off—get off—she’s still—”</p><p>Four aurors held him to the ground as a fifth used a cloak to yank the ice-crusted boot from George’s foot. The auror vanished it. George flailed, and his elbow caught one in the jaw. The auror reeled back, crying aloud.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted, dashing towards him. At the sound of her voice, George’s head turned, and he locked eyes with her. He twisted, lunging, and broke from the aurors’ hold.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath as George collided with her, throwing his arms around her. His hands were frantic, clutching her head, her shoulders, her back—as though he needed to be convinced that she was all still there. Hermione clung to him just as tightly, throat closing “You—” he gasped, pressing a searing kiss to her temple, then her ear. “You—” </p><p>Suddenly, the auror’s hands closed on George’s shoulder. “Sir! You have to sit down! We’re not through!” he yelled. George tried to shove him off, but the others grabbed on, yanking him away. She started towards him, but the auror held up a hand. “Stay put!”</p><p>“Let me—” George struggled, but they dragged him backwards, onto the pavement.</p><p>“Don’t be a prat. It’s a right pain to remove, and it causes severe burns,” Ron yelled, fighting his way through the crowd. George’s look went molten as he glared at Ron, but he settled. Ron crossed his arms, watching his brother with a stony expression.</p><p>“You’d think we were torturing him,” Ron muttered. He began to circle Hermione again, searching. “It’s a precaution. He had it all over his feet on the first floor, and it splintered everywhere when they disapparated him.”</p><p>He’d run in after her. Hermione’s throat closed.</p><p>Finally, Ron stopped. “I think you’re still clear, but if you feel any sudden pain—”</p><p>“It-it causes severe burns?” Hermione asked. Ron’s look hardened.</p><p>“I’m not burned,” George snapped, but the auror searching his ankles kept at it.</p><p>“Didn’t used to at the other explosions,” Ron said. “But, something’s changed. When we arrived, Parvati’s sleeve caught on some of the infected rubble, and—” he winced. “She tore it off before it spread, but the skin on her hand was covered in blisters.”</p><p>“Like the ice on the spot,” Hermione said softly. Ron nodded grimly.</p><p>The auror dropped George’s ankles and reached for his arm.</p><p>“They’re getting creative,” Ron murmured. His expression tightened as he turned back to the house. “Smarter.”</p><p>George’s eyes followed them, jaw tight as the auror on his left checked his sleeve. “There’s nothing on that!” he said, tugging his arm away. “It’s rain, not—”</p><p>A pop of apparition sounded, and they all turned towards the noise.</p><p>On the pavement behind George, grey and green robes huddled around a small form. The muggle woman crouched at their side.</p><p>“It’s a kid.” Ron sounded hollow.</p><p>George’s face was tight as he twisted back towards them. “Is he—?”</p><p>“He was breathing when I dragged him out,” Hermione said, biting her lips together. “Maybe he’ll be alright.” She glanced at Ron.</p><p>Ron nodded, but his jaw worked back and forth as he stared at the healers. The healers’ wands slashed through the air, and she couldn’t follow all of the casting.</p><p>“Rennervate!”</p><p>A sharp cry rang out, and the yellow jumper sleeve rose, reaching for the muggle woman. Hermione, George, and Ron all exhaled at once. George turned back to Hermione, but his head dropped into his hands. Several more pops spit the air, and the group disappeared.</p><p>She’d hoped that mugglebornes would be safe, after the war.</p><p>Hermione swallowed, remembering the hooded figure.</p><p>“I-I saw someone else inside,” she said. George’s face lifted and Ron turned.</p><p>“Alive or—?” Ron asked.</p><p>“He apparated out. I didn’t recognize him, but he looked young,” Hermione said. “I think he may have been the one to set it off.”</p><p>Ron sighed. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll drop the two of you at your flat. After we secure the area, we’ll come by for your statements tonight or tomorrow morning. Maybe do a Pensieve.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. George grimaced as the auror checking his collar bumped the scar of his ear. Hermione flinched even though she couldn’t feel the jostle.</p><p>George’s body was rigid, his eyes boring into hers as they finished examining his other sleeve.</p><p>Finally, they let him up.</p><p>He didn’t say a word, swallowing as his gaze rapidly searched her face. Then, he gathered her back in again, breathing like all the air had gone out of the world. Ron’s hand closed on her arm, and reality sucked away.</p><p>#</p><p>A thud echoed on the other side of the wall, and Hermione glanced at it as she tugged her old, purple jumper over her head. Ron hadn’t bothered to caste a drying charm on his way out after confirming that he and Harry would return later in the evening. He’d said it might be pretty late, and she’d meant to make some coffee. But the Ron left, George had pointed her unceremoniously towards her room with two words: “Get changed.”</p><p>Outside, the rain poured. No owl from Gringotts or Wizengamot yet.</p><p>Hermione wandered to the window, watching the tempest.</p><p>How was there anything left? Surely, the unceasing downpour would wear away the buildings and streets, and Diagon Alley would be reduced to soft earth.</p><p>Like it hadn’t ever existed.</p><p>The thought sent a chill through her.</p><p>Hermione shuddered. Then, she remembered the item in her hands and retreated to the bed. She shoved her feet into the thick socks, pulling them up, under the fabric of her faded jeans.</p><p>A clang sounded from the other room—like the kettle hitting the stove.</p><p>She stepped from the room lightly, heading for the kitchen.</p><p>George pulled a large pot from the hanging rack. His green robe hung open over a set of checked, flannel pajamas, but they did nothing to soften the tight line of his shoulders. The terrycloth tie dragged on the floor, alongside his slippers as he rested the pot in the sink and flipped the faucet handle. His glasses lay propped in his hair, which was still damp.</p><p>Hermione twisted her hands together and approached the bartop with slow, halting steps.</p><p>A black, leather bound book lay out on the counter, quill propped in the crease. Fresh scrawl paced over the top of the page, and though it was upside down, she read the first two words accidentally:</p><p>
  <em>“Dear Hermione”</em>
</p><p> Suddenly, George lifted his head, catching her glancing at it. George’s expression shuttered, and he twisted the faucet off. Then, he cocked a silent brow at her as he reached over the sink and flipped the book shut before pulling it from the countertop. Hermione’s face heated.</p><p>He turned, heading to the study. Hermione swallowed. After a moment, George re-emerged without the book and the glasses.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to snoop,” she said.</p><p>“Mm,” George said, pulling the pot from the sink. He gave her a wry smile as he hoisted it onto the front burner, then lit the fire.</p><p>Hermione pulled the barstool out.</p><p>“You don’t have to answer, but—” she twisted her hands together, hesitating. “—why are you writing to me?” Her voice was soft and faltering.</p><p>George didn’t turn. “It’s something I do sometimes,” he said, sighing. He dumped a liberal amount of salt in the water. “Healer Marcus suggested it, back in January.”</p><p>He was—he was writing the other Hermione.</p><p>The realization slammed through her ribs, aching. Like a flicker, she could almost see her—standing at George’s shoulder, smiling. Whole.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said. George nodded, facing the stove.</p><p>“How much did you read?” His question was tense and quiet.</p><p>“Only, um, only the first two words,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>George shook his head. “You didn’t know. I should’ve put it away when I was through,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.” He headed to the pantry, then returned with a jar.</p><p>It made a dull, heavy sound as he stuck it on the counter.</p><p>“Do you miss her?” she asked softly.</p><p>George scratched his head and leaned over the counter, fixing her with a dry look. “Is she planning on going anywhere?” he asked lowly.</p><p>Hermione dropped her gaze. “You know what I mean,” she said softly.</p><p>He paused.</p><p>“I miss the life we had,” he said, tone softening. “But I’m with the same bird. Just on a different timeline.” He turned, snagging open the fridge door.</p><p>Hermione folded her arms on the counter and slumped forward. “It doesn’t feel that way to me,” she whispered, spilling the confession into the air. As it left her mouth, some of the ache in her chest loosened. </p><p>“How do you mean,” he said, rifling through the top shelf.</p><p>“Imagine—um,” Hermione furrowed her brow as she stared at her hands. “Imagine you woke up, married to me, and you didn’t remember the last five years.”</p><p>George laughed aloud.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>He whirled. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he said, wincing. “Please, um—continue.”</p><p>“No—wait. What was that about?” Hermione asked, tilting her head on her arm.</p><p>George sighed. He scratched the side of his nose and crossed the floor, leaning over the counter once more as he gave her a lopsided smile. “While I’m sure it would be difficult in many ways, young George would be so happy—” he paused and lifted his brows. “—he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.” A flush crept up Hermione’s neck, and George grinned before turning to tug a small pan from the hanging rack. “Would be terribly unfortunate for you, though, seeing as I’ve aged like a fine wine.”</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>He drizzled some oil into the pan, then paused. “Bugger—the groceries,” he muttered. “Hold on.” George ducked into the pantry and returned with a rather sad looking clove of garlic. “It’ll be rubbish without the rest, but at least it won’t taste like parchment.”</p><p>He slid a cutting board out and set to work with the knife. “Would you care to further explore this reality you’ve proposed?” George asked, mincing the garlic up rapidly. Hermione fidgeted, watching him. He glanced up at her as he scooped up the pieces and tossed them into the pan.</p><p>Hermione took a deep breath. “Right, um—” she faltered. “But, well, even if he was happy—you don’t think that maybe, he would feel a little jealous of you? That you had all the memories and the experience and-and—”</p><p>George folded his arms and leaned back against the stove. Without breaking eye contact, he turned the burner nob on the pan, lowering the heat.</p><p>“Undoubtably,” he said. “Seeing as I’m a much better snogger.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>George winked. Then, he turned, dumping the pasta into the pot. “You have a point, though,” he said, more faintly this time. “That would be hard.” He ducked a spoon into the water and gave it a stir. “Can’t say I know or can even imagine how it would feel.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Well, it feels pretty rubbish,” she said.</p><p>George bobbed his head.</p><p>The kitchen hummed quietly.</p><p>“Wind back the clock,” Hermione whispered. “Tell me about yourself, when you were that age—the one that matches mine.” George turned, an incredulous expression on his face.  “Up here,” she said, tapping her head. “My age up here.”</p><p>George scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But you’ve—um, you’ve got to remember,” he said quietly.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Nothing specific, just-just little things. Things I may not have known at the time, even?”</p><p>George dragged in a breath.</p><p>“You don’t want to know that bloke,” he said roughly, clearing his throat. “He was far too sad.” He nicked a spatula from the utensil cup and scraped it through the garlic. “Always second-guessing himself.” He laid the spatula on the counter. “Then again—” he laughed softly. “Sort of do that now, too.”</p><p>Hermione tucked her chin in the crook of her arm. George’s voice had taken on a wistful tone. “He was scared, I think, but he tried his best to be brave.” He paused. “Didn’t always pan out.” His hands played over the counter. She couldn’t see his expression.</p><p>“And, um—bugger—” George ducked his head, exhaling the last word. He went still.</p><p>Then, he shrugged the slightest bit. “He loved you.” His voice dropped, quiet and soft. “Still does.” George pulled the spatula from the counter and scraped it through the sauce again, more hurriedly this time.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. She’d known. But he’d never said it like that—aloud. Her heart thrummed in her ribs at the sound of it.</p><p>The other Hermione knew all about love. What it meant. How to go about it. She was—she was still learning. Tottering to her feet, where the other Hermione had run.</p><p>Still, the words sang warm through her mind.</p><p>George paused over the stove, and his shoulder went tense. “Sorry, I-I don’t mean to—”</p><p>“George?” she whispered.</p><p>“I’ve tried to-to not overwhelm you with that sort of, um—”</p><p>“George,” Hermione said, slipping from the chair. He still wouldn’t face her. She rounded the counter. George didn’t move. She approached, slipping her arms under his, winding them around his chest.</p><p>George’s hands came up, faltering over hers.</p><p>“He sounds wonderful,” she whispered.</p><p>“Yeah?” His voice was faint.</p><p>“Yes,” she nodded against his back. “Just like you.” George turned in her embrace, and his eyes were urgent, searching hers. He hesitated, and his brow furrowed.</p><p>Then his gaze dropped to her mouth.</p><p>His head tipped, lower, lower.</p><p>Hermione pressed forward, onto her tip-toes.</p><p>Lower.</p><p>George’s eyes began to slide shut.</p><p>A space the width of a single breath between them.</p><p>His nose brushed hers.</p><p>Hermione shivered.</p><p>George cracked into a smile.</p><p>“Additionally,” he whispered, tapping her jaw with a finger. The touch sent a rush of sparks through her skin. “He didn’t know how to do that.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>George reeled back, laughing.</p><p>Hermione scoffed and yanked the towel from the bar, throwing it at him. “You’re impossible.”</p><p>“I know you find it charming,” George said, grinning and holding his hand to his chest. Hermione rolled her eyes. The robe swirled around his legs as he turned back to the stove, chuckling.</p><p>“Honestly,” Hermione said, but she was smiling.</p><p>#</p><p>They ate quietly, and after, George had suggested waiting up for Harry and Ron on the sofa. Hermione had agreed and run to her room for a blanket and the copy of the documents she’d submitted to the Wizengamot.</p><p>She may as well get some work done.</p><p>George was already sitting on the end of the couch when she emerged, peering over a set of blueprints. Hermione slipped onto the opposite side of the sofa, leaning her shoulder against its back as she shifted her legs over the empty cushion in the middle.</p><p>With a practiced ease, George reached over and propped her feet on his lap, not looking up from his sketches.</p><p>Something about the way he’d done it sent a wave of happiness through her. It felt like—like belonging. Hermione blinked, a warm glow swelling in her chest.</p><p>A moment passed as she peeked at him over her papers.</p><p>“Everything alright, dear?” he muttered, glancing up as he flipped over the blue parchment in his hands.</p><p>“Perfect,” Hermione said, swallowing and looking down at her documents.</p><p>His thumb stroked small, lazy circles over her left ankle.</p><p>The seconds dropped away into minutes, and minutes into hours.</p><p>Time lost its grip on them, and they fell asleep.</p><p>Papers, blueprints, and peril lay forgotten on the floor.</p><p>Miles and miles away, just outside the little village of Ottery St Catchpole, a gleaming, silver clock hand quietly shifted, clicking into place after months of oscillation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Amortentia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Amortentia: "'amor' L. love + 'tempto' L. to try to influence or tamper with" (HP Lexicon).</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>Oof, this chapter got away from me. This is double-feature length. Oops. If you want to read in multiple sittings, I recommend breaking at January first.</p><p>Thank you so much for reading, for commenting, and for your kindness and encouragement last week! &lt;3 My brain is goop at the moment, but know that I appreciate you, very much. I cried multiple times over many of the kind things that were said. &lt;3<br/>Please forgive any typos or mistakes. I've been editing for quite some time, but I'm sure I missed things. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or to this story world. </p><p>Playlist: "Dusk Till Dawn" by Kurt Hugo Schneider &amp; Kirsten Collins/"Unsteady" by X Ambassadors (December 29), "Brother" by Kodaline (Dec. 29, after George gets back from Healer Marcus's), "Lovelight" by Abba (Just for a bit at the start of December 30--you'll know), "Ramalama (Bang Bang)" by Roisin Murphy (December 30, after the bell chimes and until George floos), "So Close" by Jon McLaughlin (Dec. 30, after George floos, until Harry shows up), "Jo Writes" by Alexandre Desplat (Dec. 30, after Harry arrives), "You Make My Dreams Come True" by Daryl Hall &amp; John Oates (Dec. 31 at the start of the gathering), You'll know, and if I put it here, it'll spoil it. (Dec. 31. You'll know). "A Little Bit Yours" by JP Saxe (Dec. 31, after they return to the tables, until Hermione walks away), "Jo Writes" again (Jan. 1), "Snowman" by WYS (Jan. 2, until someone stalks through the door), "Toxic" by 2WEI (Jan. 2, until the apparition), "Be Kind (Stripped)" by Mashmello &amp; Halsey (Jan. 2, until George reaches for the shop sign), "Scarlet Fever" by Thomas Newman (Jan. 2, after George reaches for the shop sign), "Hit the Road Jack" by 2WEI (Jan. 2, when George takes the cup to the sink), "Look Up At The Stars" by Shawn Mendes (Jan. 4), "Hit the Road Jack" again (Jan. 6--you'll know), "Statues" by Alexandre Desplat (Jan. 6, 8 p.m.), "Certain Things" by James Arthur ft. Chasing Grace (Jan. 6, after people go for water), "Lovelight" again (This is hummed), "Orchard House" by Thomas Newman (Peculiar enchantment to the end).</p><p>Alright, grab your snack (I had macaroni and cheese this week), your drink (I'm working on a latte at present), and the largest blanket you've got. Let's dive in.</p><p>***Content Warning: This chapter involves use of a mind-altering substance. Discussed further with spoilers below, if you need more information to make a decision about reading:</p><p>[SPOILERS: Weaponized Amortentia use; George behaves in a trustworthy manner. Also, Stamina Potion usage as well, in a separate scene. If you would rather skip the Amortentia content, skip Jan 2].</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>LUMOS</strong>
</p><p>Chapter Thirty: "Amortentia"</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>December 29, 1998, 2 p.m.</p><p>“Said mortal peril—” the voice was familiar, and George sucked in a breath as a sharp jolt zipped through his ribs.</p><p>“I didn’t see,” Hermione whispered. “One moment, I was skating, and the next—” she trailed off.</p><p>George sucked in a breath. His arms were empty. Hermione knelt near his elbow, whispering to Harry. Mr. Weasley bent over him, a stream of blue flowing from his wand into George’s torso.</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s brow furrowed, and he muttered lowly. The lightning tore through George’s side once more. He hissed, clenching the chair’s arms as he jolted forward. Hermione whirled, and her hand darted out, landing on his.</p><p>“Do be careful, Mr. Weasley,” she said, sounding more than a little startled.</p><p>George blinked as the sparks swam up his elbow and shoulder, into his chest, pulling away the lightning. The world felt coated in a thick glaze, warming everything. Making it better.</p><p>He was tired, but that was alright. Everything would be alright.</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s reply sounded unnaturally distant. “Of course, Hermione.” The words were spaced out, as though time had slowed to a crawl.</p><p>Hermione was holding his hand.</p><p>George stared at her fingers gripping his, groggy. Did she know she was doing it? Settling him with a simple touch? Faintly, he knew the others were there, but they hardly seemed important.</p><p>Though she wasn’t looking at him, Hermione’s eyes were wide and almost amber in the firelight.  Her curls ran wild, tumbling over the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.</p><p>George cocked his head, dazed as he watched her. A faint glow flickered around her, turning her edges fuzzy.</p><p>Her hand joined in his.</p><p>Some deeper instinct stirred. He was supposed to say the words—make the unbreakable vow. George blinked heavily and tipped towards her, helpless as she pulled him in. Of course. He’d take care of her, always.</p><p>“I, George Fabian Weasley—” he mumbled under his breath, something warm and glowing coating his throat.</p><p>“Oh, dear Merlin—” Mr. Weasley lunged forward and yanked George’s hand from Hermione’s.</p><p>Hermione balked, turning from Arthur to George in confusion.</p><p>“Sorry, dear, forgot to check this one for frostbite.” Arthur’s voice was rattled and tense.</p><p>The haziness faded, and the sore ache flushed back through his center, radiating from his ribs. George blinked. The glow had vanished, and he found himself tilted halfway across the chair, frozen in place as he watched Granger turn to Harry.</p><p>George started and dropped back. What had that been? What had he been about to pledge?</p><p>Godric’s Ghost, had he lost his mind?</p><p>“But, don’t worry, I’m being very careful,” Mr. Weasley added, glancing at Hermione. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Did-did you say something, George?” she whispered. George shook his head and swallowed. He’d just been dizzy and confused. Daydreaming. That was all. He thrust it aside.</p><p>“No, don’t,” Fred’s jovial voice boomed from the other side of the flat. “Crack on, Dad. Let him have it.”</p><p>Hermione spun. “That’s not funny,” she snapped. Then she glanced at George. “Are you alright?”</p><p>George frowned and nodded, feeling at his side. The bones were back in place, but it would be tender for a while. Hermione turned, and the blanket wrapped around her shoulders brushed George’s hand where she’d held it moments before.</p><p>His Henley was wrinkled and stiff. His dad seemed to be trying to meet his eyes, but George avoided his gaze.</p><p>“Tea for his Royal Highness,” Fred sang, lowering a cup over the back of the chair. Brilliant. George grabbed it and brought it to his mouth, gulping it down.</p><p>He gagged.</p><p>“This is coffee!” he said. Fred plucked it out of his hands, rounding to Granger.</p><p>“Sorry,” Fred said, lilting. “Must’ve mixed up the mugs.” He handed it over.</p><p>“I’ve had my mouth on that,” George muttered. “Make her a fresh one, you git.”</p><p>“It’s-it’s fine,” Hermione said. She brought the rim to her lips. Harry’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly, but Hermione didn’t seem to notice as she took a deep pull. Her face relaxed, and a feeling of satisfaction settled in George’s middle.</p><p>Harry’s gaze flicked to him, and George tore his eyes away from Hermione. Heat flooded his ears, prickling over his scar.</p><p>He swallowed, grabbing for something normal to say.</p><p>“What a slap in the face,” George said. He crossed his arms. Hermione lowered the cup. “I save your life, and you immediately follow it up by drinking rat poison?”</p><p>Hermione coughed and broke into a laugh.</p><p>Harry’s expression was unreadable.</p><p>Fred’s boots thudded on the rug, and this time, George bothered to smell the drink before he sucked it down.</p><p>Not Chamomile. Just regular, black tea.</p><p>“Apologies, Mate.” Fred said, grinning as he spoke. “They were right next to each other, like two little doves, and—”</p><p>“Fred.” Mr. Weasley’s voice was tired.</p><p>George drained the cup. Outside, the sky was still light. Fred stood over the right side of the chair, watching him. Something raw lingered in his expression, but as George met his eyes, Fred blinked, and it was gone.</p><p>“How long was I out?” George asked. Arthur’s knees popped as he pushed to his feet.</p><p>“Not long,” Harry said, studying him.</p><p>“Got a Patronus from Molly,” Arthur said. “She said she’d walked into the living room and seen your clock hand wavering over mortal peril. I grabbed Harry, we apparated to Diagon, and then we floo-ed here through the connection between your shops.”</p><p>George cocked his head.</p><p>“Imagine our confusion when we stepped through and found the two of you asleep, safe as can be, wrapped up like—”</p><p>“Fred.” Mr. Weasley cut in. “Anyways. Molly said the clock’s back to normal, but we checked the wards anyway. Nothing strange, as far as we can tell. It seems the danger has passed.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“And what a choice day for a swim.” Fred said, clapping his hand on George’s shoulder.</p><p>George nodded. “Nice and balmy,” he said, despite the way his chest tightened at the memory.</p><p>“Honestly,” Hermione muttered. She sat back on the floor, leaning against the chair’s side. George dropped a light hand to the top of her head.</p><p>“Only joking,” he said softly. Harry cleared his throat, and George snatched his hand back.</p><p>“What happened, George?” Harry asked. “Mione says there was an anti-apparition ward.”</p><p>George swung his legs off the ottoman. “Yes,” he said. “There was, and I know who it was, Harry. It was Flint, I—”</p><p>“You saw him?” Harry said, stepping forward. George faltered.</p><p>“I saw his cloak,” he said. Harry paused. George leaned forward. “But it was distinctive, Mate. I mean—” he trailed off as Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair.</p><p>“Do you have any other reason to suspect Flint?” Harry asked.</p><p>“His dad’s a convicted Death Eater,” Fred said cooly.</p><p>“And, besides, he was in the shop the other day, trying to pick a fight,” George said. “For no bloody reason at all.”</p><p>“With you?” Harry asked. George nodded. “Over what?”</p><p>George hesitated. He wouldn’t repeat Flint’s words. Not in front of her. “Just being a prat.”</p><p>Harry’s brow furrowed. “Would you mind handing over the memories?” he asked.</p><p>“No, you can have them,” George said, shrugging.</p><p>Fat lot of good it would do. If he hadn’t seen the bloke in the memory, it wouldn’t show up in the Pensieve. But, maybe there’d been a flash of face or something that he hadn’t noticed at the time.</p><p>Harry nodded. “Right, well, I’ll bring them into the Ministry, and we’ll open the investigation.”</p><p>“But you’ll take him in now, though?” George asked, faltering.</p><p>Harry paused. Something cold crept up George’s throat.</p><p>“But we know it was him!” George cried, leaning forward. “It was Flint.”</p><p>“Look,” Harry said as he grimaced. “I don’t doubt you, but we have to be careful.”</p><p>The fire popped.</p><p>“Come on, Harry,” George said, scoffing. “You know as well as I—”</p><p>“We still have to be careful,” Harry cut in, raising his voice above George’s.</p><p>“What, so he walks free while we push parchment around?” George snapped back. “He targeted her!”</p><p>Hermione huffed. “And next time, I’ll be better prepared.” Her voice was cool and level.</p><p>“When we sort the proper evidence, he’ll get what’s coming to him,” Harry said, a dark look filtering into his eyes.</p><p>George stilled. A petty fight in the shop. A flash of cloak in the trees.</p><p>It wouldn’t hold—not with this Wizengamot.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George snapped. “Like Vane?”</p><p>The comment exploded through the air like mortar.</p><p>The room went still.</p><p>“I don’t control the courts,” Harry said softly. “But I do have a small say in how we bring people to them. If we’re careful, we’ll get to the truth and come prepared. With evidence.”</p><p>“Which will take ages, and meanwhile, he’s free to have another go,” George snapped.</p><p>Harry stiffened. “George, there are new rules,” Harry said. “It’s not that I won’t. I can’t. You didn’t lay eyes on his face at the scene. I can bring him in for questioning, but I can’t hold him long. So, we need more.”</p><p>George’s hands tightened on the armrests.</p><p>“Is this because of me?” George asked lowly. “I’m involved, and now you’ve got to be careful because I’m the loose cannon? That it?”</p><p>“Don’t say that,” Hermione said quietly.</p><p>“No,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “But if you’d like to go there, it certainly didn’t help public opinion when you—”</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione said, and at her tone, Harry stopped.</p><p>“It’s fine, Hermione,” George said, tone clipped. “I’m aware of the situation. I know I made it all worse. I lost my temper, and now the Ministry’s got to tiptoe. Right?”</p><p>Harry sighed. “You might’ve been a catalyst for the criticism, but it would’ve happened regardless. And, honestly?” He paused. “We can’t play favorites in pursuit of justice, because then it isn’t really justice, now is it?”</p><p>A pretty turn of phrase, but meanwhile, Flint would loom.</p><p>“Justice is fine and good,” George said. “But that’s not what this feels like.”</p><p>Harry pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No offense, George, but you’re not the most objective party.”</p><p>George went rigid. He hadn’t—</p><p>He turned to Hermione. She watched Harry, a confused look on her face. Harry blinked at her, then went a little bit pink.</p><p>“I mean—” Harry stuttered. “It happened to you. You were directly involved. And-and I’m not objective either. If I wasn’t wearing grey, I’d—” he ducked his head, and his shoulders went tight.</p><p>George exhaled in a whoosh. “Yeah, well, I’m not wearing grey,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s head snapped up. “George, don’t.”</p><p>George folded his arms and shook his head. “I’m not being irrational,” he said. “Flint’s got plenty of motive, he’s got the means, he shows up out of nowhere, and suddenly, Hermione gets attacked. I saw him in the same cloak that I saw at the pond—”</p><p>“George,” Hermione cut in again. “That doesn’t change the rules. We’ve got to have more than the circumstantial.”</p><p>“And if we don’t find it?” George asked quietly.</p><p>No one answered.</p><p>The fear grabbed him.</p><p>“Look, until it’s sorted, I’ll talk to my department head about placing a few aurors in Hogsmeade,” Harry said.</p><p>George nodded, staring at the wall. The plaster was flaking away near the corner of the hearth.</p><p>“We’ll try our best, okay?” Harry said.</p><p>George nodded again. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth so hard.</p><p>“And-and then, once we’ve got the evidence, we’ll bring Flint in proper, and he’ll stand trial,” Harry added.</p><p>“So, he can waltz in, drop Galleons into the right pockets, and waltz out,” George muttered.</p><p>Harry scrubbed his hands over his face.</p><p>“George is right,” Fred said suddenly. “Wizengamot’s a joke.”</p><p>Harry bolted upright. “You don’t think I know that?” he asked. “You have no idea—” His teeth flashed over the word. “—of the sort of pressure—”</p><p>“Harry,” Arthur tried, but Harry shook his head and kept on.</p><p>“No, no,” Harry said, voice shaking slightly. “Sorry, you’ll have to give me a little more time.” He gave a tight, sarcastic frown. “Defeating Voldemort put me a few months back on the schedule for righting the Wizarding World’s every issue, but—” His eyes flashed, and he nodded rapidly as his volume climbed. “I’ll get right on it.” He paused, breathing hard, and his hand flung out. “You think I want Teddy growing up in a world like this?”</p><p>Bloody Hell.</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“I’m doing my best,” Harry choked.</p><p>“Harry,” George said, faltering. “You know that’s not what we meant.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said. “Don’t be a git.”</p><p>The room went quiet.</p><p>The fire cracked.</p><p>“Why don’t we all take a nice, deep breath,” Mr. Weasley said softly, breaking the silence. George watched Harry, uneasy, and his side ached as his lungs filled. Harry’s face was stiff, but he seemed to go along with it, drawing the air in with the rest of them. Arthur paced to Harry, steps slow. “The last time the world fell apart,” he said lightly. “I was only a little older than you.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“Pure-blood riots,” Arthur said, staring at the ceiling. “Terrible darkness, and things only seemed to get worse as they went on. Didn’t help that I was a relatively new father at the time. We lost people that seemed indestructible, and—” He shook his head. “I remember feeling a little like the whole world was shrapnel, and I’d only been given a single jar of glue.”</p><p>Hermione sniffed, and George’s head swiveled. Her eyes were downcast, and her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sock.</p><p>“I thought, ‘Well. That’s it. This isn’t enough to fix it all,’” Mr. Weasley said. He put a hand on Harry’s head. Harry blinked. “It was terribly foolish of me.” His voice took on an amused tone.</p><p>Harry twisted his head and looked up at Mr. Weasley.</p><p>“I forgot I wasn’t the only one with paste,” Arthur said.</p><p>The words echoed softly through the room. George swallowed.</p><p>“That’s great, Mr. Weasley, but they don’t call you ‘Chosen One’ in the papers,” Harry said.</p><p>“No, they call me ‘incompetent nutter,’ I believe.” Arthur snorted. “You’ve a great deal of influence, Harry, I won’t deny it,” Arthur said. “And there is responsibility in that, yes.”</p><p>Arthur crossed to the kitchenette, and the kettle scraped over the stove. “I don’t put much stock in destinies and greatness, but at the very least, you have been irrefutably chosen as a member of this family.”</p><p>Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.</p><p>Arthur chuckled softly to himself. “So, I suppose that might make you a chosen one. One of many.” Mr. Weasley set a fresh mug on the counter. “It’s the bane of my life that not all of my children are on that clock.”</p><p>Arthur glanced up at Harry. Then, his gaze moved to Hermione.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>“Stick together, now,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>#</p><p>Harry escorted Granger home. The floo’s flame had scarcely faded when Mr. Weasley turned on George.</p><p>“A word?” he said. Fred settled on the couch with a mug and nodded for their dad to continue. Arthur paused. “Just George.”</p><p>“I already know everything,” Fred said, not moving. George shoved himself to his feet, wincing at the weariness in his bones.</p><p>“I’m fine, Dad,” he said.</p><p>“Are you?” Arthur’s question was light and careful.</p><p>George stared at his socks. The blanket dangled over them. “Yeah,” he said softly.</p><p>“Georgie, I know what I saw,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“It was nothing,” George said, shuffling to the kitchenette.</p><p>“Nothing?” Fred said, bolting upright on the sofa. “You and Granger were—”</p><p>“Not that, Fred,” Mr. Weasley said, voice steady and soft. George shook his head and gathered all the mugs on the counter into his arms.</p><p>“It was nothing,” he said.</p><p>“You must think I’m terribly thick,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. George’s face contorted, but he didn’t answer. “You think I don’t know the words? The start of it?”</p><p>“I dunno what you’re on about,” George muttered. He began to rest the mugs in the sink’s basin, one by one.</p><p>“You were about to bind yourself to her,” Mr. Weasley said firmly.</p><p>The last mug slipped through his hands and shattered in the sink.</p><p>“What?” Fred’s question was loud and confused.</p><p>“Bugger,” George muttered. He turned. Turned again, scratching at his neck.</p><p>Where was his wand?</p><p>“Or at least try to,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>White porcelain lay in pieces along the copper, water-specked surface.</p><p>“Don’t know how successful you’d have been, without doing it properly,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“I’m sorry—bind?” Fred asked, halting and incredulous.</p><p>“It’s a bit of incredibly rare, old magic,” Mr. Weasley said, watching George. “Pulls you together, sort of. Happened with your mother and I as well.” George’s shoulders stiffened.</p><p>So, that’s what he’d been talking about at the Burrow.</p><p>That’s what it was, then. The sparks. The—the glow.</p><p>“So, Granger feels this too, then?” Fred asked, sounding excited.</p><p>Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. “Not necessarily.”</p><p>It didn’t have to be reciprocal. George’s ribs pressed in, tightening. He firmed his jaw and stooped forward to reach for the next mug shard. Nothing he didn’t already know.</p><p>“But she might,” Mr. Weasley said lightly.</p><p>He blinked hard. His dad meant well, but it wasn’t the same. Granger didn’t—</p><p>George clenched his jaw and reached into the sink, seeking out the broken shards. A twist of magic darted in, vanishing the glass.</p><p>George huffed. “I can handle it,” he snapped. “I don’t need—”</p><p>His dad stepped up to his side.</p><p>“Does she know?” Arthur asked.</p><p>George gripped the sink’s edge, rigid. He sucked a breath in through his nose.</p><p>He’d been about to swear himself to her. Irrevocably. For life.</p><p>He’d meant it, too.</p><p>And she didn’t even have the foggiest that he cared for her.</p><p>George came apart.</p><p>“No,” he gasped.</p><p>Mr. Weasley pulled him in.</p><p>“She doesn’t—doesn’t know. I’m not—”</p><p>Mr. Weasley was a fair bit shorter than him now, but that didn’t matter. George clung to him, hands fisted over the other man’s shoulders.</p><p>“I didn’t know what was happening. I looked at her, and she was glowing, Dad, and suddenly it was coming out of my mouth, and I was—I was—”</p><p>“I know,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. “I know.”</p><p>Fred crossed to the other side of the counter, his face contorted. “Can someone please explain what’s going on?”</p><p>“That’s alright, that’s alright,” Mr. Weasley said gently. “Sometimes this sort of thing happens, right?” George shook his head against the other man’s shoulder, but Arthur carried on, bracing the back of George’s head, speaking in a soft, reassuring tone. “You were tired, and just waking up. With everything that happened today, your magic probably got a little overwhelmed, maybe confused. You’ll be a little more careful about it, and it’ll sort out, okay?”</p><p>“What if it happens again?” George choked.</p><p>“You’ll know what to watch for, so you can manage it and pull back,” Mr. Weasley said firmly. “Until she’s ready.” George flinched, but Arthur’s next words were casual and light. “And then you’ll seal that promise together. Alright?”</p><p>“What sort of promise?” Fred asked slowly.</p><p>“She’s not—” George gritted his teeth and grimaced. “She’s not ever going to—I’m—she doesn’t want me. Not like that.”</p><p>“What sort of promise?” Fred asked again, more loudly this time.</p><p>Arthur shifted, stepping back. He hesitated, glancing between Fred and George. Then, he lifted his left hand, tapping his ring with his thumb. Fred’s eyes went round.</p><p>“And you were about to—?” Fred trailed off, a horrified look coming over him. He stuttered. “Were you trying to marry her?”</p><p>“No!” George cried. “I-I just needed to—I don’t know, promise to—” He blinked hard.</p><p>“Bloody Hell, George, you can’t marry a bird without letting her know,” Fred sputtered.</p><p>“I wasn’t trying to marry her!” George shouted.</p><p>He’d only been trying to vow to take care of her for the rest of his life. It was totally—totally different, really.</p><p>The room stilled. His dad’s face was soft, searching, but George couldn’t handle it. The pity was suffocating. Everything was suffocating.</p><p>“That’s beside the point. It wouldn’t have married them. Wouldn’t have stuck, without the proper—” Mr. Weasley stopped and huffed. “It’s a sort of unbreakable vow, and it’s caste in the same way. Just, leave it, alright?”</p><p>George rubbed his hands over his face and pulled his pocket watch out. It was nearing three.</p><p>“I’ve got to go,” he said stiffly, shouldering past Fred and Mr. Weasley.</p><p>“Where?” Fred asked.</p><p>George shoved his feet in his still-wet boots and snatched a fistful of floo powder. “Healer Marcus’s,” he said, throwing it in. “Standing appointment.” He didn’t bother looking back at them.</p><p>When he stepped out, Marcus was already seated, sipping at a steaming mug as he read a copy of <em>The Quibbler.</em></p><p>George exhaled. “You’re about really earn those Galleons, Mate,” he muttered, heading to the couch.</p><p>#</p><p>When he got back to the flat, it was dark. A lone silhouette leaned against the counter.</p><p>“You’re still here,” George said flatly, kicking his boots off.</p><p>He was tired. It had been a decent appointment, but now he wanted to lay down and sleep for a week.</p><p>Fred pushed from the counter and crossed the floor. “You okay?” he asked.</p><p>George exhaled. “Yes and no,” he said.</p><p>Fred nodded. There was a pause. “Do you—do you see this bloke just about Granger, or is it for more as well?” The question was hesitant and quiet.</p><p>“We talk about all sorts of things,” George said. Fred nodded at the floor. Suddenly, he turned to the shop door, brow furrowing. He didn’t say anything, though. Just stood there, concentrating.</p><p>Fred’s throat bobbed.</p><p>“Freddie?” George asked.</p><p>Fred shrugged. He was breathing a bit fast.</p><p>“Does it, um—” Fred paused, exhaling shortly through his nose. He blinked. George waited. “Does it help?” It was barely audible.</p><p>“I think so,” George said.</p><p>Fred nodded again, frowning. He folded his arms. “Brilliant,” he said. He wouldn’t look at George.</p><p>“Helped with inventing,” George said carefully, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets.</p><p>The line between Fred’s brows deepened. “Yeah?” he asked.</p><p>“Loads,” George said lightly. It wasn’t a lie. But it was also what Fred would want to hear. What he might need to hear, maybe.</p><p>“How do you mean?” Fred asked, still not meeting his eyes.</p><p>“I was stuck in a rut, overwhelmed all the time. But talking with a Healer like this helps sort through the mess.” George paused, watching Fred. “I mean, it’s not like it fixes everything, but it’s like a little toolkit, right? Helps me reach for better ways to cope when I’m upset.”</p><p>Fred scratched at his ear. “So, what, you just, um—” he sounded nothing like his regular, confident self. “—floo-ed Mungo’s, or—?”</p><p>George nodded. “I met with someone there; they referred me. Next person gave me a list to review. I chose one based on the profiles.” He crossed to the fridge and swung it open.</p><p>“That sounds complicated,” Fred said.</p><p>George tugged a couple of butterbeers free and tossed one in Fred’s direction. “It wasn’t,” he said, staring straight at Fred.</p><p>Fred cracked the drink open and took a swig. “So, he’s a decent bloke?”</p><p>George nodded and leaned back against the counter.</p><p>“Gryffindor?” Fred asked.</p><p>George snorted. “Hufflepuff, actually,” he said.</p><p>Fred grimaced. “I’ll have to pick someone else, then.”</p><p>George threw his head back and laughed.</p><p>#</p><p>December 30, 1998</p><p>George flipped his wand in his hand, casting a Tergeo over the shop windows as he shoved the key into the lock. The glass’s sleet stains from the night before wisped away, and the panes shone. He thought for a moment before casting an extra protective ward over the doorway. Then, he hopped over the counter, taking a seat at the kitchen chair he’d dragged in and propping his feet up by the till.</p><p>He took his knitting out, tilting the seat back on its hind legs. The gold yarn project was still coming together.</p><p>The speakers played some of Granger’s muggle stuff. Abba, and it was nice.</p><p>
  <em>“You must have a lovelight—” </em>
</p><p>George bobbed his head, mouthing along to it, brow furrowed as he sped the yarn around the needle.</p><p>
  <em>“Everything around you is lovelight.”</em>
</p><p>The bell chimed as the wards sent a fizzle over his skin. Not family. George dropped the knitting.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley,” Rita Skeeter simpered at him, Quick Quotes Quill already going mad over the notepad over her shoulder. A tall man stood at her left, bored look splashed across his face.</p><p>George narrowed his eyes, swinging his boots from the counter to the floor. “Unless this is shop related, I’m going to ask you to leave.”</p><p>They ran ads in <em>The Prophet</em> from time to time. The paper had never sent Skeeter as a representative, though. George folded his arms.</p><p>“In a way, it is,” Rita said, waving a hand at him. “Since it has to do with you.”</p><p>George jerked his chin towards the door. “Not good enough,” he said flatly.</p><p>“We thought you’d like to give a statement on this?” She waltzed forward, dropping a paper on the counter. George glanced down.</p><p>A large photo of him, holding a bundle of baby socks graced <em>The Resonant’</em>s cover.</p><p>
  <em>“George Weasley’s Secret Love Child.”</em>
</p><p>Merlin’s pants.</p><p>George threw his head back, exploding into laughter.</p><p>It wasn’t funny. It really wasn’t funny. But he couldn’t stop.</p><p>Skeeter was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her, lurching forward and clutching his stomach as the laughter rocked him.</p><p>He gasped, bending over.</p><p>Rita’s lips were pressed into a thin smile. “A simple statement would—”</p><p>“Oh—” George wheezed. “Oh, Helga’s Garden.”</p><p>“Is there a child?” Rita’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Doesn’t matter what I say!” George cried, gripping the counter as he gasped. “You lot will run it anyway.”</p><p>“Is there a child or isn’t there?” she asked crisply. A flash lit the store.</p><p>George stiffened at the camera strobe. “Get out,” he said, straightening and thrusting a finger to the door. The man lowered the equipment.</p><p>Rita and the man backed away, and the bell chimed.</p><p>George swallowed. They’d left the paper on the counter.</p><p>He shouldn’t look.</p><p>But he did.</p><p>A few paragraphs in, his stomach twisted. He should’ve known they’d bring her into it.</p><p>
  <em>“The identity of the mother is still in question. The likely choice seems to be Miss Hermione Granger. After all, the two’s illicit affair has been ongoing for several months. However, it’s possible Weasley has a second mistress on the side.” </em>
</p><p>The article devolved into speculation over Hermione’s body, capacity for motherhood—which it claimed to be lacking, and how this development might fit into a pattern of <em>“flighty behavior.” </em>George’s jaw grew tighter and tighter as he read.</p><p>He had to fix this.</p><p>He bolted out of the shop, not bothering to grab his coat and shooting a shoddy locking charm over his shoulder. The small extension office for <em>The Daily Prophet</em> squatted across the street, but it still looked abandoned, as it had been since the battle. The windows were boarded up, and no one stood in front.</p><p>Had they gone? He whirled.</p><p>There.</p><p>Rita and the photographer were nearing the end of High Street, chatting animatedly. George apparated, popping in front of them just before the Grinkit Lane sign.</p><p>Skeeter jumped back at the sound of his apparition.</p><p>“Wait,” he gasped, running a hand down his face. “Granger, um—” George shook his head, trying to clear it. “I’m not romantically involved with Hermione Granger.”</p><p>Rita’s brows rose.</p><p>George pointed at her notepad, which was still in her hand. “Write that bit down,” he said. “I’m not—we’re not—”</p><p>Rita’s quill sprang to action.</p><p>“But isn’t Miss Granger very nice?” she asked sweetly. “The two of you have been photographed together quite often, have you not?”</p><p>“She’s family,” George said, grimacing as he remembered the earlier article. “One of my best mates. Don’t be—don’t be gross.”</p><p>There. That would do it.</p><p>“So you find her repulsive?” Skeeter asked, lifting her brows.</p><p>“No!” George cried. “She’s lovely, but—”</p><p>“The idea of being with her is repulsive?” Skeeter prompted. George’s face heated.</p><p>Oh, this was a bad idea.</p><p>“I-I—” he blanked.</p><p>Skeeter’s quill was going wild.</p><p>George sucked in a breath.</p><p>What was something he could see? The sign was a light, weathered wood, and the script on it had been roughly carved.</p><p>Skeeter’s quill made a scratching sound on the paper.</p><p>His hands and face were cold.</p><p>George exhaled.</p><p>“I’m not sure what you’re trying to get at,” he said smoothly. “But my point is that Hermione and I are friends. Any writing otherwise is rubbish.”</p><p>Skeeter’s quill faltered, then dropped.</p><p>He apparated away, before she could try to spin the story in a different, more horrifying direction.</p><p>#</p><p>Unlike last time, Hermione wasn’t in his flat when he returned.</p><p>George locked the shop, spent a good hour pacing and muttering. Surely, she’d have seen it by now. But, then again, maybe Skeeter hadn’t stopped by her flat for comment like she had with his. <em>The Prophet </em>was marginally better than <em>The Resonant</em> at fact checking, but not by much.</p><p>George snatched the paper up, thrusting it into his pocket. He was so thick. He never should’ve held the pack of baby socks for that long, considering—</p><p>He stopped himself.</p><p>He could hold socks if he bloody well wanted to. They were the problem, not him. He took another, slow breath.</p><p>Was Granger alright?</p><p>Godric, he was going to wear a hole through the floor.</p><p>He tried to make some tea, but halfway through filling the kettle, he broke. The kettle hit the sink’s basin with a clank, and he flipped the faucet off, striding to the hearth.</p><p>“Granger’s,” he snapped, whipping his arm back. He’d only meant to call. But he was leaning a bit far, and he threw the powder a little harder than necessary, and the resulting explosion knocked him off-balance.</p><p>George tumbled through.</p><p>The blaze whooshed in his ears as he rolled out, onto Hermione’s living room floor.</p><p>It was dark. “Hermione?” he called. Soft voices echoed from the corner, but suddenly, the sound fizzled out. “Sorry—I fell through—” George shoved a hand under himself, wincing.</p><p>A sharp sniff echoed from the sofa.</p><p>George stilled, drawing himself up to his hands and knees. “I—I can come back,” he said, staring at the floor. His sleeve was covered in soot, and when he rubbed a palm down his face in frustration, it came away with a dark, charcoal streak.</p><p>Another sniff.</p><p>“Are you alright, Granger?” he asked.</p><p>No answer.</p><p>Slowly, he peered upwards.</p><p>Hermione huddled on the middle of the couch, duvet wrapped tightly around her body and over her head. A cannister of ice cream lay open in her lap, and a spoon rested inside the carton. Her eyes were round in shock, tear streaks down her face as she watched him.</p><p>An empty, rectangular, cardboard sleeve with “<em>While You Were Sleeping”</em> printed on the front littered the table, just beside a copy of <em>The Resonant</em>.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George glanced from the article to Hermione, pushing to his feet. She didn’t say anything. George blinked hard, wiping his hands on his apron.</p><p>She watched him, waiting. She almost looked nervous.</p><p>George took in a breath, searching her face.</p><p>Okay, alright. How to—how to fix this.</p><p>“I was thinking Minerva if it’s a girl,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes closed, and she exhaled a short breath. “Merlin’s beard, that is not funny,” she groaned, pulling the duvet over her head.</p><p>George cocked a brow. “What, you don’t fancy that name?” He worked his wand over his sleeve, vanishing the soot.</p><p>Hermione pushed the blanket back and rolled her eyes, then dug the spoon deeper in the carton.</p><p>But she snorted.</p><p>George loped to the couch and dropped onto the cushion beside her. “I’ve got to outdo Harry if I want my photo on her wall,” he quipped, pulling the spoon from her hands. “This is my chance.” He popped the bite into his mouth and handed it back.</p><p>Merlin, he was pushing it.</p><p>“I’m glad that you can see a bright spot in this,” she muttered. George shrugged and dropped his left arm along the sofa’s top. Hermione leaned back, and he could feel the heat from her shoulders, just out of reach.</p><p>George propped his feet on the coffee table.</p><p>“If I’m not forwarding the Weasley line, it could very well die out,” he said.</p><p>A laugh sputtered out of her. “Can’t have that,” she said, quirking her brows and working the spoon into the carton again.</p><p>“Only half a dozen more chances, really,” he said. “There’s a lot riding on me.”</p><p>“Undoubtably,” Hermione said dryly, spoon in mouth. She’d set the small television up on the side table in front of the windows again, and she was twisted slightly in the cushion, facing away from him, towards set.</p><p>The screen was frozen, and a woman with dark hair sat in a glass booth. He glanced at it. Hermione noticed the direction of his gaze and hurriedly flicked her wand. The set’s power died.</p><p>“I think you’re better off with your mistress, though,” she said, scooping out another bite.</p><p>“Jealous, are we?” he asked, reaching his right arm around her for the spoon.</p><p>“Not particularly,” Hermione said, sounding a little pinched. “But, provided she’s not cold like me, she’ll make a good mother.”</p><p>George’s hand stilled.</p><p>“That’s rubbish,” he said quietly. “You’re the warmest person I’ve ever met.” He dug the spoon in to nick a bit more, then drew it over her head, to his mouth. He paused, searching for the right words. “Regardless of whether you’d like to be a mother or not someday, don’t worry about that.” He waited, spoon aloft, to see if she’d reply. When she didn’t, he popped it into his mouth.</p><p>Good Merlin, it was addictive. Best ice cream he’d ever tried. Loaded in chocolate. “This a muggle flavor?” he asked, distracted.</p><p>Suddenly, Granger plunked the carton on the table and twisted towards him, throwing her arms around his middle. George paused, clean spoon in the air. Hermione’s face pressed against his chest.</p><p>He blinked. “Granger?”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m not going to cry on you again,” she said, face hidden in his apron. George stilled and lowered the spoon.</p><p>“It’s alright if you do,” he said quietly.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “No, I-I hate that,” she said. “I fell apart yesterday. The water and everything—” she paused. “I’m used to this sort of thing, you know?” Her pitch swung high, unsteady.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“But you wouldn’t think so, given how I totally failed to be of any use.” She wouldn’t look up at him, and her curls brushed his jaw.</p><p>George hesitated. “Hermione—”</p><p>She inhaled sharply. “I’m so sorry, I just panicked, and it was like I couldn’t breathe, and you got stuck with it. With me like that, crying like a helpless child.”</p><p>George eased his arm around her shoulders, giving her a tight squeeze. “You’re not helpless, Granger,” he said quietly.</p><p>“I know,” the reply was sniffed into his shirt. “But I acted like I was, and I hate that.” She pulled back, scrubbing a palm across her cheek. “I’ve just been holed up, thinking about it all day, and when I finally made myself go outside—”</p><p>Her gaze flicked to the paper on the table.</p><p>George’s face contorted.</p><p>“And now I’m crying to you about this, too.” She groaned and covered her face in her hands. “Merlin, you must be tired of me.”</p><p>“No,” the word was a little too sudden coming out of his mouth. Hermione stilled. “Um—” George swallowed thickly and darted forward, snagging the carton from the table. “Granger, have you ever thought about how many times I’ve hit rock bottom in front of you?”</p><p>She paused.</p><p>“I-I don’t—” Her voice was faint.</p><p>“More than a few, I’d wager,” he said, pointing the spoon at her, not looking up. “So, come off it with this ‘I can’t cry or I’ll annoy people’ business. I reckon we’re past that by now, don’t you?”</p><p>There was a moment of silence.</p><p>“Okay,” she whispered.</p><p>“Talk to me or don’t. I’m not going to be put out by it,” George muttered, digging the spoon around a large chunk of chocolate. The duvet rustled as Hermione clutched it tighter around her.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said lightly.</p><p>“Anytime,” George said, chewing. He glanced up at her. Hermione turned her head, hesitating as she watched him. She bit her lip.</p><p>“What?” George asked.</p><p>“You’ve got something on your face,” she said. George scrubbed the back of his spoon-bearing hand over his cheek. Hermione breathed out a laugh. “No, you’re—you’re making it worse.” George scrubbed harder, and Hermione reached up, pulling his wrist away.</p><p>Her eyes flickered over his, then down towards his mouth. Had it gotten there?</p><p>Suddenly, Hermione raised her wand, and the Scourgify rolled off of it, sparking over his skin.</p><p>She settled back onto her cushion.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said, face heating.</p><p>Hermione cleared her throat and shrugged. She was faced away again, towards the blank screen and the empty cushion, and he couldn’t see her expression past the duvet bundled around her. It didn’t help that the whole thing smelled of bloody Chamomile, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about how close she’d been just moments ago, which was rubbish because she didn’t need him thinking about that just now. Not when she’d been crying.</p><p>Which he still had to fix, really.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “It was a bit shocking to find out from the paper,” he said. “Would’ve thought you’d at least send an owl.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed and turned towards him. “I hardly have time for that,” she said dryly. “Being involved in a torrid affair is exhausting.”</p><p>George grinned and tugged lightly on one of her curls. “Unforgiveable,” he said. “I expect to be informed if I’ve fathered a child.”</p><p>“No, it’s far too much trouble to send a note,” she said, sighing. “You’ll have to marry me if you want timely updates.”</p><p>“Alright,” George said calmly, dipping the spoon into the carton.</p><p>Hermione stilled, blinking at him.</p><p>George glanced up at her.</p><p>Instantaneously, they both broke into laughter.</p><p>“We can elope—” Hermione wheezed, leaning forward. “Have the baby abroad.”</p><p>George nodded, keeping his face serious. “Anything that makes you happy, Dear,” he said.</p><p>“I’ll have a simple, white dress,” Hermione said, ticking things off on her fingers. “And you can put on that suit you had for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and we can hide in Switzerland until the chaos dies down.”</p><p>George’s face contorted. “Oi, I’m a man of means,” he said, poking her arm with the spoon. “I can get a new suit for my own wedding.”  </p><p>“No, we’re in far too great a rush,” Hermione said, holding up a hand.</p><p>George lifted his brows and leaned in. “Trying to snatch me up before I change my mind, are we?” he asked lowly. She grinned and seized the carton.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze twinkled. “No, I’m just terribly impatient,” she said, bugging her eyes out.</p><p>George’s heart squeezed in on itself.</p><p>If only.</p><p>George forced a snort through his nose. “Right.” He darted forward, yanking the carton back.</p><p>But she wasn’t through.</p><p>“And then we’ll move to London,” she said, bouncing in her seat and grabbing his shoulders. “And we can live in Diagon Alley, above the shop, and you’ll—”</p><p>George barked out a laugh at the thought of Hermione Jean Granger, living above a prank shop.</p><p>“No, really, wait-wait-wait,” Hermione said, gasping and waving her hand around. “And-and you’ll be an inventor, and I’ll do my advocacy, and together we’ll raise a perfectly—” she sucked in a breath, shoulders shaking as she laughed. “—<em>functional</em> human being.”</p><p>George coughed in surprise at the emphasis she placed on the word. “Aim high?” he said, managing a lopsided grin.</p><p>Hermione couldn’t answer. She could hardly breathe, clutching his forearm.</p><p>“Thought about this, have you?” he asked wryly.</p><p>“Loads,” Hermione said, wiping her eyes. “Since the start of our unseemly entanglement, really.”</p><p>Images of it—the two of them in London, living some fairytale life began to crowd his mind. George shook his head and grinned at her, shoving aside the way his insides were swooping.</p><p>Hermione’s curls were a mess, flattened and sticking to the side of her round, smiling cheeks, and her eyes were crinkled so tightly that he could only just make out the shade of brown, and Merlin, he’d never wanted anything more in his life.</p><p>But she was only joking. There wouldn’t be rings. There wouldn’t be promises. And worst of all, years from now, in the flat above Diagon Alley, there wouldn’t be a Granger—not in the way she’d described.</p><p>Not a single one, tripping across the living room as she shoved her socks on. No Granger sprawled over the bed with a book in one hand and a tea in the other. There wouldn’t be a Granger reading aloud on his sofa, combing a hand through his hair. No. No, Hermione Jean wouldn’t be in his arms, whispering about nonsense in the early hours of the morning. There wouldn’t be Granger, dancing in his living room.</p><p>Most days, there would be no Granger at 93 Diagon Alley. And if there was, she wouldn’t be wearing his jumper. In fact, she might even be wearing someone else’s.</p><p>George swallowed, looking down at his hands. He shouldn’t have let himself think about it.</p><p>There wouldn’t be a Granger to take care of. And there wouldn’t be a Granger taking care of him.</p><p>It hurt like Crucio.</p><p>“You okay?” Hermione’s voice was soft, and her hands slipped off of him.</p><p>George winced. “Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got a bit of a headache all the sudden.”</p><p>“Oh.” Her voice went quiet. He was about to stand when the green flame rushed from the floo, and Harry stepped out.</p><p>“Questioned Flint,” he said, dusting his grey sleeves off. He stopped at the sight of the two of them. George stilled as he realized their position.</p><p>They’d been leaning, closer and closer in the silliness, and his arm was still around the back of the sofa. She was basically almost under it, and it—it looked like something it wasn’t.</p><p>George balked, darting backwards.</p><p>Harry raised his brows, pulling a pair of gloves from his hands. “Everything alright?”</p><p>“You can hardly fault us, Harry. We’ve just learned we’re having a baby,” Hermione said flatly.</p><p>“Sorry, what?” Harry said, tipping his head forward, eyes going round. His gaze found George, and furtive and intense as Hermione reached over the table and shoved the paper at Harry. George rubbed the back of his neck. Harry glanced at the paper, then lifted it, brow contorting.</p><p>There was no sound as he mouthed the words, but the other man’s expression grew tighter and tighter as he read. When he was through, Harry looked between the two of them while he neatly folded the pages in half, then crumpled them into a ball.</p><p>It rattled as it tumbled into the fireplace. The flame roared, and Harry’s expression was neutral, shoulders straight as the fire licked through the paper, turning it to ash.</p><p>The blaze cut with a snap, leaving nothing behind.</p><p>Bloke hadn’t even pulled a wand out.</p><p>“Any other announcements?” Harry asked dryly. Hermione shook her head and snorted. “Brilliant.” Harry’s voice went light, and he strode to the kitchen. “I’m making tea.”</p><p>Hermione stood to follow him.</p><p>George tipped his head back. “Don’t worry, Harry. If it’s a boy, we’ll name it Harry-Chosen-One-Potter—all one word, mind,” he called. “Second name: ‘Boy-who-lived.’”</p><p>“I will straight up murder you if you do that,” Harry said calmly, not bothering with the stove and lighting his wand under the kettle.</p><p>“That’s not a very good attitude,” George said, pushing to his feet.</p><p>“I expressly forbid any of my friends from naming a child after me,” Harry said. Hermione leaned against the kitchen threshold, and George rose to stand beside her, watching.</p><p>He still hadn’t mentioned more on Flint. George shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.</p><p>Harry flicked his wand, and a single box of Peppermint Tea burst from the back of the cupboard, toppling the tins in front of it. Hermione’s wand flashed before they could hit the ground, righting them into place.</p><p> The kettle whistled, and Harry stuck his wand handle in his mouth before splashing the water into three mugs. Hermione followed in his wake, cleaning up the mess. Harry glanced at her, flashing a warm smile as she shoved him out of the way. He turned to George, placing the mug in his hands without a word.</p><p>George lifted his brows, waiting.</p><p>The other boy hesitated.</p><p>“Get on with it, Mate,” George said. “What were you saying about Flint?”</p><p>Harry’s gaze dropped to his cup. “Right, um—We found Flint in one of the newer flats east of High Street,” Harry said. “He’s staying there while he scouts for the Falmouth Falcons.”</p><p>“Yeah, loads of Quidditch to watch during hols,” George said, tone acid.</p><p>Harry exhaled in a frustrated huff. “You know as well as I that it’s not unusual for scouts to arrive a bit early,” he said.</p><p>George rolled his eyes. “Bloke’s career is a joke. Went four and twenty his last season, then quit a year early. Why’ve they got him scouting? He wouldn’t know a good player if they hit him in the head with a bat—and Fred has. And he’s still thick.”</p><p>Harry snorted, but Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Look, we’re still sorting the evidence,” Harry said. “But he claims he wasn’t anywhere near the pond. Said he was working a report for his boss in preparation for the next match.” He didn’t look at George as he said it.</p><p>“That’s not till the eighth,” George said. “Still over a week out.”</p><p>Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “He showed it to me,” he said. “Right then and there.”</p><p>“Cause he couldn’t have made it up at literally any other time,” George said, drawing his hand from his pocket and lifting it in a sarcastic shrug.</p><p>“I agree, Mate. I’m just telling you where the investigation’s at, presently,” Harry said, giving George a frustrated look. “We still have to sort your Pensieve bits, so give it time.”</p><p>“Where is he now?” George asked quietly.</p><p>“At the place he’s renting,” Harry said.</p><p>“And where’s that?” George asked.</p><p>Harry didn’t answer.</p><p>“Harry—” George stepped forward, jaw tightening.</p><p>“Why, want to nip over for a cuppa?” Harry snapped, turning to face him.</p><p>The silence was strained.</p><p>“Personally,” Hermione said lightly. “I’d like to know so I can avoid it.”</p><p>Harry pulled his glasses off.</p><p>“If I tell you, I need your promise that you’ll let us handle it. That means no confronting him, no charging over there and—”</p><p>“Yeah, I get it,” George said, staring hard at the wall.</p><p>Harry lifted his mug and took a drink. Then, he rested it back on the counter. The group was silent as Harry concentrated, twisting the mug in a circle by the handle. The ceramic scraped on the counter. Finally, he said, “Off the record, you’d do best avoiding the second to last house on the row, then.” Harry folded his arms. “We’re doing this above board.” He hesitated, then added: “You’ve got to keep your hands to yourself, George.”</p><p>George nodded, stiff. It felt a bit too much like getting lectured or having house points taken off, only worse. It was coming from Harry, and that didn’t sit well. He used to be on equal footing with Harry. Blimey, he’d looked after Harry.</p><p>Now, it seemed that Harry saw him as a problem to solve.</p><p>“I’m serious. You go over there, and it’ll complicate everything,” Harry said.</p><p>“I get it,” George said, and the words were clipped.</p><p>Harry exhaled in a whoosh. “We’ve got people monitoring the house. We need the two of you to keep your head low and stay out of trouble, alright?”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. He turned on his heel, heading for the floo. “Thanks, Mate.”</p><p>He didn’t wait for a reply before tossing the powder in.</p><p>#</p><p>December 31, 1998</p><p>As the Hogwarts Express wouldn’t return until that weekend, the Three Broomsticks was rather empty, save for their group and a few other “eighth-year” students who lingered at tables along the walls. The special floo connection between the shops had gotten quite a bit of use that day, and Harry, Ginny, Luna, Lee, Fred, Angelina, Hermione, and George were crowded around couple of tables in the corner.</p><p>Music boomed through the speakers Lee had rigged in front of the small stage at the front. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad way to spend New Year’s Eve, but George had his eyes glued to the door.</p><p>Just in case.</p><p>“To the lot of us!” Lee shouted, raising his butterbeer. “May our next year be far more boring than our last.”</p><p>Hermione laughed and clinked her bottle against Lee’s. “Here’s hoping,” she said dryly.</p><p>“Not too boring, though,” Fred called, dancing off-beat to a song he almost certainly didn’t know. Angelina watched, amused as he circled around her.</p><p>“We’d have to try pretty bloody hard to make it more interesting than the last twelve months,” Harry said. “Last year, at this time, we were stuck in a tent—”</p><p>Fred stopped abruptly. “Oh, tell us more about the tent, Harry,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Love a good tent story.” Angelina smacked at Fred’s shoulder. “Riveting stuff, that.” Fred nicked Angelina’s butterbeer and took a swig.</p><p>George glanced at the door.</p><p>No one new had been in for an hour or so.</p><p>“It true you camped for a whole year?” Lee asked, grinning.</p><p>“Yes,” Harry said. “And if I never see a tent again, I’ll be chuffed.” His posture was loose, and his arm was draped around Ginny’s shoulders.</p><p>“I’ve always wondered—what’d the three of you do to pass time?” Angelina asked. “You know, between the saving the world bits.”</p><p>Harry paused. Then he turned to Ginny. “Well—” His eyes skated over her face. “I had this spare bit of parchment, enchanted to show people’s location in the castle, and—”</p><p>“We’re all familiar with the article in question, Harry,” Lee said, sounding a little amused.</p><p>George snorted.</p><p>The door was still clear of people.</p><p>“Oh, right,” Harry said, glancing around the table. He glanced back at Ginny, and his face looked a little red under the lights. “Well, I’d take out the map, and I’d look for Ginny’s name. Make sure she was alright.”</p><p>“Not what we had mind when we gave it to you,” Fred said dryly.</p><p>“Shut it. I think it’s wonderful,” Ginny said, grinning at Harry.</p><p>“What about you, Hermione?” Angelina asked.</p><p>“Reading, mostly,” Hermione said. She flashed a wry smile and took a pull from her drink.</p><p>“I like camping,” Luna said simply. “I used to go with my Mum.” George glanced at the door. “Are you expecting someone, George?” Luna asked.</p><p>George faltered. “Um—no,” he said.</p><p>Luna went up on her tiptoes, looking towards the entryway. “I thought you might be,” she said. George sipped his drink and shook his head, ignoring the burning feeling of Hermione’s eyes on him.</p><p>Suddenly, Granger ducked towards him. “You okay?” she asked quietly.</p><p>George bobbed his head.</p><p>Hermione frowned. “Are you sure, because—” her voice faded, and she turned as the song on the speaker switched to the next on Lee’s set.</p><p>The opening bars of “Hermione’s Army” began to play.</p><p>Granger tipped her head back, groaning. “This song is ridiculous,” she said. “Honestly.”</p><p>Lee grinned, and Fred laughed outright.</p><p>George scratched the back of his neck, checking the door again, but his insides tightened at her words.</p><p>“No, really,” she said. “I know you think it’s funny—you used to play it on Potterwatch all the time. But it’s rubbish, and if I could throttle whoever made it, I would. Please play something else.” Heat licked up George’s throat to his face.</p><p>Lee’s grin spread wider.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>“George,” Hermione turned, appealing to him.</p><p>“Funny you say that, Granger,” Lee said, backing towards the stage. Lee motioned to him and Fred, beckoning at them to follow him up. Fred laughed and dashed forward.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Might as well get it over with. They wouldn’t relent.</p><p>George took a long pull from his butterbeer. “I agree,” George said faintly, staring at the back wall. “It’s absolute rubbish.” Then, for good measure, he drained the rest and slammed the bottle on the table. “Excuse me.”</p><p>Without turning to look at her, he strode to the stage. “I’m going to kill you both,” he muttered, but the sound system picked it up, and the room laughed.</p><p>The opening riff started, and Lee leaned into the mic. “This is an original song that I’d like to dedicate to my good friend, Hermione Granger,” he said, pointing at her.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes went wide, and she paled.</p><p>“But, don’t throttle me. George is the one who wrote it!” Lee added. Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth.</p><p>Of course he’d added that bit in. George scrubbed his hands over his face.</p><p>Harry lost it, bent over laughing.</p><p>Hermione dropped her hands, mouthing, “I’m so sorry!” at him, but George shrugged and turned to Lee.</p><p>“Get on with it, Lee,” he yelled, circling his finger in the air. “Or you lose your backup singers.”</p><p>The next four minutes were chaos. Lee sang, and Fred and George shouted into the mic, and it sounded bloody awful. Halfway through, Hermione was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.</p><p>It wasn’t so bad.</p><p>They bounded off the stage after, rejoining the group.</p><p>Hermione hiccupped as he reached her side, staring up at him. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Truly, I had no idea.”</p><p>The speakers started in on a song by The Weird Sisters, and George shrugged, turning over the empty Butterbeer bottle in his hands.</p><p>Fred cracked open a fresh butterbeer. “So he didn’t tell you about when he wrote it?” Fred laughed, leaning over the table.</p><p>No.</p><p>“No, is it a good story?” Hermione asked, leaning in.</p><p>No.</p><p>Fred grinned.</p><p>“Freddie—” George started, alarm lancing through him.</p><p>Fred didn’t seem to hear him. “So, last fall, we got this letter from Bill, explaining that Ron had left you both, and George wasn’t having it.” Fred said, gesturing towards the table as he spoke over the music. “But it was just after he got tortured at the Ministry, you see—” At the sound of the word “tortured,” Hermione stiffened, but Fred’s gaze was focused on the table, and he didn’t notice.</p><p>“Fred—” George repeated, more loudly, but Fred waved him off.</p><p>“—so, the bloke’s barely on his feet. But, there he was, limping through the flat, shouting about you and Harry needing help, trying to pack a trunk so he could up and find you both,” Fred continued.</p><p>Godric, no. That was—that sounded—</p><p>George buried his head in his hands. Granger was frozen. “Like some sort of madman. I had to physically restrain him.” Fred clapped a hand on George’s shoulder, but George barely registered the touch, the room spinning around him.</p><p>“Finally, he listened to reason,” Fred shouted to be heard over the music’s crescendo. “But he didn’t want you thinking you were alone out there, you know. So he wrote this song, we recorded it, and then we played it every broadcast, hoping you would hear it!” Fred jostled George’s shoulder, and George yanked away, training his eyes on the tabletop.</p><p>If only he could melt into the floor and disappear.</p><p>There was a sobbing sound, and suddenly, Hermione collided with him, arms thrown round his middle.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“You did that?” she choked. Warmth blossomed through his ribs, and George stammered.</p><p>“It-it wasn’t that big a deal,” he said. “Lee did the music, and Fred’s the one who got it started.”</p><p>“He’s being modest,” Fred yelled over the music, pointing at George. “I only put the parchment in front of him. The words were all his.”</p><p>Hermione’s arms tightened around him, and George’s face flamed.</p><p>“You’re a git,” he mouthed at Fred. Fred shrugged.</p><p>“Oh look, something terribly important we’ve all got to see to,” Fred called, yanking the others with him. Luna said something about Nargles as they walked away, and Ginny laughed.</p><p>Hermione didn’t let go.</p><p>“Granger, you don’t have to pretend you liked it,” he said, lifting his arms from her grip and trying to gently remove her. “Really, it’s fine.” Hermione still didn’t let go.</p><p>She was snug and warm against his chest, and George sucked in a breath, tipping his head back as he focused on the ceiling. “C’mon, Granger,” he said, strained. “It’s alright.” He pushed on her shoulders with a light touch.</p><p>At that, Hermione stepped back, her eyes wide. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” George said, giving her a soft nudge and what he hoped was a brotherly smile.</p><p>Hermione shook her head and reached up, taking his face in her hands.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Sparks sang under her fingers, and George’s breath hitched.</p><p>“George Weasley,” she said, breathless. “You are wonderful.” Then, she yanked him down, pressing a fast kiss to his cheek.</p><p>George tripped into the table, his elbow catching the side of it as bewilderment pounded through him.</p><p>His mind had gone blank, the world tipped on its axis as he gripped the table’s edge, blinking at her, and then Hermione stepped away, swiping at her face with her palms.</p><p>“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me—”</p><p>“Perfectly alright,” George said faintly, steadying himself against the table before he pushed himself to a stand.</p><p>“It’s only—no one has ever done something like that for me,” she said, a bit shaky.</p><p>“That’s what family’s for,” George said roughly, frowning and clearing his throat.</p><p>Hermione shook her head, smiling. Then, she proceeded across the room to Ginny.</p><p>George exhaled. The spot her lips had touched almost burned, his magic sparking hot across his skin.</p><p>Then, someone stepped up to his opposite side.</p><p>“Well,” Harry said, taking a swig from his butterbeer. George jumped. He hadn’t realized that Harry had stayed behind when the rest of the group moved. Harry watched him with that same, unsettlingly neutral expression on his face.</p><p>George exhaled, jaw tightening. “Have out with it,” he said. “It’s not what you think, but have out with it.”</p><p>Harry watched the group across the room. He took a slow drink. “You were tortured at the Ministry?” he asked.</p><p>What?</p><p>George balked. “That’s not—”</p><p>“George,” Harry said, not looking at him.</p><p>“Yes,” George said. “Alright, yeah.”</p><p>Harry’s next question was barely audible. “Who?”</p><p>“Umbridge,” George said. “Vane and Travers brought me in.”</p><p>“At least Travers is in Azkaban,” Harry said, staring at the table.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“Percy mentioned something in passing after the Wizengamot incident, but he didn’t clarify that it had been that bad,” Harry said, turning to look at him. “Why didn’t you say something?”</p><p>George shrugged. “Couldn’t think of a good punchline,” he said. Harry’s gaze was calculating, and George didn’t care for it. He crossed the room to join the others.</p><p>#</p><p>January 1, 1999, 7 a.m.</p><p>“What are you talking about? She kissed you!” Fred said, needling as he followed George through the shop before opening. “On the cheek, but still—she looked pretty happy with you, Mate.”</p><p>George slammed a crate onto the shelf, whirling around.</p><p>Fred crossed his arms.</p><p>“Rather wish you hadn’t,” George snapped. “Now, she’s going to think she’s indebted to me, and that’s the last thing I want.”</p><p>Fred huffed. “Or you’re misunderstanding, and she’s growing to see what’s right in front of her face,” he said.</p><p>“Fred, stop,” George said, whirling towards him. “I know what you’re hoping, but stop. The ship has sailed. Gone out to harbor. It’s not going to happen, nor will it ever. I’ve made peace with that, actually.” Fred rolled his eyes, but George kept going. “No, really. I have. I’m happy to be in her life and to have her trust, and I wouldn’t do—” He stepped close. “Anything to violate that or make her uncomfortable, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen if you keep meddling.”</p><p>Fred unfolded his arms. “I wasn’t meddling,” he said. “I was telling her a fact that she had the right to know.”</p><p>George shoved past him.</p><p>“You’re so thick!” Fred called.</p><p>“No, Freddie, I just don’t have my head in stuck in a Daydream Charm like you do,” George roared, snapping the door shut on his way into the back room.</p><p>He waited, expecting Fred to follow him in.</p><p>But Fred didn’t.</p><p>#</p><p>January 2, 1999</p><p>Hogsmeade was packed with older students, fresh off the Hogwarts Express, and George had to fight through a crowd to get into Keddle’s.</p><p>Dorothy Keddle’s umber face was lined with focus behind the bar top. Her wand danced in a constant stream of motion—filling mugs, levitating trays, and casting Tergeos over her shoulder to wipe up the spills. The former Hufflepuff used to work for Puddifoot before venturing out on her own. But now, her tea and bakery had surpassed Puddifoot’s in popularity, and she’d had to bring on a new hire to keep up with the rush.</p><p>The clerk was a scrawny, pale older woman with white hair that hung around her cheeks, but her voice was loud enough to project over the chaos. “Next!” she shouted. The clutch of Ravenclaws in front of them moved to the side wall.</p><p>“I was going to suggest we watch it,” Hermione said, continuing in their conversation. George nodded.</p><p>“Why don’t we?” he asked, almost yelling to be heard over the noise. Three vast, rattling cylinders squatted along the back counter, temperature gauges cranked to the red, steam bursting from the vents on the tops.</p><p>“Well—” Hermione started, but the clerk shouted, and it was their turn.</p><p>George leaned over the counter. “Yeah, I’ll do a hot cocoa, and—” he paused and glanced at Hermione. She nodded. “Two, actually.”</p><p>“And mine with reduced sugar please,” Hermione added, reaching into her pocket, but George slid the Sickles over the counter before she could fish out her coins.</p><p>“You’re the worst,” Hermione said, looking at him flatly.</p><p>“Aren’t I?” George said, grinning. She flailed a hand at him, and George ducked away, laughing.</p><p>“Next!” the clerk called. Hermione pulled George out of the way so the grumpy looking Hufflepuff behind them could order. They shoved through the bodies, finding a small nook beside the fire.</p><p>“I’ll miss it being quiet,” Hermione said, wincing. “My favorite seat was always available during hols.”</p><p>At the moment, it was occupied by none other than Romilda Vane. The other witch didn’t look up or acknowledge the chaos around her, bent over a letter, brow drawn in concentration.</p><p>A mixture of guilt and irritation knotted his stomach. He still felt poorly about how things had gone during the raid, but Romilda’s treatment of Hermione last term had been far out of line. Suddenly, Romilda lifted her head, catching sight of them.</p><p>Her gaze narrowed, and she stood abruptly, gathering her things and stalking out the door.</p><p>“Wonderful,” Hermione muttered.</p><p>“What?” George asked. Another wave of customers entered in a swirl of black and grey cloaks, and he had to stoop lower to hear her in the bustle.</p><p>“She’s been ghastly all year, and I’d hoped that things would settle with time,” Hermione said, watching the windows. “But I suppose not.”</p><p>“She was there the night of the Vane raid,” George said, sighing. “So, I know why she hates me. But there’s no cause for her to talk about you to the press.”</p><p>He almost didn’t hear her reply over the din. “Well, we are together,” Hermione said. George turned, drawing his hands from his pockets.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“—Almost constantly, you know,” Hermione said, staring absent-mindedly at the window. “If she’s cross with you, she’ll be cross with me.”</p><p>“Oh,” George said, swallowing.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Worth it,” she said. The bell chimed as Aberforth shoved through the entry, dropping an empty copper mug in the return crate by the door before taking one, miserable look at the crowd and storming off.</p><p>George snorted. Hermione waved at him as he exited, but the other man didn’t see it.</p><p>Granger slipped her hand into her denims’ back pocket. “Anyway, as I was saying, I was going to have us watch it, but I really think you ought to read the book first.”</p><p>“Fair point,” George said, nodding and glancing around the room. The clutch of Ravenclaws jostled to the side bar, picking up their order. “And it’s by the same—?”</p><p>“Yes!” Hermione cut him off, bouncing up on her toes in excitement. “Would you want to read it?”</p><p>George raised a brow. “Main bloke doesn’t up and die just before the end of this one, does he?” he asked, shooting her a grumpy look.</p><p>He’d loved the other one, but that bit was rubbish.</p><p>Hermione laughed. “No, no, it’s about these sisters—”</p><p>The bell chimed, and Marcus Flint stalked through the door.</p><p>George became stone. The lightness in his chest vanished, replaced with a hot, stifling ire. The other man didn’t so much as glance at them, finding a place in line. George’s jaw ached.</p><p>Flint wore the same cloak. The same, bloody cloak.</p><p>Like he was gloating.</p><p>Hermione’s soaked, crimson mitten, flailing at the ice’s edge.</p><p>George blinked hard.</p><p>Her face, mouth open as she gasped in water and air at once—her frantic scream. <em>“George!” </em></p><p>
  <em>“I can’t—I can’t—” </em>
</p><p>George’s breathing sped, and he stretched his arm in front of Granger without thinking.</p><p>Flint reached the counter, muttering lowly to the clerk. The clerk frowned and shook her head, and Hermione’s sobs pounded through George’s mind. Flint stepped back against the opposite wall. Suddenly he crouched, lost in the sea of people, and George pulled upright, searching frantically to keep his eyes on him. His nails bit into his palms, and he stepped forward without meaning to.</p><p>“George.” Hermione’s hand caught the crook of his elbow. He blinked down at it. “We can’t.” Her knuckles were white. George peered back at the crowd, heart pounding.</p><p>“Can’t see him,” George muttered. The Ravenclaws were still grouped along the wall. “Get your—your wand out.”</p><p>“I’ve got it already,” Hermione’s voice was quiet and firm near his ear. “Take a deep breath.”</p><p>Flint hadn’t risen yet. What if he shot off a curse, or—</p><p>Where—where—</p><p>A crack echoed through the shop, and it echoed like a ghost of spellfire. George bolted, pushing through the crowd as startled cries rang through the room, wand clutched tight in his fist.</p><p>Someone hissed as he shoved past, but George’s eyes were fixed on the dark, wooden beam that Flint had crouched beside.</p><p>When he reached the place, Flint was gone.</p><p>No.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted. George whirled, panicking. She pointed. Flint was outside, striding away towards East Street.</p><p>“No apparition inside!” Dorothy yelled.</p><p>George exhaled, pushing back to Granger. Her eyes were wide, searching him. “It’s alright,” she said, tone urgent. “He’s gone.”</p><p>George stared hard at the glass panes. “Why’d he come in only to leave without getting anything?”</p><p>“He could’ve seen us and decided it’d be better to return later, given the investigation,” Hermione said. “Or it could’ve been an order for later.”</p><p>Doubtful.</p><p>George shook his head. “He’s trying to intimidate,” he said quietly. “He’s throwing his weight around.”</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. “Well, he’s not doing a very good job, is he?” she said crisply. “Honestly.” Her shoulder brushed his arm.</p><p>George frowned, nodding. “Yeah,” he said.</p><p>“Besides, they’ve got aurors right outside,” she said, tilting her head towards the windows. George nodded again, throat closing.</p><p>Hermione pulled on his arm, drawing him into the corner beside the entryway. “It’s good to be alert, but you seem a little—” she paused. “um—” She sounded nervous, and she patted him lightly on the arm.</p><p>“Twitchy?” he supplied, watching the windows. Hermione didn’t answer. “After effect of the war, Granger, I’ll be fine.” His voice was low, soft, and distracted as he watched Flint disappear down the street.</p><p>“Are you alright?” she asked. George spared her a glance.</p><p>“Peachy,” he said dryly. Hermione didn’t look like she believed him, but then, he hadn’t tried very hard to lie.</p><p>“You know, during the war, I really admired how you and Fred carried on,” she said slowly. “Even when things were terrible, you kept making things, telling jokes. You didn’t let all of it keep you from living.”</p><p>“Happy to be of service,” he said, tone light as he leaned a shoulder against the window frame. He wouldn’t ruin the illusion for her.</p><p>The back of Hermione’s hand brushed his as she moved closer. “I’d imagine that was hard to manage,” she said quietly. George took in a breath, but he hesitated, frowning.</p><p>“It wasn’t, really,” he said. “We had a roof over our head.” He swallowed. “Family.” He shifted against the window frame. “Steady meals.” Suddenly, Hermione’s hand eased up, landing softly on his left forearm.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard,” she said. “I mean, you were tortured—” George turned abruptly, facing away from her.</p><p>“Don’t mind what Fred said about that,” George said. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”</p><p>“George,” she said. “If you ever want to talk, you know I’m here.”</p><p>“Really, Granger, I’m fine,” he said, and gently, he pulled away. He didn’t want pity, and he couldn’t very well tell her about it. Not with the way the story ended. He glanced at her. She was biting her lip, rubbing her shoulder. “I do appreciate the offer, though.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Weasley, come on!” The clerk’s frustrated shout echoed over the crowd. George started. A long line of drinks lay out on the side counter, parchments tucked beneath each order. He elbowed through the throng, checking the untidy scrawl beneath each cup. Finally, he found theirs, near the end.</p><p>Must’ve been called more than once.</p><p>Hermione pushed the door open for him on their way out, and then he handed hers over. She slipped her hand around the copper mug, drawing it up to her face.</p><p>“This smells lovely,” she said, taking a deep pull from the cup.</p><p>“Yeah, well, watch your step,” George mumbled, taking her elbow to guide her around a group of girls from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. They were in practice robes already—he’d have to tell Gin. She’d want to get a head start as well.</p><p>They went north down High Street, and the foot traffic eased a bit as they moved further from the shops nearest Grinkit Lane and Hogsmeade Station. It was still rather busy.</p><p>Hermione was quiet, absorbed in her drink, and George let himself enjoy the companionable silence between them. Their boots crunched in the snow, and the backdrop of noise seemed less intrusive in the open air.</p><p>He’d send Harry an owl about Flint’s presence in Keddle’s before opening the shop for the afternoon. It would be alright.</p><p>George took a distracted sip of his drink.</p><p>It was rather good, but still too hot to drink properly. The thick, wooden handle cover felt comfortable and familiar in in his fingers. Hermione’s arm brushed his.</p><p>George peeked at her. She was smiling into her cup, distracted. He snorted.</p><p>All too soon, they came upon Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. They paused at the windows in from of the shop, and Hermione leaned against the building, tipping her mug up.</p><p>Merlin, had she finished it already? George breathed out a laugh.</p><p>“Hold on,” he said. “Got to grab the display.” George balanced his own drink in his hand as he crossed into the alley to take out the sign. He could probably move some Snackboxes or maybe even some fireworks with the crowd in town.</p><p>Hermione’s footsteps followed him to the side of the building. “Heading out?” he asked, glancing back at her as he reached for the handle on the top of the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes board. She seemed distracted, looking at her empty mug.</p><p>“I can take that back to Keddle’s when I bring my own if you like,” he said, nodding at it. He made to hoist the sign against his leg. Hermione didn’t answer.</p><p>At the quiet, George paused and released the sign’s handle. It thudded against the building.</p><p>“Granger?” he asked, turning to face her.</p><p>She shook her head, blinking.</p><p>“Alright?” George prompted, brow furrowing.</p><p>She still didn’t answer.</p><p>George leaned in. “Hey,” he murmured. “Everything okay?”</p><p>“George, I—” Hermione started, then stopped. She shook her head again, but she was facing the ground, and he couldn’t see her expression.</p><p>“Hermione?” he whispered.</p><p>She went still.</p><p>Hermione’s cup fell, and it bit through the snow, clanking on the stone underneath.</p><p>Without warning, she hurtled against him, and the breath knocked from his lungs in a short gasp as his back slammed into the granite brickwork. George dropped his mug.</p><p>It clattered, and searing liquid splashed, scorching through his trousers’ shins. George hissed, glancing down, but Granger’s arms tightened around his neck. She clung to him, pulling him down.</p><p>Merlin, was she alright?</p><p>“Granger?” he asked, bringing his hands up to her shoulders. “Are you—”</p><p>She buried her face in his neck. Had something happened just now? Did someone say something on High Street, just after he left?</p><p>“Whatever it is, it’ll be okay,” he said, hugging her tightly. “It’s alright.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath, and George swallowed, alarmed.</p><p>Was she crying?</p><p>“You smell so good,” she whispered.</p><p>George’s mind went blank.</p><p>What?</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked faintly.</p><p>Hermione dragged another breath in. “I-I can’t stop thinking about you,” she said.</p><p>George froze.</p><p>No. It was dream. Or—or—</p><p>The cogs in his mind grinded to a halt as Hermione’s hand skated up, over the scar of his ear, into his hair. “All the time,” Hermione mumbled. “Think about you all the time.”</p><p>George’s hands were stationary over her shoulders. He squeezed his eyes shut.</p><p>He was misunderstanding. He was asleep. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. They-they didn’t—</p><p>She pulled his head down. “Do you think about me?” Her breath fluttered over his face as she whispered.</p><p>Chamomile.</p><p>He didn’t have time to process, didn’t have time to speak as her mouth closed on his—cold.</p><p>George stood, frozen in shock, face contorted. She was kissing him like she wouldn’t live to see another day, hands fisted in his coat, and it was cold.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>Cham—</p><p>Chamomile—</p><p>But she’d had hot cocoa.</p><p>Oh Godric.</p><p>It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.</p><p>George pushed her back, terror ripping through him.</p><p>She blinked up at him, a hard, feverish light in her eyes.</p><p>She tried to step in again, whispering his name, but George reeled away, extending a hand. “Wait,” he said, shaking his head. “Wait—”</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked, blinking.</p><p>George gritted his teeth, scrambling to snatch the cups from the snow. He smelled his, and notes of chocolate returned to him, same as always. The same brown dredges lingered at the bottom of hers, but as he lifted it to his nose, it was different.</p><p>Chamomile.</p><p>George’s fists clenched.</p><p>Flint.</p><p>Fury and panic scorched his insides, searing up his throat.</p><p>Hermione’s hands closed around his arm, and she pulled at him. George grappled away, then settled a firm hand on her shoulder, keeping her at bay.</p><p>“Granger—Granger, listen,” he said, searching for any hint of recognition in her eyes. “It’s Amortentia.”</p><p>“I don’t understand,” she mumbled, struggling to move closer. She sounded groggy, half asleep, but her grasp was surprisingly strong.</p><p>A flash strobed from the street. George stilled.</p><p>They’d been set up. It was some sort of plot to make her look—</p><p>He jolted, moving between Hermione and High Street to block her from view.</p><p>“George, I’ve got to tell you—”</p><p>“Later,” he snapped. He couldn’t think straight.</p><p>He sucked in a breath, turning back and forth as the panic expanded under his sternum. Had he had any? No, his smelled fine. Alright. Okay. He couldn’t apparate—he might splinch in this state. But he couldn’t walk her out to the Mungo’s extension office in her current condition.</p><p>Granger reached up, grabbing at his arm, trying to hug it. “George,” she said, sounding agitated and dazed.</p><p>It was getting worse. He had to hurry.</p><p>Antidote first. He’d have to do the antidote and floo for help from his flat.</p><p>Right, okay.</p><p>Resolve flashed through him, and he turned on his heel.</p><p>“Come on,” he said, voice clipped. He tugged free of her hold, taking her hand and dragging her towards the back door. Hermione tripped behind him, but George didn’t slow as he juggled the wand against the mug handles, hissing the unlocking charm under his breath. Granger tried to take his shoulder, but he yanked away, blinking hard.</p><p>He pulled her into the back of the shop, locked it after them, then tugged her the rest of the way into his flat.</p><p>“I need you,” Hermione said, struggling to pull him in.</p><p>“No, you don’t,” he snapped and dropped her hand as he rushed for the floo. Half the powder missed as he threw it in.</p><p>“Harry,” he shouted. “Harry, we need you!” He didn’t bother to close the connection, tripping into the blue armchair as he ran to the workstation.</p><p>“George, please—” Hermione’s very had an eery ring in it, and George couldn’t breathe.</p><p>“It’s going to be okay,” he said, frantically pulling his brewing stand out. He pointed to a chair across the room, by the table. “Just sit there, and I’ll manage it, okay?”</p><p>He turned on the flame, casting a hurried Aguamenti.</p><p>“But I want to be with you,” Hermione said, stepping close behind him. George rifled through the drawers, yanking out the Potions book. He cracked it open, tearing through pages. There. There. He dove back into the drawer, snatching for a ladle and some Wiggentree twigs. “George—”</p><p>“Harry!” George roared, twisting towards the floo.</p><p>Hermione’s arms wrapped around him, and her hands clasped at his chest. George grimaced, taking her wrists. He tried to pull them free gently, but she resisted, and he had to wrench away as she fought.</p><p>Hermione took hold of his arm as he reached adjust the heat.</p><p>“Would you—” he huffed as she tried to drag him from the work station. “—stop it!” He yelled at her, ducking out of her embrace. Hermione blinked, cocking her head to the side.</p><p>Her eyes were cold.</p><p>Oh, he couldn’t look at her.</p><p>“Sit down, Hermione,” he snapped, throwing the twigs into the caldron.</p><p>“George, I—”</p><p>“Now,” he said quietly.</p><p>“But I love you,” she said, sounding as though she might cry.</p><p>George clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to hear those words. Not like this.</p><p>“You’re not thinking clearly, Granger,” he said quietly. “Please sit down.”</p><p>But she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed hold of him again, just as he was pulling the cork out of the castor oil. “No—no I do,” she breathed. “I love you. I love you so much.” George sucked in a breath and firmed his shoulders, turning to face her.</p><p>The feverish glint had grown, flaring, and there was none of her left behind it. She wildly searched his face, as though in a trance.</p><p>A wave of nausea crept up his throat. “I need to brew this antidote. Please sit down.”</p><p>The words had no effect. He’d known they wouldn’t. She wasn’t there, after all. Not really. Not in full.</p><p>George’s fists clenched.</p><p>Hermione stepped into his chest.</p><p>Enough. She was going to do something that she’d feel horrible about later, and he wasn’t going to let her.</p><p>George crossed to the kitchen table, and she trailed after him, reaching for him. As she neared the seat, he steeled himself, pushing her into it.</p><p>She was momentarily calmed by his proximity, watching him with a foggy look as he rapidly caste the Incarcerous—securing her to the chair. For good measure, he added a semi-permanent sticking charm to the wood, fixing it to the floor.</p><p>“Sit tight, okay?” he said, swallowing. “I’ll sort it.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, smiling. But, as he stepped away, she twisted, and panic flared in her eyes.</p><p>“Wait—” she said, and her pitch hiked. “Wait, George—”</p><p>George blinked hard as he hurried to the brewing station. “I’m right here, Granger,” he called, but it didn’t seem to make a difference, and her voice became plaintive, choking over his name again and again.</p><p>“Please—” she sobbed, gasping. “Please, George.”</p><p>The panic in his ribs pressed tighter, and the rage under it built steadily with each moment. “Harry!” George shouted, adding the castor oil. Maybe Harry wasn’t at Grimmauld.</p><p>“I-I don’t understand,” Hermione cried. “Why don’t you want me?”</p><p>The words went through him like physical pain.</p><p>He tried to caste a Patronus to find the other man while he stirred, but he couldn’t even manage a blue wisp, let alone a corporeal form. The potion began to shift color, and George hissed, smacking his wand on the desk as he dove for the ladle.</p><p>She begged him to hold her as he added the Gurdyroot.</p><p>The floo roared. “George?” Harry called.</p><p>“Help me!” George shouted, cutting him off as he grappled for the second batch of Wiggentree twigs. “Amortentia—Flint did it.”</p><p>“He doesn’t love me,” Hermione sobbed. “He doesn’t—not—no—”</p><p>The flame cut. George braced his free hand on the desk, trying to drown out the sound of Hermione’s cries as he waited for Harry to hop from his connection at the Ministry to the Diagon shop, then to Hogsmeade.</p><p>Finally, the other man vaulted out of the hearth.</p><p>“Where are you?” Harry cried, dashing over. George pointed at the step. Harry glanced into the caldron. “That—that looks right.” He looked over to Granger, then back into the caldron. “I think.”</p><p>“Could you calm her down?” George said. Harry nodded and hurried over.</p><p>Granger shrieked as Harry’s footsteps neared the kitchen. “No—no, I want George!”</p><p>George glanced over his shoulder. Harry was attempting to talk her down, but she yanked away from him, looking desperately towards the workbench. George spun before she could meet his eyes.</p><p>“Mione—” Harry’s voice was low, and George could just barely make out the words. “Only a minute, and then George will come over here, alright?”</p><p>“But he doesn’t love me,” Hermione said, gasping.</p><p>“Of course he does,” Harry said.</p><p>What was he doing, egging it on like that?</p><p>“Harry,” George snapped. “Don’t.”</p><p>Harry didn’t pay him any mind.</p><p>“And he’ll come tell you all about it, but you’ve just got to wait a few minutes, okay?” Harry said softly.</p><p>Hermione’s sobs quieted a bit. “Okay,” she whispered. “And then we’ll be together?”</p><p>George flinched at her words, at the wobbly, dazed ring in her voice.</p><p>Harry’s reply was too quiet to hear, and George stared into the caldron, willing the mixture to shift to a light pink. It was nearly there. Nearly.</p><p>He spared a glance towards the table. Her eyes met his, but it was like she wasn’t there. There was no light, no spark of real recognition. Only a hazy, urgent look.</p><p>George’s hand tightened around the ladle. It was as though the very heart of her had been wiped away. His stomach wrenched.</p><p>But he didn’t stop watching the caldron.</p><p>Finally, it hit the right shade. George shoved a glass in, then dashed to her side. Some of the liquid spilled over the rim, tingling on his hand.</p><p>Harry moved aside to make room. George held it to her mouth. “Here,” he said, breathing hard. “Drink it.”</p><p>Hermione blinked at the glass then looked at him. He flinched at the emptiness before fixing his gaze on the antidote. “Why did you leave?” she whispered.</p><p>“Never mind that,” George said, swallowing. “Drink it.”</p><p>Confusion strobed over Hermione’s expression.</p><p>“Come on,” George said. His arm ached from holding it over the caldron, and now the glass was shaking.</p><p>“Why don’t you love me?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“Of course I love you, Granger. We’re family,” he said, steadfastly refusing to look at her. “Now drink this.”</p><p>“And then we can be together?” she asked, sounding confused.</p><p>George’s jaw worked. “We’ll talk about it in a minute, but you’ve got to take this first, alright?” he said.</p><p>Finally, Hermione assented, drinking it down.</p><p>George scrubbed a hand over his jaw, tilting the glass up to make sure she got the whole thing. As she drank, she blinked, and her eyes started to clear. Slowly, the panic in his chest receded.</p><p>Leaving only the anger.</p><p>Once she’d emptied it, he stood, crossing to the sink.</p><p>“George—” she started to protest, but then she stopped. George clenched the glass.</p><p>“Finite Incantatum,” Harry whispered, and the chair scraped. “Careful. Take it slowly.” Harry’s voice filtered over, punctuated by the sound of Hermione’s faltering steps. George whipped a rag out of the sink and began to scrub the glass. His breath came hard and fast, and his teeth ground together.</p><p>“Better?” Harry asked.</p><p>“I—I—” Hermione’s voice was soft.</p><p>“I think we should take you into Pomfrey, just to be sure,” Harry said quietly.</p><p>George bobbed his head, and his mouth was a thin line.</p><p>Hermione’s reply was pinched. “What?”</p><p>George made the mistake of looking up. Granger had a deep line between her brows, and her hands lifted to her temples. “I don’t—I wasn’t—” She sucked in a sharp breath.</p><p>Then she froze.</p><p>Hermione’s face lifted, and recognition lit her gaze as it landed on him.</p><p>But then her eyes flooded with horror.</p><p>The glass’s rim pressed hard into his palm, and it made a quiet cracking sound.</p><p>George ducked his head, resting it in the basin without a word. A jagged line crawled through the top half of the cup. He’d have to fix it later.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.</p><p>Fury was a cold pipe, clanging over metal in his chest.</p><p>“It’s not your fault,” George said, voice even and measured as he pulled his wand from his pocket. He caste the drying charm nonverbally, and it snapped over his palms. “But I think Harry’s right. You should get seen.” He strode to the brewing station.</p><p>Hermione didn’t speak. George flicked off the heat.</p><p>He steeled himself and met her gaze. She’d covered her mouth with her hands, and her eyes swam with tears, but there was an edge in them. Something like anger and revulsion.</p><p>“None of this is your fault,” he said. “I mean it, Granger.” Hermione shook her head, turning away.</p><p>She wouldn’t want anything to do with him at present. Not after—</p><p>George worked his jaw, then turned back to his workstation, hunching over it. The scarf hung limp around his neck.</p><p>George swallowed, and his knuckles were white on the desk’s edge.</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione hadn’t spoken to him once, and George didn’t know what to do with himself. So, after George handed over the vials of blue, summarizing what he’d seen in Keddle’s, Harry’s was the only voice for some time.</p><p>First, it was loud and cutting as he sent a Patronus to the aurors stationed in town, telling them to bring Flint in. But then it was tight and quiet as he floo-ed Professor McGonagall and explaining the situation, asking her to tighten security around the castle’s perimeter. Finally, it turned soft and hesitant as he grabbed hold of the both of them.</p><p>“I’ll apparate us,” Harry said.</p><p>The world sucked away, and they landed in front of the Hogwarts gates with a hollow pop. Hermione had a hard look about her, and she didn’t bother answering Professor McGonagall when spoken to.</p><p>Minerva ushered them through, but she stopped George as he made to follow.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley, but we’ve locked the Castle down,” she said. “And as you are neither a student nor an auror, I’m afraid—” She did look apologetic as she said it.</p><p>George’s gaze flicked to the field, where the Whomping Willow writhed, shaking snow from its branches.</p><p>“Go home, George,” Hermione said softly. He blinked. She was turned away, towards the Castle, arms folded and back facing him. Her curls tangled in the wind.</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“It’s okay,” she said. “Go home.” She didn’t turn once as she proceeded up the path.</p><p>George’s insides splintered as she walked away.</p><p>#</p><p>January 4, 1999, 11 p.m.</p><p>George gripped his wand in his hand as he paced High Street. The moon hung low, casting the structures in a muted, grey light. With all the shop windows dark, the warmth had been sucked from the village.</p><p>Everything was a mess. Flint had disappeared, and Harry’s team had yet to locate him. The aurors were watching the whole village, doing rounds, but that was a lot of ground to cover, and they might miss it if Flint tried anything.</p><p>So George hadn’t slept.</p><p>Hermione hadn’t spoken with him since the attack.</p><p>George’s fists clenched as he moved past <em>The Daily Prophet’s</em> office. The boards had been removed from the windows. It seemed as though the paper had seen fit to station a few people in Hogsmeade once again. A blast of snow unfurled over the cobblestone, rattling the cages in front of the building. The paper carts were locked in place, enchanted to repel the elements, but George knew the headlines already.</p><p>A whole lot of rot about him going hysterical when confronted about his secret child, and Skeeter had been less than generous in her interpretation of their conversation about Hermione. The pull quote printed large in the middle of the page read: <em>“Don’t be gross.”</em></p><p>George hunched into the wind, eyes working back and forth over the abandoned street as he walked. As ghastly as <em>The Prophet</em> was, that story was a great deal better than the one sold beside Hermione’s flat.</p><p>As he passed <em>The Resonant’s</em> building, he glanced at the depleted stand. The only papers left on the charmed display were wrinkled and water-stained under the protective bars on the bottom rack, but he could still see the front page.</p><p>Two, blurry figures locked in a tight embrace.</p><p>He couldn’t look at it without feeling sick, so he tore his eyes away and carried on.</p><p>Instead, he watched the alleyways, the dark spaces between the post office and the music shop, the back nook behind Tomes and Scrolls. The staircase that led up to her flat.</p><p>All still clear.</p><p>He went as far as The Three Broomsticks, checked the southern side of the building, then turned on his heel, proceeding back towards Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.</p><p>As he strode north, a small bundle on stairs of Tomes and Scrolls caught his eye.</p><p>That hadn’t been there before. George lit his wand and hesitated before crossing to it.</p><p>A small cup of tea steamed, melting away the snow beneath it. Beside it, a rectangular, paper-wrapped package.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m fine. Go to bed, you git.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione’s handwriting was scrawled over the paper. George peered around. He caste a detection spell over the tea, just to make sure.</p><p>It wasn’t spiked with anything.</p><p>He sat on the step, eyes trained on the street as he drank it. It was Chamomile.</p><p>George gave himself a single moment—bending forward, resting his forehead against the rim.</p><p>Then he exhaled, straightened, and put the cup back. He glanced up at the shut door as he unwrapped the package.</p><p>A paperback book slid into his hands.</p><p>A slip of parchment came away from the binding.</p><p>
  <em>“We can trade it back and forth, if that’s alright. I’ve put a few notes in the first chapter already, and maybe you can write things back? Let me know what you think.”</em>
</p><p>George flipped the cover open.</p><p>
  <em>“‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,’ grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.”</em>
</p><p>Golden, gleaming ink marched across the bottom of the page in a tidy scrawl.</p><p><em>“I know this is a book about sisters rather than brothers, but I think you’ll like it.”</em> She’d written right inside it. George raised his brows and glanced at the shut door again. He glanced back at the page, skating his fingers over the letters.</p><p>Hermione.</p><p>He looked at the door again.</p><p>Still shut.</p><p>Slowly, he stood, tucking the book into his pocket.</p><p>He stared hard at the empty cup.</p><p>Then, he kept pacing.</p><p>#</p><p>January 6, 1999, 2 a.m.</p><p>George marched up High Street, scarf whipping in the blizzard. He nodded at the two, grey-robed figures as they passed.</p><p>Hermione’s flat windows were dark, but the lamp outside Tomes and Scrolls was lit, flickering through the haze of white.</p><p>Her reply to his owl had been brief. But the school year was starting again. She was busy. That was fine. She deserved to have the space she needed, after everything.</p><p>His arms ached at not having hugged her once since it all happened.</p><p>George circled back. His feet stumbled, trudging through a high drift. It felt like a pendulum in his chest was dragging him down, into the earth.</p><p>He shoved a hand into his pocket, and it closed on a stamina potion. He uncorked it, downing it like a shot. Then, he thrust a hand against the ground, pushing himself upright.</p><p>As he stood, a pop echoed through the wind. On instinct, George’s head turned to Tomes and Scrolls. He stilled, lifting his wand. A dark figure slipped over the staircase, up towards the door.</p><p>Fury took him.</p><p>He whipped his wand, apparating</p><p>He cracked in front of Granger’s door, cutting Flint off before he could reach the handle.</p><p>George didn’t say a single word. His hands closed on Flint’s shoulders. George didn’t feel the strain as he threw him over the railing.</p><p>The body sailed through the air like a rag doll, and the other man shouted as he landed in the street on his back.</p><p>If Flint wanted a fight, Flint would get a fight.</p><p>And George would make him kindling.</p><p>George didn’t falter for a moment, striding evenly down the stairs. His coat snapped in the wind. He didn’t think of the danger, or of the potential complications.</p><p>He couldn’t feel—couldn’t think—over the furious clanging in his center.</p><p>Flint was stumbling to his feet, drawing his wand back, but George took hold of him again, throwing him into the snow. Flint scrambled, twisting, and George’s fist slammed into his face.</p><p>George didn’t hear the wind whistling.</p><p>Again.</p><p>Didn’t hear the shouts from down the street.</p><p>Again.</p><p>Didn’t hear the pop behind him.</p><p>Not until it was too late.</p><p>He was reeling back for another blow when something caught his fist.</p><p>Flint gave him a bloody smile.</p><p>Reality twisted in on him.</p><p>#</p><p>George tumbled as they hit uneven ground, and his wand sailed from his hand, landing in the pine needles yards away. He scrambled to his hands and knees, going for it, but the body-bind hit him, and he went rigid. Pops echoed around him in a frightful chorus, and George could do nothing but feel the cold, wet, rough snow against his cheek and hands.</p><p>“Well, well, well, boys,” Flint’s voice rang through the wind. “I do believe we’ve snatched ourselves a weasel.”</p><p>A boot landed on the back of his head, grinding his face into the earth as the smattering of laughter rang through the trees.</p><p>They hoisted him up by the arms. Flint stood before him, grinning, mouth still bloody in the faint light from his wandtip. Three other figures loomed behind him, casting disillusionment charms and other spells over the clearing. With the two holding his arms, and Flint, that made six. Six.</p><p>Okay. Not good.</p><p>Flint’s wand twisted, and the body-bind faded. George threw himself against their weight, meaning to charge towards his wand. But, before he could break free, Flint’s wand flicked, and orange light ricocheted through George’s feet, sticking them to the ground. The two men at his side yanked him back.</p><p>“Six on one,” George said dryly. “Frightened, are we?”</p><p>He didn’t recognize most of them. It was too dark to see, save for the blokes nearest Flint at his sides. George glanced at their faces. He only recognized one. The man holding his left arm—Delvin Rosier. His nose still didn’t look quite right, but Fred had said he’d hexed it pretty hard.</p><p>Flint laughed, pulling his gloves off. “No, Weasley, I’m just not thick like you are.”</p><p>“Yeah, how’s your dad?” George spat the words at the snow. “Bloody coward—” The Langlock smacked over him, locking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.</p><p>Flint advanced, a cold glint in his eyes as he stared.</p><p>George glared back, unflinching.</p><p>The first hit wasn’t so bad. A quick snap across the face, and the pain blossomed over his jaw. But it missed his nose and mouth. He remained standing.</p><p>Firm.</p><p>George turned his head back slowly, facing the snake. Flint smirked.</p><p>The second was far worse. Hit him right in the eye, and George reeled back. Flint’s left hand closed on George’s shoulder, yanking him forward as his fist hooked up.</p><p>It caught him under the ribs, and George made a rather unmanly sound as it connected with the sore spot from his fall on the ice.</p><p>He swayed forward, but the grip on his arms wrenched him aloft.</p><p>“You’ve had this coming for a while,” Flint whispered. His hand clenched tightly around George’s shoulder, and as he drew it away, he took the scarf with it.</p><p>No.</p><p>“Your mum make this?” Flint whispered. His grin went malicious—something dark and animalistic opening up behind it. “Too poor to buy your own?”</p><p>Flint flung it behind him, and it landed in a pile on the snow.</p><p>“Learnt a good bit of magic,” Flint said, more loudly now. “Care to see it?”</p><p>George stared at the scarf in the snow, trying to steady his breath.</p><p>One of the men in the back laughed.</p><p>Flint’s wand tip came under George’s chin, wrenching his head up.</p><p>What entailed was brutal.</p><p>The familiar cursework, hit in strobes—invisible cords squeezing the air from his lungs, carrying cold inferno. Eating into him. Searing him to nothing.</p><p>George tried to be silent.</p><p>He was not successful. His screams ripped ragged in his throat, choking and muffled around the Langlock.</p><p>He couldn’t follow their words after a time—couldn’t see past the blur, hear past the metallic ringing in his ears. Every time he faded out, they brought him back with a Rennervate.</p><p>When they were finally through, they left him facedown, sprawled in the snow.</p><p>#</p><p>January 6, 1999, 8 p.m.</p><p>He woke in darkness, right arm stretched out over his head. The faint sound of their voices carried through the trees, a little ways off.</p><p>Each breath hurt.</p><p>His mind flitted, uncoiling as it scrambled to rake up something helpful.</p><p><em>“Heads up, George!” </em>Fred’s voice rang between his ears, the faint whistle of a Bludger in the background of the memory.</p><p>George’s head shuddered as he twisted it. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. Just beyond the purple smudge.</p><p>He didn’t know if he could do it.</p><p><em>“And if you get into any trouble, call for me, and Percy and I’ll come running. Alright?”</em> Charlie’s voice sang through his head.</p><p>“Charlie,” George mumbled, blinking heavily as he dragged in a breath. “Charlie—” The outline of his fingers was blurred, doubling, tripling. But Charlie wasn’t there. His hand flexed helplessly in the snow.</p><p><em>“What’s the Prewett way?” </em>The low, unfamiliar voices roared in unison, echoing from a place deep, deep inside of him. A faint memory that smelled like cinnamon and sounded like fiddle.</p><p>“We don’t back down,” George mumbled, not sure where the words came from. His fingers trembled as they curled inwards.</p><p>He brought them together in a faint snap. The magic tugged from his center, and George blinked slowly at the sensation.</p><p>The wand smacked into his hand.</p><p>He dragged in a breath.</p><p>He needed—he needed—</p><p>In that moment, George didn’t think of scruffy red hair and a boisterous laugh, or his mum’s steady casting over sprained ankles and scraped knees.</p><p>No.</p><p>Instead, he thought of Hermione Jean—</p><p>
  <em>“I love you too, Georgie.” </em>
</p><p>“—Granger,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Oi!” Someone cried.</p><p>
  <em>“Go home, George.”</em>
</p><p>The body bind hit him just as the world sucked away.</p><p>The floorboards slammed under him, and his wand clattered from his hand. George’s head spun. The room was dark, and the wood was cold under his head.</p><p>Something warm settled against his arm.</p><p>His coat dripped, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t put it on the hook.</p><p>She would be so cross.</p><p>He faded.</p><p>#</p><p>George dragged in a ragged breath.</p><p>Pitch black.</p><p>The steady, warm presence hadn’t shifted from his side.</p><p>Where was Hermione? Why hadn’t she found him by now?</p><p>She would find him.</p><p>She always found him.</p><p>#</p><p>“No, Harry!” The shout echoed from the hall. “I’m not turning in!”</p><p>George sucked in a breath.</p><p>It was still dark—too dark to make out any shapes or colors. The warm mass against his hand shifted, then vanished.</p><p>“I don’t care what Flint said!” Hermione’s voice cried. “He’s out there—I know it!”</p><p>The other voice rumbled a soft reply.</p><p>“He wouldn’t have—wouldn’t have left this behind!” She sounded frantic.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Not now, Crookshanks,” Hermione snapped. Then: “Harry, what if they’ve stashed him somewhere, what if—” Her pitch crawled high. “—Crookshanks, no!”</p><p>More low mumbling.</p><p>“Just one more sweep, please,” Hermione said. “We didn’t check the woods north of the scene as thoroughly, and-and he could be there.”</p><p>He tried to lift his head, call for her, but the jinx hadn’t lifted.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>The door’s slam echoed through the space.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>A small pitter patter trotted across the floor. Small and warm, back against his arm.</p><p>#</p><p>Something creaked.</p><p>Slammed.</p><p>Everything hurt.</p><p>The warm presence darted away again.</p><p>George couldn’t see in the darkness. The inside of his mouth tasted bitter and coppery, and he was stiff from head to foot. His head pounded.</p><p>One thud.</p><p>A second thud.</p><p>“He’s not in mortal peril,” Fred’s voice sounded muted, deadened, almost.</p><p>Fred.</p><p>Fred was here.</p><p>“Yes, well, he’s clearly not at his flat, either!” Hermione snapped. George’s mind whirred, catching on the sound of their voices as they dragged him out of the haze.</p><p>He couldn’t move.</p><p>“Or Diagon. Or the Burrow,” Fred said, sounding tired.</p><p>“Could he have a cabin or something that we don’t know of?” Angelina’s voice was firmer, louder.</p><p>A click.</p><p>Light crept through the crack in George’s eyes.</p><p>The room was still dim, but glow from the hallway had lifted it from total darkness. The sidetable’s legs obscured his view, but he could faintly make out the hall’s entrance, beyond it.</p><p>They must be speaking near the door.</p><p>Footsteps echoed down the corridor, coming closer.</p><p>“I’d know if he did,” Fred said.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Is there the slightest chance he didn’t tell you?” Angelina asked.</p><p>Another silence.</p><p>“He’s not that cross with me.” Fred’s reply was quiet and clipped.</p><p>No, Freddie. He wasn’t—</p><p>“Granger?” Fred asked.</p><p>“I haven’t really spoken to him in a few days,” Hermione said quietly. “There’s a chance he did after everything happened, but I don’t know of a place like that.” With these words, Granger stepped backwards, into view. It was hazy through the crack in George’s eyelids, but he could make out a lumpy mass of purple in her arms, clutched tight to her chest.</p><p>He couldn’t move.</p><p>“Then there isn’t one,” Fred said, sounding firmer. “If you don’t know, and I don’t know, then—”</p><p>Fred’s voice halted.</p><p>“You’ve checked here, right?” Fred asked.</p><p>Merlin, finally.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Fred said some choice words, then exploded into sound. “George?” he yelled, tearing around the corner.</p><p>It happened at once.</p><p>Hermione gasped, and Fred shouted, and it was all terribly loud as they dashed over.</p><p>Socks and boots, then knees, thudding around him as the group scrambled to his side.</p><p>And George couldn’t move.</p><p>“George!” Hermione said. “He’s breathing, right?”</p><p>“Rennervate,” Fred muttered, and the spell twisted through George with a jolt, aching.</p><p>Git. He was already awake.</p><p>“Georgie, can you hear me?” Fred’s hand rocked his shoulder, and if George hadn’t been jinxed, he would’ve yelped.</p><p>“Finite Incantatum,” Hermione whispered, and George gasped, sagging into the floor.</p><p>“Bloody Hell,” George wheezed.</p><p>Fred pulled him gently, but it still hurt like fire as he helped him twist onto his back.</p><p>His vision doubled for a second at the movement, and it looked as though there might be six of them. George blinked hard.</p><p>“I’ll tell Mum,” Angelina whispered, dashing up and towards the floo.</p><p>George closed his eyes, willing the spinning feeling to go away.</p><p>“I’m going to kill you,” Fred said quietly.</p><p>“There’s a queue,” George rasped. His voice sounded rough, and it grated as he spoke, fried from the ordeal.</p><p>Hermione’s laugh sounded half sob as she muttered under her breath, and when George cracked his eyes open, he could see runes spinning in the air.</p><p>“Not anymore,” Fred muttered. “Not after she—”</p><p>“Nose,” Hermione cut in, clipped.</p><p>“Yes, we’ve found him,” Angelina’s voice rang from across the room.</p><p>Fred’s wand slashed, and the spell hit the center of his face with a sharp crack. George sucked in a breath.</p><p>“Is he—?” Mrs. Weasley’s voice was loud and frantic.</p><p>“Right ribs—three lowest,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Wait—” George said, trying to brace himself up on an elbow.</p><p>“He’s alright,” Angelina said hurriedly.</p><p>Fred’s spell jolted through his side without warning, and George shouted, falling back.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Just looks like he’s had a bad Quidditch match. Nothing ghastly,” Angelina said lightly.</p><p>Amusement flickered over Fred’s face at the words.</p><p>“Rough game, Quidditch,” Fred said, quirking his brows as he looked over George.</p><p>“Brutal,” George rasped. He closed his eyes.</p><p>The voices around him faded a bit, and Angelina sounded quieter somehow, as she said, “So, you’ll floo Bill, and I’ll sort things with Harry?”</p><p>“He looks ghastly,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“Thanks,” George muttered.</p><p>“Stay by the floo. I imagine Harry will be over to collect Teddy soon,” Angelina said.</p><p>The smell of coffee filled his nose, and George forced his eyes open.</p><p>Hermione had leaned in, wand pointed at a spot over his temple. The scarf hung around her neck, and the spinning runes faded as she mouthed something. The pounding in his head eased. She caught him staring. “Don’t move,” she whispered. Her wand twisted again, and a small zip of magic sank through his scalp, twinging.</p><p>“Careful with the brains,” George said, wincing as he reached up to feel the spot. Hermione pushed his hand away. The magic crawled further in, and it smarted for a second before fading. Hermione leaned back, and he saw a flash of red on her fingers before a nonverbal spell cracked over her hands, clearing it away.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Let’s get him off the floor,” Fred said suddenly.</p><p>“How did you get away?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Subterfuge,” George whispered, voice wry. Fred snorted as he crawled around, shifting to crouch behind him.</p><p>“With a body-bind curse on you?” Hermione asked, sounding confused.</p><p>“I’m very, very good, Granger,” George said. Fred snorted again and pulled him up slowly from beneath his arms. George grimaced, bracing a hand on Fred as he tried to drag his feet under himself. Hermione watched him, brows raised, waiting.</p><p>“Alright, fine. They caste it as I apparated,” George said. Hermione nodded and stood. Fred hoisted George higher.</p><p>“Anyways—all better,” Fred said brightly. George lurched in his hold. “Mostly.” Fred quipped the second part as he dragged George around the side table, then lowered him onto the couch.</p><p>Hermione leaned over the arm of the sofa.</p><p>“How do you feel?” Fred asked, peering down at him.</p><p>“Lovely,” George said flatly, curling up on his side. Fred crossed to his feet and began to yank his boots free. The movement yanked George partway off the couch, and his ankles dangled over the end of it. George stared at the coffee table. That was something. His feet didn’t hurt.</p><p>“Yeah, well you should see the other guy,” Fred muttered. “Especially after Granger—”</p><p>“Fred,” Hermione snapped.</p><p>“What are you on about?” George asked, staring between them.</p><p>“Flint has been dealt with,” Hermione said, lifting her chin. “Don’t worry about it right now.”</p><p>George glanced at Fred. Fred was staring at Hermione with a skeptical look.</p><p>Hermione ignored it and eased onto the sofa, taking the cushion beside his head and drawing a throw pillow onto her lap. “Can we do anything?” she whispered.</p><p>George twisted his head to look at her.</p><p>Her hand lay at her side, just out of reach.</p><p>George blinked heavily. “Not really,” he said.</p><p>Wordlessly, Fred reached down, hoisting George up by the arms and dragging him closer to Hermione. George’s face flamed as Fred settled him back down, propping his head on the pillow she held.</p><p>“I’ll get some water,” Fred said, and his footsteps echoed away.</p><p>“I should get some too,” Angelina said suddenly, crossing to join him. “I’ve been flying all night.”</p><p>The room quieted. George steeled himself, then glanced up at Granger.</p><p>She was bit her lips together, watching him. She had a raw look in her eyes, like she might yell at him. Or cry. He couldn’t quite tell.</p><p>She lifted her right hand, hesitating. George’s gaze flicked from her hand to her face.</p><p>Oh, oh please.</p><p>Slowly, she lowered it to his forehead.</p><p>Alright. Maybe—maybe Fred’s meddling wasn’t so bad sometimes. Rarely. Just now, really. Hermione gave him a little smile, smoothing his hair back a bit, and George swallowed.</p><p>Her thumb drifted over his skin, sparks flickering.</p><p>And it was anything but cold.</p><p>“I’m very cross with you,” she said.  </p><p>“Okay,” George said, but his voice was quiet with awe. Every bone in his body felt like rubber, but Hermione was holding him.</p><p>“Livid, actually,” Hermione said, firming her jaw as she looked over him.</p><p>“Okay,” George said again. Hermione’s plait was stuck under her jacket, and she had some sort of dirt streaked on her face. “Can you be cross later, though?”</p><p>She inhaled sharply, but then she nodded. “We’ll pencil it for our next study night.”</p><p>Right under his sternum, something that had been pinched for days came loose, and his throat closed. He let out a deep breath without meaning to.</p><p>“Brilliant,” he whispered.</p><p>Her eyes flickered over him, and her face contorted before she covered her mouth with her left hand.</p><p>“Hermione—”</p><p>Suddenly, she pitched forward and to the side, pressing her forehead to his chest.</p><p>Over the back of the couch, Fred swerved sharply, walking the glass of water in the opposite direction.</p><p>George hesitated, then, wincing, he dragged his hand up to rest on the back of her head.</p><p>“We couldn’t find you for hours and hours,” Hermione said, and she sounded like she might be crying. “We found everything else. The camp. Flint. And he wouldn’t tell us, and there was so much blood on the ground, and your—your scarf—”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“Hate to lose it,” George said, clearing his throat. “It’s a good scarf.” He blinked at the article in question. She was still wearing it.</p><p>“And we hadn’t properly spoken in days, since—”</p><p>The floo whooshed, cutting Hermione off. She lifted her head, and her eyes widened as Harry stepped out.</p><p>His grey uniform was torn around the shoulder, and dirt and blood streaked his face. He had pine needles in his hair. Harry’s gaze worked over them. He nodded.</p><p>“Just stopping in to give an update on the search,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione winced.</p><p>“Haven’t found him yet,” Harry said dryly. “But I’ve got high hopes.” He turned, flicking his wand at the fireplace, and it lit.</p><p>“Harry, a word?” Angelina called. Harry strode away, towards the kitchen. As he passed Hermione, he cocked his brow at her the smallest bit.</p><p>Hermione’s face went pink.</p><p>“I forgot,” she whispered.</p><p>Harry’s voice echoed as he entered the kitchen. “Found him, Aberforth. All good.” Moments later, a blue stag leapt over the sofa, unfolding into a sprint through the flat wall.</p><p>George hesitated.</p><p>“How many people are looking for me?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “A few, give or take,” she said, not meeting his eyes.</p><p>“You’re a terrible liar,” George said.</p><p>Hermione didn’t answer, but she fished a Galleon out of her pocket, pointing her wand at the surface.</p><p>“Is that the—”</p><p>“Quiet,” Hermione said, biting her lip in concentration.</p><p>George reached up and nicked it out of her fist. The charm she was casting fizzled.</p><p>He flipped the coin over. The numerals stamped into the gold had shifted to letters.</p><p>
  <em>“George missing.” </em>
</p><p>George raised his brows, glancing from the coin to Hermione. Her face shifted to a deeper pink.</p><p>“And to think I was here, all the while,” George said dryly.</p><p>Hermione looked away. “Which was very unhelpful,” she said, a bit terse. “The clock said you were home, and we all figured it—”</p><p>She paused.</p><p>Then she swiped the coin back, working the charm again. “Why did you come here?” The question was soft.</p><p>George winced.</p><p>“I dunno,” he said. “I was in rough shape, and I thought you might be here, to um—” He stumbled partway through, narrowly avoiding the words “to take care of me.”</p><p>He fumbled, awkwardly settling on “—to help.” Hermione’s gaze was trained on the Galleon. “I think, anyway,” George said. “It happened pretty fast.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Smart thinking, honestly,” she said. “If I hadn’t already been gone, looking for you.” George winced. Hermione’s wand twisted slowly over the Galleon. The coin flashed.</p><p>“What’d you put?” George asked, lifting his chin in curiosity. Hermione flipped the face toward him.</p><p>
  <em>“George found.”</em>
</p><p>“Succinct,” George quipped. Hermione snorted. He drew it from her hand again, feeling lighter than he had in days. “Always thought this was a good bit of charmwork.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged, but a little smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. Impulse flared. “I know some coin magic,” he said.</p><p>“Let’s see it, then,” Hermione said. George grinned and flipped the coin over his fingers, just above his chest. Hermione watched it. He shifted his other hand, making as though he’d grabbed it while palming the Galleon. Hermione’s eyes followed his empty fist.</p><p>George flared his fingers open.</p><p>“Are you amazed?” he asked.</p><p>“That you know a muggle magic trick?” Hermione asked, lifting her brows.</p><p>“Have a little faith, Granger. This is real,” George said, grinning. “Lean in.”</p><p>She hesitated but did as told.</p><p>A little closer than he’d planned.</p><p>The light flecks in her eyes looked like Whiz-bang sparks.</p><p>George swallowed and reached up, brushing the back of his knuckles along the rim of her ear. “Summon something from my vault,” George mumbled, furrowing his brow. “That’s gold and glitters, without fault.” A stray curl lay askew, and he tucked it into place without thinking.</p><p>Her face colored violently. “That’s-that’s not a real spell,” Hermione said, narrowing her eyes at him.</p><p>Only Granger would get put out over a sham incantation.</p><p>George snorted and drew the coin away from her ear.</p><p>“Isn’t it?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione cracked into a grin and nicked the coin from him. Better yet, he saw her double check it a moment later, as though to ensure it was the same one.</p><p>George laughed quietly.</p><p>He thought she might get up to move, but she didn’t. She tossed the Galleon onto the coffee table, then leaned back, and her hand landed on his forehead again.</p><p>Happiness ran through him like a current from crown to toe, and George’s right foot fidgeted against his left in an involuntary, little twist.</p><p>He’d always been under the impression that curse damage was one of the most lasting magical effects. His ear had never grown back. The letters on his arm had never faded. And the last time he’d suffered the curse Flint caste, it had taken months to walk regularly. He’d been in terrible pain for days.</p><p>But just now, it wasn’t so bad.</p><p>Like it had been unworked, partly.</p><p>Distracted, Hermione hummed a familiar, soft song, but he couldn’t quite place it. She watched the fire as she shifted her thumb over his skin, completely unaware that George was dripping away into a puddle of contentment under her touch.</p><p>Several, wonderful minutes later, Hermione’s song ended, and she shifted a little, looking down at him. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Hermione asked, and the question was tentative. Her hand stayed in place.</p><p>Oh, he was done for.</p><p>“Well, if you insist on doting,” he said, clearing his throat. Hermione snorted. George fixed his eyes on hers and fumbled into his coat pocket.</p><p>What was he doing?</p><p>“Um—” His hand closed on the book. Hermione looked a little amused, raising her brows at him. George tugged the paperback free. The enchanted lining had kept it dry, but it was a little rumpled.</p><p>He swallowed and handed it up to her. “Please,” he said quietly.</p><p>He didn’t say the second bit.</p><p>Care for him. Just a little.</p><p>Just for the night.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes lit with her smile. “How far in are you?” she asked, taking the book in her left hand and propping it open against his chest. He’d finished the first chapter, but—</p><p>“Best start from the beginning,” he said.</p><p>Hermione caste a peculiar enchantment over the room as she read. Her voice was soft and clear and wonderful, and George found himself steeped in a blissful glow. Occasionally, she paused, checking his reaction before brightening at whatever she saw and carrying on. It was as though she wove the words into golden twine, and as she went on spinning the story, the twine grew longer, slipping slow and steady between his ribs.</p><p>A peaceful sort of magic.</p><p>Hermione read on, and George listened, transfixed.</p><p>Both were heedless to the three sets of eyes peering around the kitchen wall, where a Muffliato had been caste quite some time ago, and where the trio hiding behind the corner engaged in a most precocious form of meddling—not intervening.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Masquerade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Some masks obscure.<br/>Others reveal.</p><p>This one's for the Mums.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>I am more than a little tired at present, so I'm going to make this brief.<br/>Thank you so much for the kindness and encouragement last chapter!! &lt;3 You all are lovely, and I very much appreciate you taking the time to read. Please give yourself a warm hug on my behalf. </p><p>I'm so sorry this chapter is a day late. I planned to have it out a bit later on Monday, and editing took far longer than anticipated. This is a double-feature length chapter, however.</p><p>In the interest of getting this out speedily, I'm not going to include a detailed playlist this week, apart from this:<br/>1. "Arcade" by Duncun Laurence for the Pensieve.<br/>2. "Valley of the Shadow" by Thomas Newman for May 1, 4:32 a.m., followed by "Stronger than a Lion" by Delta Rae when Hermione mentions the tally.<br/>3. "Warriors" by 2WEI when you see the snow.<br/>4. "Leaves From the Vine" by AtinPiano for the last scene. (You'll know).<br/>(I reserve the right to potentially come back later and crowd this with more music, though.)</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters.</p><p>Grab your snack (This week, I recommend lemon blueberry cookies/biscuits. I know it sounds strange, but they're excellent), your drink (whatever's going to bring you the most comfort--I'm making Chamomile), and fuzzy socks/your warmest blanket.</p><p>Warning: From my warped, writer's perspective, this one hits rather hard. I could be wrong, though! Sometimes things resonate very differently between my writing/reading experience and the reactions each chapter receives. </p><p>REMEMBER: This isn't the end.</p><p>***Additional Content Warning (SPOILERS): This chapter includes violence and injury to minor and major characters. Descriptions are within keeping of the level of detail I have used in prior chapters. If that's not something you're comfortable with, skip the content after the family leaves the Burrow.</p><p>Note: Small edit made to this chapter on 4/23.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>LUMOS</h2>
<h2>Chapter Thirty-One: “Masquerade”</h2><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>May 1, 2003, 12:42 a.m.</p><p>“Mione.” The whisper cut through the dark, and Hermione blinked. She was stretched out on the couch, feet in George’s lap. Harry knelt on the floor near her arm, nudging her. She blinked again, clearing away the grogginess. Ron stood in the background beside the hearth. The redhead’s eyes worked over the sofa, and he had what looked like a hint of a smile on his face, almost like he found something amusing. It was barely there, but she could see it, plain as day.</p><p>Her brow furrowed.</p><p>But when Hermione stretched her arms over her head and shifted to sit up, Ron’s look vanished, replaced by one of uncertainty as he turned away. Then, cool indifference.</p><p>“Sorry to do this so late,” Harry whispered. “Neither of you woke through the floo noise, so you’ve got to be knackered. Normal for you, but—” He glanced to his left, where George laid, breathing low and slow, mouth cracked open. George’s crown rested, tipped all the way back against the sofa’s headrest, and his reading glasses lay askew on his face, propped slightly out of place on the bridge of his nose. His hand was warm on her ankle.</p><p>He was, quite possibly, the most darling man alive.</p><p>The thought hit her suddenly, wonderful and surprising at the same time.</p><p>She ought to tell him.</p><p>“Mione?” Harry whispered. Hermione tore her eyes from George and gave Harry an encouraging smile.</p><p>“It’s perfectly alright, Harry,” she whispered. “I’ll wake him, and then we can get to work.”</p><p>Harry’s eyes flickered over her, and he exhaled a little, giving her a small, hesitant smile.</p><p>“We’ll wait in the kitchen,” Harry said softly, pushing to a stand. Ron and Harry’s boots were almost noiseless as they crept away. Ron’s gaze stuck to George’s face as he passed.</p><p>Slowly, Hermione shifted her feet from his lap, and her ankles slipped from George’s fingers. His hand flexed a little as the contact broke. Hermione bit her lips together, shifting onto her knees as she eased closer.</p><p>“Georgie,” she whispered.</p><p>He mumbled something indistinct, and his brows drew together.</p><p>“Georgie,” she repeated, a little louder this time.</p><p>His brows lifted. “Mm?” he mumbled, inhaling as he turned his head against the couch to face her. His eyes were still closed.</p><p>“Harry and Ron are here,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. George winced.</p><p>She should say it. Before she lost her nerve. Hermione glanced at the bookshelves behind him, hesitating. But then George’s eyes opened, and he dragged his hands over his face.</p><p>“Right,” he said. He got to his feet. “Give me a minute. I’ve got to put on some actual clothes.” He waved a hand at Harry and Ron before kicking off his slippers and heading for the study. Ron bobbed his head, arms folded.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and busied herself with gathering up the papers and blueprints to form two, neat stacks on the coffee table. Harry helped himself into their pantry, emerging with a peppermint tea tin.</p><p>Hermione watched, amused as Harry fixed it up, digging a mug with a large, blue “H” on it from the back of the cupboard. Ron looked at the cup, and his mouth became a thin line. Harry plunked a second, red mug in front of Ron without comment. The next two joined the first pair, and the kettle began to whistle.</p><p>When George emerged from the bedroom, he’d thrown on a pair of faded denims and the cream-colored jumper. He was rubbing something over his left forearm, but as he entered the room, he shoved the tin into his back pocket and tugged the sleeve down.</p><p>Was he alright?</p><p>She frowned, but George was already heading towards the other two. “How can I be of service?” he asked calmly, bracing two fists on the counter.</p><p>“Have you got a Pensieve here, or do we need to go back to the office?” Ron asked, not meeting George’s eyes.</p><p>“There’s one in the workshop,” George said. He shoved a hand through his hair and accepted the mug from Harry before taking a long drink. “We can head down now, if you’d like.”</p><p>Harry nodded proceeding first into the hallway with Ron. The two waited as Hermione crossed to the sofa, shuffling her feet into the slippers resting there.</p><p>They were George’s, but that didn’t really matter if they were only going downstairs. She felt a warm presence behind her and turned partway. George’s arm came over her shoulder, placing his mug in her hands. “Hold this for a moment?” he asked. Hermione nodded and looked into the tea. He’d already had half, but it was hot and pleasant smelling, and she needed something to wake her up the rest of the way.</p><p>“Cheeky,” he mumbled, glancing at her shoes as he crossed to the door. “You’ve got your own, you know.” The comment was dry but mirthful, and he stooped, sorting through the shoes beneath the coat rack. Hermione took a sip from his cup, pretending not to hear him. George huffed. “Bugger—forgot my boots are done in.” He snagged a pair that had become wedged near the back of the pile.</p><p>He glanced up, right as she took a second pull, and his brows rose. “Harry made you one as well,” he said. Hermione glanced at the counter where an untouched, purple cup sat.</p><p>Then, she downed the rest of George’s.</p><p>Harry snorted, and George glanced over. “You believe this, Mate?” he asked incredulously, pulling on a black, creased, dragon leather shoe.</p><p>“Totally unprecedented,” Harry said.</p><p>“Inappropriate, really,” George said.</p><p>“A startling lack of boundaries,” Harry said.</p><p>George cracked into a grin. Ron coughed, and George’s expression faltered. It went quiet again as George finished lacing his shoes, then stood.</p><p>Their steps rang over the spiral staircase, down into the hall. And George looked back at her, snorting as his slippers thunked around her ankles.</p><p>When they reached the workshop, he disappeared into the shelving. Hermione stared around the corner, into storage area. It had caused no small amount of heartache. They’d adjusted the size of the room after receiving the fine, but it didn’t make a difference.</p><p>They’d noticed too late.</p><p>And still no owl. No mail waiting on the table—not in the flat, and not down here.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip.</p><p>George hoisted the Pensieve against his hips, re-emerging from the back. The metal bowl on top was large and shimmered in the faint light of the workroom.</p><p>If only she could see what she was missing in its surface.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and pushed the thought aside.</p><p>He shoved his right jumper sleeve to the elbow and poured a clear vial into the bowl as the trio approached, grouping around the basin. Harry raised his wand, and George gripped the stand as Harry pulled the strand of blue from his temple. He flicked it down, into the water, and the four of them fell into a nightmare.</p><p>#</p><p>Harry and Ron watched silently as Hermione yelled at the man in the street. They stiffened at the boom, and their eyes searched over the scene as screams rang over Diagon Alley. Hermione saw herself bolt towards the noise.</p><p>George’s past self shouted, dashing after her, but a flush of pedestrians crowded the pavement between them. In the memory, he swore, throwing himself into the thick of it. His eyes fixed on the Muggle Liaison Office as he fought through, arm outstretched, parting the bodies like water. He broke through the first wave, and his stride quickened to a sprint as he pumped his arms.</p><p>The Pensieve dragged them along to follow him.</p><p>George’s red hair was flattened to his face in the torrent of rain. Despite the racket and roar of the attack, the sound of his breath filled the Pensieve—echoing in and out like a desperate drumbeat.</p><p>George reached the edge of the second crowd beside the building, stumbled to a stop, whirling in a circle. <em>“Hermione?”</em> he yelled.</p><p>Harry froze the memory. “See anyone?” he asked Ron. The two paced through the crowd, glancing over faces.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. She couldn’t see herself in the people. Beside her, George’s arms were folded, and his eyes were trained on the empty space between the throng and the building. His hand drifted up, rubbing over his jaw.</p><p>Harry flicked his wand, and the chaos resumed.</p><p> Suddenly, there was a streak of yellow, and a figure darted away from the crowd’s edge—right towards the smoking, icy building. It was her—rain slicker drenched by the storm. George exhaled in a whoosh at her side and dropped his gaze to his shoes.</p><p>“<em>Wait</em>!” George’s memory cried, shoving through people. He cleared the edge of the crowd as Hermione vaulted over a brick wall and disappeared from sight. <em>“Hermione!” </em>George shouted, bolting after her.</p><p>Ron muttered, circling the scene, but the noise covered his words.</p><p>The building groaned. The ice cracked and stretched thick over the exterior, and another piece of wall fell away. Hermione inhaled sharply as George spun, narrowly avoiding the falling stone, but he didn’t stop moving. He cleared the brick outcropping and charged into the structure after her.</p><p>The first floor was far worse than she remembered. His face contorted as he skidded to a land over the ice, wobbling.  <em>“Hermione!” </em>George roared and the name exploded into a white cloud. He turned back and forth before dashing to the left, heading for a far corner. He sucked in a breath to shout once more. <em>“Her—”</em> He broke into a coughing fit, slipping on the ice. The stuff was everywhere, obscuring the black streaks on the walls with a layer of white frost. George wheezed, trying to fight his way through the sudden fit, but the spiderwork lit faintly, and he hacked up a few sparks, going still.</p><p>A sharp ache filled the tip of her nose as she watched him struggle, panic shoving up her throat. Suddenly, George’s real, warm arm stole around her shoulders.</p><p>He was safe. He was safe now.</p><p>But the few seconds in the memory had cost him. The ice crept up his boots as he straightened, breathing hard. He went to lift a foot, but it was glued to the floor. George’s face twisted. He turned back and forth, before grimacing and yanking his leg upwards, but it was stuck fast.</p><p>“There was nothing to grab onto,” George muttered at her side.</p><p>“Lucky you didn’t,” Harry said quietly.</p><p>“I wouldn’t make a good snowman?” George quipped, but his fingers splayed over Hermione’s shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze.</p><p>Another set of shouts, and Ron tumbled into view. <em>“You mad?”</em> he roared, flinging his wand towards the ice at George’s feet. The spell rebounded, and Ron swore.</p><p>“<em>Hermione’s in here</em>!” George yelled. Ron’s eyes widened. A blue Terrier circled his feet, keeping the ice at bay.</p><p>The building shook.</p><p><em>“Get him out of here!”</em> Ron yells, and two aurors grabbed hold of George’s arms.</p><p>He fought them, shouting. <em>“No, she’s still—she’s still—” </em></p><p><em>“Would you just trust me!”</em> Ron shouted.</p><p>George’s eyes widened, and uncertainty flashed over his expression. <em>“But—”</em></p><p>The aurors snapped him out of existence, and the ice splintered.</p><p><em>“—I can help!”</em> George shouted as they landed. <em>“Wait—Wait—She’s still—”</em> He was inconsolable, shoving and fighting to break from the aurors as the ice thickened over his boots.</p><p>“Anyone suspicious?” Harry called, searching the far end of the scene as Ron examined the opposite half.</p><p>“Not that I can tell,” Ron shouted back. “Bloke they were fighting before’s over here, but he’s only standing and watching.”</p><p>Harry nodded and pulled them out. The Pensieve’s liquid made an odd glooping sound as it spat them into the workshop. Harry rebottled George’s memory, slipping the vial into his rumpled, grey pocket.</p><p>“Cheers for that,” Harry said. “Ready, Mione?” he asked, turning his wand to her. Hermione swallowed, but nodded as she focused on the event. They fell into the second memory, and Hermione watched the ground. She had no interest in reliving the event a third time.</p><p>“Okay?” George asked quietly as the harrowing boom rocked the street. Hermione nodded. The back of his hand brushed hers, and Hermione blinked up at him. “You’re deceptively fast, for someone with such short legs.” George mused, face turned toward the scene.</p><p>“Smaller frame helps her cut through the crowd, too,” Ron remarked.</p><p>“Like a Cheetah,” George said, glancing down at her with a cocked brow. “You’ve no right outpacing me like that.” He looked back up, clicking his tongue in mock rebuke. Hermione tangled her fingers in his. The faint sparks eddied between their palms.</p><p>
  <em>“Timothy—” </em>
</p><p>George stiffened.</p><p>
  <em>“Stay here!”</em>
</p><p>Hermione watched the ground, trying to tune out the sound of her trainers hitting the ice.</p><p><em>“Timothy!”</em> her voice cried.</p><p>George’s hand tightened around hers, and Hermione glanced upwards.</p><p>“We’ll search for the object here, after we see it through,” Harry said. His quill danced over the notepad at his shoulder as he pointed at Ron. Ron nodded.</p><p>Hermione watched as she vaulted upwards, gripping the floorboards over the leveled staircase.</p><p>“Merlin’s Beard, Hermione,” Harry said, voice faint.</p><p>“I saw a shadow, so I chased it,” she said. Harry nodded, looking her over. He flicked his wand, and the memory rewound to the moment. Harry peered at the dark shape, brow furrowed, as Hermione searched the room for any sign of George—but he’d arrived after. Harry flicked his wand again. Hermione yanked herself onto the second floor in a smooth pull.</p><p>As she advanced towards the figure, Harry froze the scene.</p><p>“He’s young,” Ron said, voice hard.</p><p>“Oh, Bloody Hell,” George mumbled, face twisting. “That’s the Greengrass boy.” He rubbed his free hand over his jaw.</p><p>“Daphne and Astoria’s cousin?” Harry asked, turning to George.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>“Which one?” Ron asked.</p><p>“Albert—the-the older one,” George said with a sigh. “He used to come into the Hogsmeade shop sometimes.” His fingers slipped from Hermione’s as he stepped back, scrubbing his hands over his mouth and staring at Albert. “Sometimes with his younger brothers, but usually alone.” Something disappointed and raw had come up into his expression, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen. “Bought a lot of fireworks and Nosebleed Nougats.” The last part was said softly.</p><p>Harry nodded, and the quill scratched over the paper for a few moments before the memory played. George’s gaze hardened as Albert apparated.</p><p>“You okay?” Hermione whispered. George nodded stiffly. Hermione nodded and trained her eyes on the floor.</p><p>
  <em>“Timothy?”</em>
</p><p>Harry froze the memory. “You should know—the kid is stable,” he said. “He’s got a few burns, and he doesn’t seem to remember the last several months, but he’s-he’s fine, otherwise.”</p><p>Hermione nodded again, not looking up. The memory played on, and she could hear the small, rattling breath from the child, and her own—panicked and desperate. George’s hand came out, taking hers once more.</p><p>The ghostly ice grew thicker under her feet, and she knew where it was headed. Who it was reaching for.</p><p>Her scream pierced the air, and George’s hold tightened.</p><p>The memory froze, and Hermione looked up at Harry, but it was Ron this time, staring hard at the spot she and Timothy had been while whipping his wand in a circle to wind the image back. “Didn’t see you,” Ron muttered. “Hidden like—”</p><p>He looked up at her, shoulders tight. “Look,” he said, and Hermione blinked up as he strode towards the stairway’s entry. “You didn’t see me, but I was just here at this point.” He gestured adamantly to the floor. “I heard the crack. I would’ve found you.”</p><p>“Ronald?” Hermione asked, tilting her head to meet his eyes.</p><p> “You just didn’t see me,” he said, again. A defensive edge had crept into his voice.</p><p>Oh. He thought she was cross that he hadn’t helped her at the scene. That was ridiculous—the building was in terrible shape, and they’d all done their best, given the circumstances.</p><p>“It’s al—”</p><p>Ron cut her off. “I wouldn’t have left you in there,” He said, emphatically pointing a hand at the ice-scarred floorboards. “I didn’t disapparate—not until I knew.” His gaze flickered to George for the slightest moment before returning to Hermione.</p><p>“No one’s accusing you of anything, Ron,” George said, tone low.</p><p>“Not yet, you mean,” Ron snapped. George opened his mouth. Faltered. Closed it.</p><p>“Thank you for watching out for me,” Hermione said firmly. Ron hesitated. His arms folded, and he looked away. “As George has just clarified, no one blames you for not reaching me before I apparated.” Ron didn’t acknowledge the comment. She drew in a breath and tipped her chin up. “And while I’m grateful that both you care, I would like to remind everyone that I made the choice to run in, and I am the sole party responsible for that decision. Furthermore, in the end, I did manage.”</p><p>She almost hadn’t, but she didn’t think bringing that up would help the tension in the room.</p><p>George stared at the ground. “You’re right,” he said. He paused, not meeting her eyes. “But please consider how you might’ve felt at the time, if you watched me run into that building alone, believing I couldn’t apparate.”</p><p>Hermione balked. Watching it happen in the Pensieve before had been terrible enough, and that was with the knowledge that he’d made it out. Watching it transpire in real time would’ve been far worse. The thought turned her stomach.</p><p>George was speaking softly and hurriedly. “It’s not that I think you’re incapable, I just—”</p><p>She would’ve run after him too. She would’ve yelled too, at anyone who got in her way.</p><p>“For the record,” Harry cut in tiredly, not looking up from his notepad, which he’d been flipping through since Ron froze the Pensieve. “If anyone on my team pulled that stunt, I’d suspend them for recklessness.” He raised his brows. “Actually, if anyone on my team was that low on magic, I wouldn’t have them in the field at all.”</p><p>“That’s very helpful, Harry, thank you,” Hermione said dryly. “If you’d like to send me home, I understand.” Harry nodded wryly and returned to his notepad. “My point is that no one’s blaming you, Ron.”</p><p>“Right,” Ron said, terse and rigid. He wouldn’t look at either of them.</p><p>“Ron,” George’s voice was tired and snappish.</p><p>Ron’s jaw firmed. “All I’m saying is it’s not bloody—”</p><p>“Enough,” Harry said crisply, flipping the notepad shut as he stood. He sounded tired, looking between the two other men. “Need I remind you both, we’re working a crime scene, not group therapy—which the two of you desperately need, by the way.” He jabbed his finger at George and Ron. Ron’s face contorted, and George scrubbed his hands through his hair, watching the floor.</p><p>Harry stopped, closed his eyes, and drew in a long breath. “I’m sorry. That’s not an insult,” he said. “I love you both. I generally try to stay out of these things. Merlin knows I’ve held my tongue plenty of times, but when you involve my office, my cases, my <em>son</em>—”</p><p>George face opened in shock. “Harry—I’d never bring Teddy into it,” he said, looking stricken.</p><p>“Obviously,” Ron said, sounding similarly distraught as he turned to Harry. “We’re not that thick.”</p><p>George nodded at Ron.</p><p>Harry looked between the two of them, brows raised. “You think he can’t read a room? You think he hasn’t noticed how your body language changes when the other’s present? Your tone when you talk to each other?” He shook his head. “He’s seen you at the Burrow. He knows. He already knows.” Harry shrugged, and a tight smile slipped over his face. “Look, you’re allowed to be upset with each other, but the way things are now, I mean, you’re not even talking properly about it—” Harry stopped, and he jerked his hand upwards as his face contorted in frustration. “Something’s got to change, because I draw the line at Teddy.” He lifted a finger and pointed at the two of them again. “And Gin agrees with me, by the way.”</p><p>Ron shuffled his feet, and George stared at the floor.</p><p>Harry’s eyes flashed as he spoke. “Now, it’s nearing two in the morning, and I’d like to go home, so let’s search the crowd out front once again, and then we’ll look for the object.” With that, Harry stalked past, whipping his wand. The memory resumed.</p><p>Her scream rent the air, and Hermione forced herself to turn towards the throng, searching for any faces that looked familiar.</p><p>
  <em>“She’s out here, get out—get out now—” </em>
</p><p>A clap of apparition.</p><p>No Albert. He must’ve gone further off. She could hear her own panicked gasps, and the sound made her ribs constrict. George’s hand brushed hers.</p><p>
  <em>“What were you thinking!” </em>
</p><p>“Pity,” George whispered, looking over his shoulder the image of Ron and Hermione. “I liked that slicker.” Ron’s yells continued, and Hermione willed the noise to fade, becoming more and more aware of every moment that she’d stood, overwhelmed in the fray.</p><p>
  <em>“Ronald, where’s George?” </em>
</p><p>It had taken her far too long to ask, but George didn’t seem to notice as he circled the people, filtering through the crowd’s ghosts beside her.</p><p>
  <em>“Get off—get off—she’s still—” </em>
</p><p>A yelp.</p><p>
  <em>“George!” </em>
</p><p>Hermione turned her head, peeking over at the scene. Ron and Harry paced the crowd’s exterior sides, looking over the faces.</p><p>“See Albert?” Harry called.</p><p>Ron shook his head.</p><p>“He’s not over here, either,” George replied, raising his voice over the noise.</p><p>Meanwhile, in the memory, George was frantic, hands searching and clutching her tight as he gasped. <em>“You—”</em></p><p>Hermione winced at the panicked look on his face and turned away.</p><p>The next hour passed slowly as the group searched the memory for the cursed object. They were beginning to think that neither of them had seen it—Hermione’s record was their best shot, as the ice hadn’t grown as thick when she was in the room.</p><p>But at last, Harry uncovered the broken fanged frisbee from behind the wreckage of the reception desk. It was nearly four in the morning by the time they found it, smoldering and fractured into pieces under a thick glacier-like layer beneath a stray chunk of charred wood.</p><p>George looked queasy as he examined the tell-tale red plastic through the glaze. It was almost unrecognizable, warped out of shape, but a bit of the lettering was still intact, and a few of the metallic blades had survived the blast.</p><p>“We used to sell these,” he whispered, sounding horrified.</p><p>“D’you know anything about this, then?” Ron asked.</p><p>“No,” George said, straightening. His tone went clipped. “And if I did, I would say so. Immediately.”</p><p>There was an awkward pause.</p><p>“At least it saves us a bit of time,” Harry said tiredly as he frowned at the toy. “Now we know where to locate it once the ice has melted back.”</p><p>Hermione stared at it. It seemed terribly small to be the epicenter of so much havoc.</p><p>A horrible thought occurred to her.</p><p>“You don’t think they chose a toy to—” Hermione looked from the frisbee to Harry. He turned to her, and she knew.</p><p>Despite the shadows under his eyes and the sheen of sweat covering his face, he looked wired. Furious. “We suspect that they’re activated by touch,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione covered her mouth with a hand. That’s exactly why they’d chosen it. They’d been hoping to hit a child. A muggleborne child.</p><p>Her throat closed.</p><p>With that grim thought, the group trudged back to the flat in a strained silence. Ron listened as Harry reviewed their plans for the investigation’s proceedings, but the second Harry was through, he headed for the fireplace without a word.</p><p>“Ron?” George asked quietly, stepping up to the hearth.</p><p>“I’m tired,” Ron said quietly. “I’ll see you all soon.” The flame whooshed. George’s face constricted as he left, and Hermione bit her lip.</p><p>She’d been hoping they might chat a bit and sort things. But it seemed Ron wasn’t ready. She glanced at George. For the slightest moment, there was something hurt in his expression, but then it shuttered, like a barrier locking into place.</p><p>“Give it time,” she whispered. George nodded, staring at the fireplace.</p><p>Hermione’s tea was cold on the counter, but she sipped at it nonetheless as Harry spoke with George in low tones.</p><p>“They’re still planning on holding the Gala?” George asked.</p><p>“Yes—on a smaller scale, with far more rigorous security,” Harry said tightly. “There’s the worry that we’ll look like we’re cowering if we cancel it last minute, but at the same time, I don’t fancy the risk to my teams, and neither does Sturgis. Shacklebolt’s house is massive, and we’re stretched thin as is.” Harry shook his head and filled his mug with water. “Wish the committee hadn’t made it a Masquerade,” he muttered. “It’ll be a nightmare.”</p><p>“Wand checks, though?” George asked, voice tense. Harry nodded and held up a hand as he took a drink.</p><p>Finally, Harry continued. “And more,” he said. “I had a short meeting with Sturgis and Kingsley before we came here—it’s why we were so late.” He grimaced. “We’ll have people posted throughout the venue, and teams at potential hotspots. Hogwarts. Family homes.” Harry’s gaze flicked to Hermione.</p><p>“That’s pretty thorough,” George said quietly.</p><p>Harry didn’t react. “Ron and I’ve got more we’re working on. Contingency plans. We won’t be caught unprepared. If something happens, it won’t be like—” He stopped short, then redirected the sentence. “I don’t want there to be any vulnerable spots for them to hit.” Harry cleared his throat. “Kinsley’s moving the orphans to a secure location, and I’m not bringing Teddy any longer. I think you should tell the others to leave Victoire and Angelo behind.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head, and Harry started a little. “Oh, um—” Harry said. “Kingsley’s turned the Minister’s Mansion into a children’s home for kids who lost their families to the war. Usually, people bring their children, and they all get to play during the event.”</p><p>“That’s wonderful,” Hermione whispered. Harry nodded.</p><p>“Less so, when the venue might become a horrifying ice lollie, but—” Harry trailed off.</p><p>George exhaled heavily. “So, who’s staying behind to watch our tykes?” he asked.</p><p>Harry took a long draught from his cup. “Ron,” he said.</p><p>George quirked a brow. “Does not the public demand its golden trio?”</p><p>“They’ll get what they bloody get, and be happy with it,” Harry said, tone growing waspish. “I’ve half a mind to make it an elected position. Maybe you and Fred can sprout a third twin. Take over for a while.”</p><p>“I’ll ask Mum if she’s got anyone extra tucked away at the Burrow,” George said dryly.</p><p>Hermione finished her tea. “What if I stayed behind?” she asked.</p><p>Harry blinked at her. “You usually court donations for the Gablehaven Agency during the dinner party,” he said.</p><p>Hermione nodded. Fleur had sent a list of names who’d donated to their agency in the past, but would those individuals even be in attendance now?</p><p>“What’s the guest list look like?” she asked.</p><p>Harry groaned. “Wizengamot, high-ranking Ministry officials, and a handful of people we’ve seen picking their noses in Transfiguration classes.” He sighed tiredly. “It’s always a coin toss to see who shows up, though. We’re the only ones who can stomach it consistently, really. If I had any say in the matter, we’d skip the thing, and the papers could spend the day reprinting retractions of every lie they wrote during the war.”</p><p>Hermione smiled. “Your idea does sound rather nice,” she said.</p><p>Harry nudged her and gave her a wry grin. “I think so,” he said. “But others have said it’s important for us to be seen—to remind people to have hope.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Fleur would have both of our heads if you backed out. Besides—” he paused and grimaced at her. “For safety reasons, whoever stays with the children should be able to caste.”</p><p>Rats. If only her magic had returned already. But the faint embers were even lower than they’d been the day before—strained by her apparition.</p><p>George shook his head. “Considering the attendees and the current climate, it feels a bit like venturing into a den of vipers,” he said. His brows lifted. “Even more so than usual.” Harry nodded.</p><p>“But we’ve got a name, now,” Harry said. “And that’s a start. With luck, we’ll be able to track Albert down before the event and get some answers.”</p><p>George tucked his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. “Ah yes. Luck. Historically, we’ve had plenty of that.”</p><p>“I think so,” Hermione said quietly. George’s tight expression softened, and he looked at her.</p><p>“Yeah?” he asked. Hermione nodded.</p><p>Harry crossed to the kitchen table. The record book lay out, and his gaze fell to it, looking over the figures. George cleared his throat stepped rapidly to Harry’s side. The volume thudded shut, and George drew it back. Harry raised his hands.</p><p>“We’ll manage,” George said.</p><p>Harry nodded, suddenly fascinated by the windows.</p><p>“I mean it, Harry,” George said.</p><p>“I know you do,” Harry said, but there was a small challenge in his voice. George sighed.</p><p>Hermione trained her eyes on her mug. The owl from Gringotts had yet to arrive. But surely, it wouldn’t be much longer.</p><p>Surely.</p><p>Convincing herself was getting harder each hour.</p><p>Despite how hard she tried, when George and Harry glanced in her direction, she couldn’t quite mask her worry.</p><p>Harry looked at George. George turned to the windows, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Look, Mate, if there was a way for you to help without getting the Ministry’s baggage involved, I’d consider it, but—” he paused, and his voice went hollow. “That’s the not the world we live in.”</p><p>Harry opened his mouth, but George shook his head. “One thing at a time,” he said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, George made his way through the kitchen. He stopped at Hermione, hesitating. Gently, he lifted his hands to her shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.</p><p>“I’d like to talk with you about everything, but I’m dead on my feet,” he said softly. “Tomorrow?”</p><p>Hermione nodded, brow furrowing. “Of course,” she said. George searched her face, then stepped away, disappearing into the study for the night.</p><p>Harry and Hermione stood in the quiet for a few minutes. The kettle whistled, but neither spoke. Harry shifted, and the water gurgled from the spout, into the ceramic. But this time, it wasn’t the sharp scent of peppermint that filled the air.</p><p>It was softer, sweeter. Lemon. “I think Gin left this here during one of your girls’ nights,” Harry said, turning over the box with an amused expression. “She always has it in the evenings.”</p><p>Hermione grinned and accepted the mug. “Do you make it for her special?” she teased.</p><p>Harry laughed. “Yes,” he said, simple and short.</p><p>“Wow, Harry,” Hermione said, feigning surprise. “It sounds like things are getting pretty serious between you two.”</p><p>Harry snorted into his drink. “Don’t tell her,” he said. “I’m trying to play it casual.”</p><p>Hermione breathed out a laugh. The tea went down smooth.</p><p>“I’m glad you two are together,” she said, smiling over at him. Harry smiled back.</p><p>Then he rested his mug on the counter.</p><p>“You know, one of the things that makes you and George a particularly good couple is that you problem solve together,” Harry said. “You listen to him, and he listens to you.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head, assessing him.</p><p>“We both know George shouldn’t lose the shop over this,” Harry said quietly. Hermione nodded. “If it gets to that—you’ll talk to him?”</p><p>She paused. “I don’t want him to do something he’s not comfortable with,” she said. “But we’re not giving up.”</p><p>She didn’t want to hurt Harry’s feelings, but she understood George’s reservations. If the Ministry was seen as supporting the shop, they’d have to watch over their shoulder to ensure that nothing they did reflected poorly on Harry and Kingsley. The men’s political opponents would stop at nothing to smear their names. While Harry might not mind, there were plenty of people relying on far too few to help correct the frankly atrocious power imbalance in the Wizarding governance.</p><p>There was too much to risk. It was hard enough to get movement on important issues as is. Throw in a product controversy or something equally ridiculous, and it could undermine Harry’s voice of reason.</p><p>But at the same time—Harry was right. George shouldn’t lose the storefront over an unfair fine. It was his dream, and he’d worked so hard.</p><p>“He’d listen to you about Ron, as well,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione stared at the teabag floating in her mug water. “I don’t know where to begin, there,” she whispered.</p><p>“You’re not the only one,” Harry said, sighing. “The past five years haven’t exactly been kind to Ron. Being so far away—he was pretty isolated. Didn’t help that he was working as an undercover auror without the support that that the rest of us have got here.”</p><p>He traced his index finger over the counter’s edge. “I think some of him got stuck, years ago, when we all got dragged into this hero mess, and I don’t think it’s gotten unstuck, really.” Harry paused.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. Being stuck in the past while the present moved forward—she knew that feeling all too well.</p><p>“Doesn’t excuse him hitting George at my office, but it does explain a little.” Harry winced. “Anyways. I think talking with someone professional would help him—would help their relationship, if they did it together.”</p><p>Hermione nodded quietly.</p><p>Harry tapped his mug on the counter, staring at the handle. “I think George would agree, based on conversations we’ve had previously about the subject. But getting something like that going would be a little awkward.”</p><p>“I’ll mention it to him,” Hermione said. Harry looked up at her, and she could see the gratitude in his eyes.</p><p>“But sometimes,” she said hesitantly. “Families fight, though, Harry.”</p><p>Harry’s look warmed. “I know, Mione,” he said. “I’m not afraid of that. I’d rather it happen in a healthy way, though.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>The building creaked, settling in the night.</p><p>It occurred to her that Harry Potter had come quite a long way from the boy who’d lived under the staircase.</p><p>“If I hid a thousand Galleons around your flat, do you think he’d notice?” Harry asked, placing his mug in the sink.</p><p>Hermione closed her eyes, exhaling the laugh.</p><p>But then it turned to a sob.</p><p>#</p><p>May 1, 2003, 4:32 a.m.</p><p>The Bluebell charm hovered over Hermione’s shoulder, shedding an even glow onto the pages before her. <em>Hogwarts: A History</em> laid open on her legs, and she was deep into the chapter on Helga Hufflepuff’s quest for harmony between the castle and the citizens of the surrounding forest.</p><p>It was one of the most calming chapters, truthfully. Perfect for nights when the unease kept her from sleep. After they’d finished their tea, Harry had left, but rest evaded her.</p><p>There was too much to worry about.</p><p>She turned the page.</p><p>A muffled crack echoed from behind the wall. Hermione lifted her head. A shout, short and pained, followed it.</p><p>George.</p><p>Hermione dropped the book, scrambling over the edge of the bed. Her feet tripped along the cold floor, towards the door that stood ajar across the room.</p><p>George shouted again.</p><p>Hermione’s hand anchored to the frame as she whipped around the corner.</p><p>The bluebell charm followed her, shaking light across the hall.</p><p>Another strangled cry.</p><p>What if they’d been wrong—what if the curse had—</p><p>Hermione slammed through the study door, and it swung wide, banging against the wall.</p><p>George was tangled in the blankets on the pull-out bed, strobing a faint blue.       </p><p>“No, no!” he shouted, and the thick, aqua wall of a Protego spell cracked out from his skin, shimmering in the air around him. Hermione jumped back towards the desk, narrowly missing its unsteady light. The shield fizzed, then exploded into nothingness with a single pop.</p><p>George’s eyes were closed, and he twisted, gasping. “Hermi—” His arm flailed out, over the mattress’s edge, and he choked. Another wall burst around his fingers, fracturing into blue shrapnel. He was casting in his sleep—wandless.</p><p>It was a nightmare.</p><p>A bad one.</p><p>“George,” she called, but he didn’t hear.</p><p>As the spell faded, she made to reach for him, but suddenly, he lunged to the side. “No!” he choked.</p><p>“George!” Hermione yelped, tripping over the mattress’s corner as she rushed towards him, but she wasn’t fast enough. His momentum threw him from the bed, and he hit the floor with a loud thud, just beside the door frame.</p><p>George twisted and bolted upright, gasping as Hermione hit her knees at his side. She reached for him, and he blinked, dragging in a ragged breath. His eyes flickered over her hands, then up to her face.</p><p>“They—” he stopped. Blinked again. Looked around. “They were going to—” He shook his head, confused.</p><p>“It’s okay, Georgie,” she whispered, drifting her hand up to his shoulder. Rain howled against the windows, and the flat’s walls creaked. She scooted closer and searched his face, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It was only a nightmare.”</p><p>George swallowed. He nodded, ducking his head.</p><p>His hand came up slowly, wrapping over hers where she touched him.</p><p>Faint sparks.</p><p>Suddenly, George’s face contorted. He lifted her hand and dragged her arm to his chest, pulling the front of her fist to his mouth. His exhale washed over her knuckles.</p><p>He didn’t look at her, just held her hand there.</p><p>One breath.</p><p>Two breaths.</p><p>“George?” Hermione whispered. George’s free hand came up, finding her elbow. His hold was shaky and odd. “Was—was it bad?” she asked softly.</p><p>George shrugged a little and made a small, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, but the noise snagged.</p><p>“Was it about me?” she asked. George’s fingers skated over the back of her hand. He nodded.</p><p>“Yes,” the confession was warm on her skin. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Was it about what happened earlier?” she asked. George shook his head.</p><p>But he didn’t elaborate.</p><p>“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered it into her fingers. Hermione scooted closer.</p><p>“You didn’t,” she said.</p><p>George was silent, clinging to her.</p><p>“Do you need a hug?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George exhaled. “Godric, yes,” he said. She looped her arms around his neck, and he clambered forward onto his knees. George dragged her in, snaking one arm around the small of her back and burying his other hand deep into her curls.</p><p>“What were you dreaming about?” Hermione asked quietly. His flannel pajamas were soft under her hands.</p><p>“I wasn’t fast enough,” he whispered hoarsely. Hermione shifted her hand from his shoulder, up to hold the back of his head. George’s face pressed into the crook of her neck. “In the Wizengamot, I wasn’t fast enough.”</p><p>It was barely audible.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“I didn’t reach you in time, and—” The words were faint and battered. “And the Obliviate hit you.”</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Oh, Georgie.”</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.</p><p>“George—” Hermione pulled back, taking his face in her hands. “It’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong.”</p><p>He shook his head, shifting out of her reach to sit against the bedside table. “I made a promise,” he said softly. “To take care of you, and you’ve always—always done brilliantly in taking care of me, and I can’t even—” His face contorted. “I can’t even—”</p><p>“You don’t think that,” she said, studying him. “Not truly.” George looked at the floor. “George.” Her tone shifted as disbelief took her. “You’ve taken care of me for months, now.”</p><p>He didn’t answer.</p><p>“Truly,” Hermione said firmly. “When I woke up in Mungo’s months ago, I was terrified, but you’ve been there, every step of the way.”</p><p>“But you’re not happy,” George said softly, not meeting her eyes. “Not like you should be, at least.”</p><p>Hermione’s ribs tightened. “But I am,” she said. “I mean, yes, there are things outside of your control that’ve been ghastly—curses, thousand Galleon fines, a blood supremacist crime ring, the Wizengamot in general, really, but apart from that—” She paused, searching for the words. “When it comes to this? The two of us? I actually feel—” she faltered, searching for the right word. “—positive.”</p><p>That wasn’t quite right.</p><p>George rubbed the back of his neck, still not meeting her eyes. “Brilliant,” he said dryly. “So, apart from all that rubbish, you’ve had a whole five minutes of peace since March.” His voice was tired.</p><p>“What, are you keeping tally?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George shrugged.</p><p>Hermione sat back on her heels and fixed him with a flat stare. “Hold on, let me speak with the other Hermione,” she said, taking on a swotty tone and pressing her fingers to her temples.</p><p>George’s brows drew together as he blinked up at her, but she ignored him, scrunching her face as she pretended to focus, speaking crisply. “Mhm? Other Hermione?” She paused.</p><p>George rolled his eyes and folded his arms.</p><p>After a moment, she nodded. “Yes, okay, thank you for your time,” she said. George cocked a brow, staring at her with a flat look.</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin. “As I thought—she says you’re being a prat.”</p><p>George snorted. “Sure, Granger,” he said, but there was something in his gaze that told her to carry on.</p><p>“A big prat,” Hermione said. George’s mouth quirked. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Wait—wait—she’s not done.” She extended her hand. “Repeat that, Other Hermione?” She peeked at him. George tipped his head back against the table, watching her with a faintly amused expression.</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth in fake surprise. George’s brows lifted.</p><p>“What?” Hermione gasped, crawling to her feet. She didn’t know exactly what she was doing, but his eyes had lit with interest, spurring her on.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>She knew how to fix this.</p><p>Suddenly, she jumped. “Oh, I quite agree, Other Hermione!” she cried, then laughed, tearing around the corner.</p><p>“Wait—what?” George called, and his footsteps thudded rapidly after her.</p><p>“He is, isn’t he?” she shouted, whirling around the sofa.</p><p>“I’m what?” George called, chasing her.</p><p>Hermione shrieked as she reached for the flat door, shoving her feet into his slippers. George snatched her around the waist, hoisting her aloft.</p><p>“These are mine!” he cried, trying to lift his foot to nudge them off as she twisted in his arms, laughing.</p><p>“Other Hermione says you’re lying!” Hermione shouted. She wriggled, shoving against his forearms and kicking her legs out of his reach.</p><p>“As if!” George roared. He turned, dropping her on the sofa, and swiped for them, but Hermione scrambled out of reach and tripped around the armchair. George bolted towards her, but she lunged for the floo. His eyes rounded, and she tossed the powder in, shouting out for the shop downstairs.</p><p>George chased her through.</p><p>“That’s cheating!” he called, and Hermione dashed down the aisles, laughing. The bluebell charm bounced around her head as she moved.</p><p>“Other Hermione says I can do what I want!” she shouted. George tore after her, socks slipping on the flooring. Hermione ducked out of reach, looping around the till.</p><p>George smacked his hands on the counter. “Give it up, Granger,” he said, staring her down from the other side. “You’re cornered.”</p><p>Hermione stopped, breathing hard. She grinned.</p><p>“I’ll give them back,” she said. “But first, you’ve got to do something.”</p><p>George braced against his hands and leaned forward. “And what’s that, Granger?” he asked flatly.</p><p>Hermione bugged her eyes out at him. “A game,” she whispered. George studied her for a moment. Then, he turned and leaned his side against the counter, bracing on his elbow and crossing his legs at the ankle.</p><p>“Name your rules,” he said calmly, straightening his sleeve and tilting his head back to look at her.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “I’ll give them back if—” she paused, spinning in the shop. George drummed his fingers on the countertop. The rack of glowing, red bottles caught her eye.</p><p>That would be fun.</p><p>“If you drink whichever potion I choose,” she said, excitement zipping up through her ribs.</p><p>George halted. But then he continued, drumming as though he were unphased. “It depends,” he said, shrugging.</p><p>Mischief sparked, magic swirling as she watched him, but she kept her voice level and even.</p><p>“What, you sell things you wouldn’t consume?” she asked, raising her brows. George crossed his arms and stared at her with incredulity.</p><p>“Yes,” he said. “Whizbangs aren’t edible.”</p><p>“I’ll read the label,” Hermione said. “It’ll be perfectly safe.”</p><p>George nodded. “Oh, I trust that completely,” he said, tone lilting with nonchalance. “Doesn’t mean I’m up for whatever it is, though.”</p><p>“What if I ask nicely?” Hermione tipped her chin up, advancing towards him.</p><p>“How nicely?” George asked, cocking a brow.</p><p>“Please?” Hermione grinned.</p><p>George looked at her, skepticism written over his features. But then he glanced to the side, and she could see the gears turning in his mind.</p><p>“Yeah, alright,” he said finally.</p><p>Hermione grinned. “But you have to go first,” she said.</p><p>George shook his head. “You have my word, as a Weasley, that I will follow through,” he said. He fixed her with an expectant stare.</p><p>“But how much is that worth?” she said, turning and pacing to and fro behind the counter. George didn’t falter.</p><p>“A lot,” he said. His brows lifted as he glanced at his socks. “More than you know.” The second part was a little too quiet.</p><p>No—no, she was cheering him up.</p><p>Hermione darted forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “Yes,” she said, contorting her face. “Well, I only have the one bargaining chip, and I’m reticent to give it up.”</p><p>George snorted and lifted his gaze. “Right,” he said.</p><p>“Those are my rules, George Fabian Weasley-Granger,” she said. “Do you accept them or not?”</p><p>George studied her in silence, and she propped her hands on her hips.</p><p>“It’s like I spun a Time Turner,” he said, tone wry. “Just a big a swot as you were at Hogwarts.”</p><p>Hermione cried out in protest. George grinned. “Fine, Granger, pick your poison.” He nodded towards the shelving.</p><p>“Stay there,” Hermione said, holding a hand up in command. “And-and close your eyes.”</p><p>George rubbed the bridge of his nose, but he did as requested.</p><p>She strode over, nicking one of the vials.</p><p><em>Crush Blush</em>.</p><p>
  <em>“Shade varies depending on the nature of the crush.”</em>
</p><p>Perhaps this was a little ridiculous. She scanned the ingredients. It was a simple potion. Nothing dangerous that would react with his magic. It bubbled, warm in her hand. She hid it behind her back as she walked to his side.</p><p>“Open your mouth,” she said. George grimaced, but he tipped his chin up and opened his mouth.</p><p>“Merlin,” he muttered. “If this is anything terrible—”</p><p>She unstoppered it and poured half the bottle’s contents over his tongue. The second it hit, George bolted upright.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” he said, looking at her. “That’s not—that’s not even creative.”</p><p>His face flushed a deep shade of red as he stared at her, incredulous. He blinked, looking across the room, and the blush faded.</p><p>Hermione burst into laughter.</p><p>There was a grumpy set to his shoulders, and he refused to look in her direction, turning away.</p><p>“Georgie,” she whispered. Like a magnet at the sound of the nickname, he swiveled, and the ruddiness returned. Hermione grinned. “Do you fancy me?” she asked. George rolled his eyes. Hermione broke into giggles.</p><p>He took in her laughter, huffing, but something light danced in his gaze.</p><p>On an impulse, Hermione tipped the bottle back.</p><p>George froze. For a brief moment, something like anxiety flashed over his face.</p><p>It tasted like cinnamon sugar. She grinned, laying the empty bottle aside, then turned to him. George watched, transfixed as the heat spread from her neck to her forehead.</p><p>“I take it back,” he said lowly. “This was a very good idea.”</p><p>“I think I fancy you,” she said, leaning over the counter at his side. She propped her chin on her hands and grinned.</p><p>His gaze warmed, and a slow, playful smile built over his face. “I know, Hermione,” he said quietly.</p><p>She contorted her brow, studying him. “See, you’re very handsome,” she said. “And kind.”</p><p>George swallowed, the playfulness fading from his expression.</p><p>“And the sound of your laugh—it’s absolutely wonderful,” she said, tilting her head, not breaking the eye contact. “And—”</p><p>The thought she’d had earlier, the one she hadn’t been brave enough to say—it came back.</p><p>“And the Other Hermione says you’re the most darling man alive,” she whispered.</p><p>George watched her, his face red and his eyes saucers.</p><p>“And personally,” Hermione said, shrugging a bit. “I happen to agree with her.”</p><p>He was speechless for a few moments, gazing over her.</p><p>“Alright, George?” Hermione asked after the silence extended.</p><p>He bobbed his head and swallowed. “I could summon a Patronus with this,” he said faintly.</p><p>Hermione lifted her brows. “Better make it good, then,” she said. With that, she stepped forward, slippers bumping socks, and drew him into a kiss. A sweet, soft glow stole over her as George exhaled shakily, melting against his elbow on the counter.</p><p>Hermione grinned and pulled away.</p><p>George tilted towards her as she broke the contact. “That was disarmingly charming,” he breathed, eyes still shut.</p><p>“Was it now?” she asked, voice lilting. George nodded as he bit his lips together, inhaling slowly. Hermione swooped up, pressing a fast kiss to his cheek, and George broke into a laugh. “Was it?” she taunted, dancing back and forth. She bounced up again, intending to nick another one.</p><p>Suddenly, he darted forward, and his arm swooped around, trapping her between his two hands against the counter.</p><p>Hermione blinked, looking up at him.</p><p>He tipped his head down, and his eyes searched over her features as a lopsided smile spread over his face. “Godric, you’re lovely,” he muttered.</p><p>The breath left her lungs.</p><p>“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Weasley,” she said. But then she slipped her hands over his, biting back her grin.</p><p>George nodded, glancing at their fingers, then looked back at her.</p><p>There was a brief pause.</p><p>“Hermione?” Amusement laced his tone.</p><p>“Yes?” she replied, sing-song and teasing.</p><p>George dipped closer as he leaned in. “Are you going to return my slippers?” he asked, lifting his brows.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Hermione hesitated and glanced down. “Did you truly want them, then?” she asked.</p><p>He was quite close now, reading her like a book, smiling in a way that was both rambunctious and soft. “Not at all,” he whispered.</p><p>“Oh good,” she breathed.</p><p>George closed the distance and kissed her. Grinning, earnest, and potion stained—a minute or two of wonder to add to the tally.</p><p>Hands on the counter, hearts on display.</p><p>Not a single bit of pretense.</p><p>Had they bothered to look in the windows’ reflection before the potion’s effects faded, they would’ve noticed that their faces were masked in a very similar shade of red.</p><p>#</p><p>May 1, 2003, 11:05 a.m.</p><p>Hermione Jean twisted her wet curls into a tight plait and secured a tie over the end, draping it over her shoulder before heading into the living room.</p><p>“Morning,” George said, looking up from his place at the dining table with a wry smile as he glanced at the clock. Hermione snorted, pacing over the examine the stacks of parchment covering the surface.</p><p>“Um—no Gringotts owl yet,” he added, reading her intention.</p><p>Hermione’s face fell. George rose and took a bowl from the counter. Wordlessly, he walked to her side and put it into her hands. Oatmeal with almonds sprinkled on top. The little slivers were arranged in a smile.</p><p>George crossed to the cabinets. The drawer rolled open with a heavy, smooth sound, and the silverware clinked as he tugged a spoon out. Hermione blinked down at the oatmeal. George’s arm stole around her, slipping the spoon into the bowl.</p><p>She blinked.</p><p>
  <em>“This is my chance.”</em>
</p><p>The cheery, familiar voice rang through her head. Hermione sucked in a breath, whispering the words as she reached for it—for more, but the wall in her mind clanged, and the bright, gleaming strand slipped out of reach, tumbled into the dark river.</p><p>A wave of dizziness hit.</p><p>“What d’you mean?” George asked, voice coming from behind her. She turned, blinking.</p><p>“What?” she asked.</p><p>“Your chance to what?” he asked, lifting his brows. “Eat breakfast? Because I’d argue you’re lunch about now.”</p><p>Hermione’s ribs constricted, cold and uncomfortable.</p><p>Regression.</p><p>“I don’t—” she faltered. Anxiety flashed over George’s face, and it took her right back to the Pensieve—to the way he’d looked when she ran into the building. She hated putting that look there.</p><p>“Hermione?” he asked, and her name was tense and layered with the tight question that neither of them wanted to acknowledge.</p><p>“It happened again,” she whispered.</p><p>George nodded. His mouth became a thin line. “Okay,” he said, and the light tone of his voice didn’t at all match the rigid set of his shoulders. “I’ll owl Marcus, and we’ll head in as soon as we can.” He strode to the table, yanking a sleeve of parchment from the pile. His hand dashed over the page. Like if he wrote fast enough, he could outrun it—whatever terrible fate awaited them.</p><p>Hermione looked into the smiling oatmeal.</p><p>“George,” she whispered.</p><p>He glanced up at her, and his face was neutral. “Everything will be just fine,” he said mildly. “Everything will be okay.” He was putting up a front, for her benefit. “We’ll fix it.” The unbothered cadence of his words was unnatural and hollow.</p><p>Sometimes, things couldn’t be fixed.</p><p>Sometimes, they could only be endured.</p><p>But George’s quill was almost tearing the paper, and his hunched, tight shoulders braced over his left hand that lay flat on the parchment—desperate and frantic as he wrote.</p><p>He needed something else from her.</p><p>George folded the parchment and slipped it into an envelope, whistling for Calliope.</p><p>She dunked the spoon into the oatmeal and took a bite. “Did you make this?” she asked. The flutter of wings carried the letter away. George turned from watching the bird take flight. Hermione spooned another mouthful in, swallowing.</p><p>“Did you?” she prompted. George’s brow wrinkled.</p><p>“Yes?” he asked slowly.</p><p>“Wow—it’s really good,” she said brightly. “Best oatmeal I’ve ever had.”</p><p>George’s expression softened. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. Hermione dragged a kitchen chair out with her foot and slipped into the seat.</p><p>“Expressing gratitude?” she asked. George paced behind her, leaning over the back of her chair.</p><p>“Trying to distract me,” he said dryly.</p><p>Hermione took another oversized bite. “That doesn’t sound like me at all,” she said. “Now take the compliment.”</p><p>George dropped a kiss onto her forehead, and the touch tingled with a faint spark.</p><p>“Yes, Dear,” he whispered. Hermione kicked at the chair beside her, and it scooted from the table’s edge.</p><p>“Let’s have that chat you wanted last night,” she said, grabbing the first thing she could think of to redirect his attention.</p><p>George hesitated, but he dropped into the seat. “Right,” he said. “I think we need to talk about the attack a little, because we didn’t really, after, and I wasn’t communicating well due to the lack of sleep.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Hermione said quietly, wincing as she recalled the panicked look on he’d had on his face yet again.</p><p>“No-no—” George said, waving a hand. “That’s not what this is about.”</p><p>She paused, spoon in mid-air. “Then what are you talking about?” she asked.</p><p>George folded his arms over the table and leaned forward. “When I said what I said about how you’d feel if the situation had been reversed—I wasn’t trying to illicit an apology. I was trying to explain where my reaction came from—why it maybe seemed as though I found you helpless—which isn’t the case. But I should’ve clarified the more important things first.”</p><p>Hermione lowered the spoon. “Important things?”</p><p>George’s look was dry. “You saved a life, Granger, and you shouldn’t be sorry about it.” He leaned in further, adjusting the sleeve of his oxford, and his tone went wry. “I know you, and I know the second you saw that little backpack, you made up your mind. Am I wrong?”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. She didn’t recall making any choice, really.</p><p>George snorted, and his hand rose, pushing her curls away from her face. “Bloody insufferable Gryffindor,” he mumbled, but his voice was warm and his thumb coasted gently along her temple, over her ear. She blinked up at him, and he swallowed, dropping his gaze to study the table’s surface. “As bothersome as that courageous streak can be, it’s a part of you,” he said softly. “One of my favorite parts, actually.”</p><p>“I find that hard to believe,” Hermione said. “You don’t seem to like it when I put myself in danger.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t especially fancy it,” George admitted, quirking his brows. “However, sometimes, the situation demands it.”</p><p>Hermione fidgeted with the spoon. “So, you’re not cross?” she asked quietly.</p><p>George shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “Just after, I was maybe a little cross, but I was mostly shaken and-and scared. I wasn’t thinking clearly, really.” He cleared his throat. “But when I calmed down, did some writing, and thought it through, um—” he paused, looking up at her. “There were people inside. A kid.” He folded his hands, drumming his thumbs against each other. “It certainly wasn’t ideal, given the state of your magic, but I can’t be upset at you for stepping up when there’s no one else around who’s willing and able.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“And for that matter, while we’re on the subject,” he said, raising his eyebrows a little as he fidgeted his thumbs. “If the situation does demand it—if you’ve got to step up—I rather like being the bloke at your side.” The last part was soft.</p><p>She rested the spoon in the bowl and looked up at him.</p><p>George had an earnest look on his face, watching her expression. “I mean, when we’re fighting together?” He whistled lowly. “Nothing quite like it. Nearly unstoppable.”</p><p>“How do you mean?” Hermione asked, brow furrowing.</p><p>George’s ears had gone pink. “See,” he cleared his throat, suddenly fascinated with one of her curls. “We make a good team.” He smiled, tugging the strand a bit.</p><p>Unbidden, she remembered the small heart, scrawled into the corner of the D.A.D.A. textbook from her missing NEWT year—placed just beside the information on partnered defense tactics.</p><p>“A good fighting team?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George nodded. “Well, a good team in general, but yes. A good fighting team.” His smile warmed. “It’s all in the chemistry.”</p><p>What a line.</p><p>Hermione snorted, but George leaned forward, tapping her on the nose. “Listen here, you,” he said. “It comes down to things like complementary strengths, and trust—loads of trust.” Her curl looped around his finger. “Even if you know that someone’s beside you, if you can’t fully count on them to do their part, things go poorly.”  </p><p>Hermione blinked. Even with Harry and Ron, she’d usually operated on the assumption that she’d need to hit the mark or caste the shield, often finding herself pleasantly surprised when one of them intervened and did it first. It was instinct, not meant to insult, but it had tended to rub Ron the wrong way. But, it’d also saved their lives—saved Harry—more than once.</p><p>“That sounds different,” she said softly.</p><p>George studied the curl in his hand, and a distant look came over him. “It took some practice.” His knuckle brushed her cheek, and though faint, her magic stirred, shooting muted sparks through her skin. “But most worthwhile things do.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Then let’s give it a shot.”</p><p>George blinked. “You want to practice?” he asked faintly.</p><p>Hermione’s face heated, but she nodded.</p><p>George’s eyes lit. “Alright,” he said. “Um, let’s wait until my magic’s a little more dependable and a little less like a thunderstorm—” he bugged his eyes out, staring pointedly at his hands. “I mean, it’s getting better, but we should probably wait a bit more to be safe.” His words sped as he talked. “But once it is, maybe I can send some magic over if you still need, and we can give it a try?”</p><p>His hands fidgeted on the table.</p><p>“Only if you want to,” Hermione said, studying him.</p><p>“Yes,” George said, so fast she blinked.</p><p>He coughed, laughing a little at himself. “I mean, yes. I want to. That would be good.” He peeked up at her. The pink on his ears—both the scarred and the whole—had splashed over his cheeks.</p><p>#</p><p>May 2, 2003, 7:30 p.m.</p><p>Still no letter from Gringotts, and they hadn’t been able to get an appointment with Marcus until after the Gala. But despite that, they were to dress up, head out, and present themselves as a strong, united, unshakable front to the Wizarding World.</p><p>Like putting on a show.</p><p>Fleur’s wand worked over Hermione’s curls as she layered the charms carefully into the style. They’d dragged a couple of chairs before the vanity, and they’d been working for over an hour. Most of it was pulled back into a loose-looking bun at the nape of her neck, but curls slipped free, framing her face and head. Fleur wedged a light, golden clip over the bun, securing everything.</p><p>For something that was supposed to appear natural and effortless, the look had taken far too much time.</p><p>As Fleur put on the finishing touches, the bedroom door snicked open, and Angelina ducked in. Her gown was the only one with sleeves to the wrist besides Hermione’s, and the neckline draped over her shoulders, where the gown’s shimmering, translucent cape was affixed. The gown fit smoothly over her form, sweeping the floor. As Angelina moved, the light, gold fabric shimmered like stars. “Fred’s in rare form tonight,” she said, sighing and leaning in to check her appearance in the mirror.</p><p>“He doesn’t appreciate getting dressed up?” Hermione asked.</p><p>At her side, Angelina adjusted her braids. The ends of them reached her waist, but ones in front swooped elegantly, secured in the back by a gold, metallic band of a similar shade to Hermione’s own clip.</p><p>“No,” Angelina said, flipping open one of the boxes she’d brought on the vanity. “He cleans up well, and often—but he hates these functions. They remind him and make him all jittery.” Angelina stared at the ceiling as she poked her earrings into place, speaking softly. “Every time he sees ‘Fallen Forty-Nine’ printed, I know he’s thinking about how it should’ve been one higher.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. She could understand that. Angelina gave her a tired smile and looped a bracelet around her wrist. The clasp was shaped like an intricate, miniature broomstick. “In case we need to make a quick getaway,” Angelina said, catching her gaze. Hermione eyes widened as she examined the item more closely. “Fred charmed it himself.”</p><p>“It’s beautiful,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Thanks,” Angelina said, grinning down at her arm. “It’s a comet model, but it’ll work in a pinch.”</p><p>“There,” Fleur whispered, backing away. “You are finished.” She paused, circling Hermione and Angelina. “Perfect,” she said, sounding quite pleased.</p><p>Angelina snorted.</p><p>Fleur pointed a finger at the garment bag on the bed. “Get dressed and meet us at the Burrow. We will leave in an hour.” She graced them both with a smile before ducking out, her dress’s airy sleeves and skirt practically floating.</p><p>The illusion of grace was shattered moments later.</p><p>“Ginny, you cannot sit like that. It will crush your gown!” Fleur’s shout from the living room rang out, and Angelina and Hermione broke into laughter.</p><p>“I should go manage that,” Angelina said, crossing to the door. “Let me know if you need any help.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>The other girls were already prepared. Each dress was coordinated but distinct—pulling from the same shades of light, shimmery gold, but in styles that reflected the individuality of the witch inside them.</p><p>Some of Fleur’s family were designers, and she’d worked closely with them to select the group’s ensembles for the evening. Hermione didn’t want to know how much they cost. They were only borrowing them for the night, and putting the dreaded thing on was scary enough without knowing.</p><p>She shed her robe and stepped into the intimidating fabric. The smooth, golden fabric gathered at her waist, flaring softly over her hips until it brushed the floorboards.</p><p>The sheer, high neck was bedecked in intricate, gold leaves that travelled down the translucent sleeves to her wrists. They’d been enchanted, and moved softly over the fabric, as though they were rustling in the wind. The same decorations also adorned where the sheer piece met the solid gold fabric above her chest.</p><p>The sleeves didn’t cover her scar. Hermione winced.</p><p>But worse yet, buttons went up the back, from her waist to the nape of her neck, and she couldn’t reach them all. She twisted in the mirror, managing the bottom several. But they were small, and she didn’t want to tear them.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>Hermione paced to the door and cracked it open. Laughter spilled in from the living room. She stepped out, hesitant.</p><p>“Total git—it’s impossible to surprise him,” Ginny said, laughing. “He always claims it’s an accident, too.”</p><p>Angelina and Fred whispered at the corner as Fred hunched, working his wand over the line of masks on the counter. The right side held identical, black ones, and the left held matching gold ones. Angelina said something, and Fred glanced at her, smiling. His hand slipped up, adjusting her cape over her arm. It brushed the floor softly as it moved. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and she smiled.</p><p>Okay, Angelina was busy. Hermione bit her lip and turned back to the other group.</p><p>Ginny had paused on the armchair, mid-story, looking at her. Harry leaned over the back of it. They were both fully ready—Ginny in her flashy dress, and Harry in a neat, three-piece black suit that matched Fred’s. Ginny’s gown flared further at the waist, and the neckline was spaghetti-strapped.</p><p>“Alright, Hermione?” Ginny asked, smiling. The glitter on her dress moved in waves, flashing with the sound of her voice. She looked confident. At ease in the garment.</p><p>Had everyone else gotten used to this sort of thing over the years?</p><p>George turned from his spot on the couch. He hadn’t finished getting ready—only in his slacks and crisp, white oxford. Black socks. His eyes worked over her, and he swallowed.</p><p>“I, um—” Hermione said. “I can’t reach the buttons.”</p><p>Ginny’s eyes lit. “George can give you hand,” she said. Hermione hesitated.</p><p>George’s face was a neutral mask.</p><p>“If you wouldn’t mind?” she asked softly. George bobbed his head and cleared his throat, but as he stood, he tripped a little over the side of the sofa. Hermione ducked back into the hallway, trying to push the warmth in her face down. George approached quietly, motioning for her turn as he ducked his head. Even in the dark corridor, she could still make out the pink splashed over his neck, creeping along the scar of his ear.</p><p>“Thank you,” she whispered. His touch grazed the skin of her back, but it didn’t linger as he worked light and quick over the buttons. “I feel ridiculous.” She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but here, in the dimly lit hall, it felt safer to admit.</p><p>“Whatever for,” he asked, sounding amused.</p><p>Another peel of laughter echoed from the kitchen.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said, sucking in a breath. “I feel like I’m trying to play at being elegant and mature and unafraid of the state of things, and it’s all a lie.” She fidgeted, glancing down at her scar—plainly visible through the sheer fabric. “And-and the sleeves on this are rubbish.” George’s hands slowed as he neared the top fastener.</p><p>He hummed softly, taking her gently by the shoulders and turning her to face him. “Hermione,” he whispered. “You are elegant. You are mature.”</p><p>His gaze shifted to her arm, and concern flickered over his features. “Don’t worry over the sleeves. You look lovely. But, if it makes you more comfortable, I do have something that will cover it.” He paused, searching her face. “It’s up to you.” He drew a small tin from his pocket, offering it to her. Hermione took it. It didn’t have a label. She turned it in her hands, debating.</p><p>George swallowed and stepped closer, reaching around her shoulders to fix the last fastener. “And as for the rest—” He focused, and his tone was distracted, brow furrowing as his hands worked. “—I’m scared too.” His gaze shifted, intent on her. “I’m terrified, really.”</p><p>Hermione took a sharp breath as her throat closed.</p><p>“It’s tempting to let it swallow me whole.” George’s voice was soft and clear. The button slipped into place. “But as the bravest person I know once said: ‘We mustn’t let it.’” His hands fell to his sides as her words chimed through the air.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “Being quoted is terribly frustrating,” she whispered.</p><p>“Tell me about it,” George muttered, cracking into a grin. “I married a scholar.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the tin.</p><p>“I saw you using this the other day,” she said softly, twisting the lid off. The product inside was nearly gone, like an odorless, colorless gel consistency. All of it was scraped clean, save for a bit along the sides.</p><p>“Yes, well, mine isn’t something I care to look at,” George muttered.</p><p>“Yours?” Hermione asked, distracted as she peered at the goop.</p><p>George faltered. “Um—” His gaze flicked to his left arm.</p><p>Hermione froze.</p><p>Faintly, she remembered him saying something about a war scar, shortly after she’d woken in Mungo’s. But it hadn’t come up since. She hadn’t wanted to pry, and then there had been other things to worry over, really. More important scars. And whenever his left arm wasn’t covered by a sleeve, the skin had appeared smooth and unmarked.</p><p>Probably due to whatever was in the tin.</p><p>George seemed thrown off, like he was thinking particularly hard about something. “Bugger,” he muttered. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing. “About that—”</p><p>“George, get over here!” Fred called. “I’ve finally sorted the charm!”</p><p>George hesitated. Hermione smiled.</p><p>“It’s okay,” she said softly.</p><p>George furrowed his brow. “We’ll chat about this later? Properly?”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>The group circulated through the room, talking, and George and Fred disappeared into the study for a while. Hermione tried to keep calm, and Harry talked through the emergency exit plans he’d crafted with Ron. They’d planned it all, down to the last detail. Hermione frowned at the lack of direction given to her. She was to remain close to the group, and the second anything went awry, Hermione and George were to apparate out or escape on broom with Angelina and Fred while the rest held whatever defenses were necessary alongside the aurors.</p><p>The plan made her queasy, but as they couldn’t caste, it was the only reasonable solution.</p><p>The study door swung wide, and the twins emerged, fully dressed. No one else had bothered to put on their mask yet, but they’d affixed theirs already. The black surface obscured the top half of their face, revealing only their eyes.</p><p>They entered the living room in tandem and stood shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>Matching, head to foot. Even the ears. They’d done some sort of charm. She looked closer. It was possible they’d used an extendable ear, but it looked realer than that. The mask helped to shield the side of George’s head, so it was hard to get a good look.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Fred said, and the room quieted. “We’re ready.”</p><p>Harry laughed. “How’d you get the ears right?” he asked. The twins grinned.</p><p>“Magic,” George said, bugging his eyes out. He spoke in a different tone—an exact mimicry of Fred’s. “And now we’d like to ask—”</p><p>“Who is who?” Fred said, throwing his voice to sound like George. Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Looking pretty confident there, Granger,” Fred drawled, sounding like himself again. “Care to try first?”</p><p>Hermione stepped forward.</p><p>“No touching,” Fred said hurriedly, and the two shifted, holding their hands behind their back.</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione said cooly. She walked slowly, circling them. If it hadn’t already been immediately obvious, she’d know for certain by a few things. George favored his right leg, and even now, he was shifted on to it a bit further. They’d put on some sort of cologne, probably to mask the difference in smell. But it didn’t do quite enough. She could still pick it out on George—the slightest hints of parchment, cinnamon, nutmeg, and sun-soaked fields on George.</p><p>While both men had a habit of fidgeting and exploding into movement, Fred was by far less capable of sitting still. Even now, she could see him bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.</p><p>She crossed behind them. “Wow, this is difficult,” she said, looking flatly at Harry, Ginny, and Angelina from between the twins. Harry grinned. She flicked her gaze at George, then back at the others. “That’s George,” she mouthed. Angelina rolled her eyes and tipped her chin down in a slight nod.</p><p>“Oi—no hints,” Fred said.</p><p>Hermione huffed, pushing the sound out as though frustrated. “I’m not certain,” she said as she stepped around Fred. “Something about this one seems—” she trailed off. “Familiar.”</p><p>Fred bounced a little higher on his toes.</p><p>She paced behind George. “But I don’t know,” she said, feigning confusion.</p><p>As she spoke, she brushed her hand along George’s mid-back, drawing it up the line of his spine a few inches in a light, rapid graze before stepping back.</p><p>He jumped a bit at the touch, and the hand that wasn’t holding his wrist flexed out at her. Hermione grinned and circled in front of them. “It’s not fair to pick on the person with the least memory,” she said.</p><p>As she rounded to face them, George’s eyes were piercing, but Hermione looked over them both casually, as though she didn’t notice.</p><p>Fred, meanwhile, seemed overjoyed. “Not so easy when the ears don’t give it away, is it?” he said, mimicking George.</p><p>As if.</p><p>Hermione nodded seriously, circling back around George. “Honestly, there’s not a single difference,” she said, keeping her tone awed. She grazed his elbow as she passed. One of George’s ears was bright red. The other was unaffected.</p><p>Hermione grinned. “I give up,” she said.</p><p>“Oh, don’t spoil the game,” Fred said, turning to her. “At least guess.”</p><p>“She knows, Freddie,” Angelina said flatly. “Literally, all of us can tell.”</p><p>“But—” Fred paused, looking back and forth between Hermione and the rest of the group. “I figured the two of you would, but even Harry and Gin?” He turned around the room. Harry and Ginny nodded.</p><p>“We used to get away with it all the time when we were younger,” Fred said, sounding crestfallen.</p><p>“If it makes you feel better, it’d confuse people who didn’t know you so well?” Hermione said. Fred folded his arms.</p><p>“That does not make me feel better, but thanks,” Fred said before he trudged to the counter. He began to doled out the masks, grumbling. Hermione took hers with a smile, then crossed to grab her bag and shoes from the bedroom. George followed her back, waiting in the hall. He tucked his hands into his pockets, and his gaze was warm and bright as it followed her.</p><p>She stood, a little unsteady on the heels, and passed him on her way into the corridor.</p><p>“How’d you know,” George whispered suddenly. Hermione stopped and turned.</p><p>“I sort of just knew, right when you stepped out of the study,” she said, shrugging. “But—if I hadn’t, your stance was the first thing.” She pointed at his leg. “You were leaning on that one like you do.”</p><p>George snorted. “So it was my rickety nature?”</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “Not rickety,” she said.</p><p>George sighed. “Yes rickety,” he said, and the corner of his mouth twisted up. “It’s an old war injury.”</p><p>Hermione paused, her mind flitting back to their conversation from earlier.</p><p>“What else?” George asked softly.</p><p>She blinked, but then smiled. “You still smell like you, even with all that gunk you’ve got on,” she said, slipping her mask into her bag. George snorted, then took off his own, handed it over for her to pack away. “But if all that hadn’t done it, you ought to know that your fake ear doesn’t blush nearly as nicely as your real one.” She could see now, the thin seam running up between his temple and the charmed item, but only if she looked closely.</p><p>George shook his head, biting his lips together. “That was cheating, you know,” he said. Hermione grinned. She much preferred to see his whole face, and just now, it was lit with a smile, eyes crinkled.</p><p>“It’s not cheating if I already knew regardless,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Don’t misunderstand,” George said mildly. “I’m not complaining.” The words had a merry ring in them.</p><p>Hermione laughed.</p><p>George grinned and tipped his head back. “Don’t tell Fred, though,” he said. “He was pretty excited about being identical again.”</p><p>“Weren’t you?” Hermione asked, pausing a little.</p><p>George smiled at the floor. “It was always a good bit of fun, but I far prefer being known, at least when it comes to you.”</p><p>#</p><p>They floo-ed to the Burrow, shielded from the soot by Fred’s charmwork. Her wand was tucked securely in her small handbag—a soft, gold clutch with an extension charm, but she double checked it as she stepped out anyway.</p><p>The house was a rush of noise, children howling and shouting.</p><p>Hermione rummaged through her items. Dittany paste and potion. The masks. Her wand. The list of potential donors. <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>, in case things got boring. Bill, Fleur, Arthur, and Molly were chatting at the kitchen table, ready. Ron sat in a rocking chair by the fire—the only adult who was dressed casually.</p><p>As they filed into the room, Molly looked up from her conversation. “Are we ready?” she called. Her wrap gown’s gold sleeves flared widely at the elbow, fluttering as she waved for their attention.</p><p>“Yes Mum,” Angelina called.</p><p>“Aren’t you going to show them?” Ron said, brow furrowing as he leaned forward. Molly put a finger to her lips.</p><p>“Show us what?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Have we cut all Bill’s hair off again?” George asked, stepping up to Hermione’s side. He twisted, dodging as Victoire stumbled past, running with uneven, clumsy footsteps towards the kitchen.</p><p>“Mine!” she shouted. A biscuit was clutched in her hand.</p><p>“Definitely not,” Bill said as he scooped Victoire up, hair still as long as ever.</p><p>At her side, George adjusted the gold cuff links on his sleeves. “Have out with it, then,” he said, distracted.</p><p>Fred sucked in a breath.</p><p>George lifted his head. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Fred said, hurriedly looking at Mrs. Weasley, then down at the floor, but his voice sounded odd. A little off-kilter.</p><p>“What?” George repeated, a bit more insistently. Hermione peered at Fred. He turned, facing the wall.</p><p>“What’s the time, Georgie?” Arthur asked softly.</p><p>Fred sputtered out a strange, choked laugh.</p><p>George pulled his pocket watch out. “About eight-thirty,” he said, brow furrowing as he looked at it. “We’ll need to leave soon.”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley smiled and nodded, but she seemed overly happy for no reason at all.</p><p>Hermione stared over the group, wary. They were in on something. A private joke, and one that George didn’t seem to understand.</p><p>That was strange. George was usually at the center of jokes, spurring them on with Fred.</p><p>“All those hands on travelling,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. George nodded, looking a bit bemused, and glanced towards the mantle.</p><p>He stilled. Did a double-take.</p><p>“Oh,” he breathed, barely audible.</p><p>Ginny laughed aloud, sounding delighted.</p><p>Hermione glanced over in confusion. Nothing seemed out of place. She turned back, concerned.</p><p>George looked dazed, staring at the mantle.</p><p>“Georgie?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>Suddenly, George whirled, taking her shoulders in his hands as he searched her face urgently. “Hermione Jean,” he murmured. “Hermione Jean.”</p><p>“It’s been like that since yesterday!” Molly cried.</p><p>George’s face contorted. “Has it?” he asked, searching her eyes wildly, like he couldn’t believe she was standing in front of him. His voice was strained, but not like he was cross.</p><p>“Like what?” Hermione asked, twisting towards Mrs. Weasley.</p><p>Molly was crying, waving a handkerchief in the air as she shook her head.</p><p>George spun her to the mantle. “Look at it,” he whispered. Hermione raised a brow.</p><p>“It’s a very nice mantle,” she said, frustration nipping through her words. “And a functioning floo.”</p><p>This earned another round of laughter that she didn’t understand.</p><p>“A functioning floo!” Fred cried. “Brilliant!”</p><p>“No,” George said, a little breathless. “The clock.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>Yes, it was there as well, same as always. Besides Charlie and Percy’s hands—which rested on “Travelling,” the rest were pointed towards home. All the spoons, lined up in a stack—Angelo, Teddy, and Victoire’s were the shortest on top, proceeding all the way back until they reached the longest one—Molly.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Hermione stepped forward.</p><p>Right there in the middle.</p><p>Her hand pointed towards home.</p><p>Not lost. Not ticking back and forth.</p><p>Home.</p><p>Hermione raised her hand to her mouth.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Steady and true. One, fixed, wonderful thing in a world of uncertainty. She turned back to George. He was watching her, and as their eyes met, he exhaled in a whoosh.</p><p>“Do you see, now?” he asked. His voice was unsteady. Almost disbelieving.</p><p>Hermione inhaled sharply, threw her bag on the floor, and jumped into his arms.</p><p>He caught her, stumbling back, and they spun as George wrapped himself around her. His nose pressed to her temple, and his breath cascaded over her ear in an uneven tempo. Faint magic sparked, warm over her face.</p><p>Laughter rang through the room, but she didn’t mind it one bit.</p><p>Even Fleur couldn’t complain when they finally pulled apart and Hermione’s gown was rumpled.</p><p>#</p><p>The group stood in a tight huddle before one of the long, candlelit dining tables that stretched over the ballroom floor. Vast chandeliers twinkled over their heads, and their voices echoed over the marble flooring.</p><p>The space was still mostly empty, as they’d come early to discuss security with Kingsley.</p><p>“We’ve got aurors every ten seats at each table,” Sturgis said. “Acting as attendees, but everyone knows they’re prepared to act in case of any violence.”</p><p>Kingsley nodded at the Department Head. “Excellent,” he said. “And the volunteer teams?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. Most of the aurors were stationed at the gala, since such a high-profile event was sure to catch the attention of the supremacists responsible for the attacks. The concentration of defensive power left other spots more vulnerable, however.</p><p>“All ready,” Sturgis said. “I have head contacts assigned to each group, and they’ve already completed their first check in.”</p><p>Sturgis, Harry, and Ron had arranged for the volunteer teams to watch Hermione’s parents’ home, along with several others who were considered at increased risk due to their proximity to high profile targets. The teams were composed of more than a few former D.A. members.</p><p>“Are you sure you don’t want a phone?” Fred asked, lifting one from his pocket. It wasn’t quite muggle—wires and what appeared to be a small radio receiver were fused on the back. “It’d be far faster.”</p><p>Sturgis shook his head. “You handle that bit,” he said. “I don’t need to stress over learning a new machine, especially tonight.”</p><p>Fred shrugged. “Each of the teams has one,” he said. “It would things easier, if—”</p><p>“Good for them,” Sturgis said tersely. “If they’ve got to use them, it’d better be after they send me a Patronus.”</p><p>It made her feel uncomfortable—all this trouble, and just for a party that frankly, they shouldn’t be having. Everyone she knew had some sort of job to perform, an angle to watch. But she didn’t. Her magic wasn’t strong enough, yet.</p><p>It rankled her.</p><p>It was wearing on George as well. He’d been unnaturally quiet since arriving, hands in his pockets as everyone confirmed their duties with Kingsley.</p><p>After the brief review, they went to find their seats.</p><p>The petty slight of the planning committee became grossly apparent. The rest of the Weasleys were grouped on the end, near Kingsley, but Hermione’s name was mysteriously absent.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” George muttered.</p><p>Hermione snorted. “Does this mean I get to go home?” she whispered. On the small stage across the room, musicians unpacked violins and cellos.</p><p>George spared her a wry look. “If I’ve got to suffer through this, you do as well.” With that, he took her hand, and began to search down the table. Most of the names were Wizengamot members, and Hermione cringed.</p><p>After some looking, they found it. Wedged between someone named Declan Jones and Clarke. Neither were on her list, and she didn’t know them at all. As George read the placards, an annoyed expression flashed over his face, and he deftly reached down, plucking up Hermione’s name.</p><p>“Right,” he said. Hermione watched, laughter bubbling under her sternum as he strode back to the Weasley group and swapped her card with Horace Slughorn’s. “As though I’m not sitting with you.”</p><p>George started back towards her former seat, Horace’s card in hand.</p><p>Suddenly, he paused and glanced at Mr. Weasley. He crumpled the card and slipped it into his pocket.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. “George!” she whispered.</p><p>George tilted his head, slipping into the picture of innocence. “Yes, Darling?” he asked.</p><p>“You can’t take someone’s card completely off the table!” Hermione hissed.</p><p>“I think I can,” George said, blinking. “I just did.”</p><p>Hermione’s mouth dropped open.</p><p>George shrugged. “With all those connections, I’m sure he’ll find a new spot.” A rogue grin flashed over his face. With that, he began to search over the table again. He made a few other changes—moving Flitwick up towards the head, he stuck Clarke at a completely different table, and he swapped Ginny and his mum, so the woman would be sitting between Harry and his sister.</p><p>With each change, he looked up, as though challenging her.</p><p>“Honestly, you’re so ridiculous sometimes,” Hermione whispered, trying her hardest to sound scandalized but she couldn’t quite keep the laugh from her voice.</p><p>George cocked a brow and reached for another card. “On the contrary, Granger, I’ve been on my best behavior for months now.” He smoothly swapped the nameplates, grinning as her eyes widened. At this point, Fred broke from the group chatting near the stage. He took one look at George’s occupation, nodded, and went to work on the neighboring table.</p><p>Hermione hesitated, then began searching for a few of the donors at the top of the list. If they were going to do mischief, it may as well be in favor of a good cause.</p><p>They took their seats, and Hermione swallowed as the anxiety under her sternum began to rise. “Chin up,” Fleur whispered on her right. “And you should be wearing your full outfit, now.” She stared, worried, at Hermione’s bare, ringless hands.</p><p>Hermione’s ribs tightened, and she dug into her handbag, pulling out the wrist-length gloves. They carried the same floral pattern as the rest of her gown. Hermione tugged them into place and gritted her teeth. As she did, Fleur relaxed at her side.</p><p>She’d wanted to ask about the ring, but wearing it to play a part for the Wizengamot, especially after waiting all this time—it hadn’t felt right. It wouldn’t be fair to George.</p><p>He was already rigid, staring at his plate on her left.</p><p>The anxious feeling pressed harder and harder as the guests began to filter in. The hall became crowded, swimming in a sea of robes. Reporters flitted around the sides of the room, raining flashes as servers enchanted the food, directing it through the air, onto the tables.</p><p>Someone nudged her shoulder. Hermione turned.</p><p>Luna stood before her, decked in silver with a matching mask that flared far out from her head. Hermione leapt up, wrapping the other girl in a hug. “How are you?” she asked. “Is Winky back in London?”</p><p>Luna smiled and pulled her mask off as she accepted a second hug from George. “I’m very angry; thank you for asking,” she said calmy. Her hair was curled around her arms, held in place with a silver flower behind her ear. Since the last time Hermione had seen her, a new scar had marred the skin under Luna’s eye. A short, pink line. “Winky plans to return soon.” She paused, and a small frown marred her otherwise peaceful expression. “She’s had to redo a terrible amount of work.”</p><p>“I’ve been trying to help things on this end, but it’s slow going,” Hermione said, biting her lips together.</p><p>Luna sighed. “I’m tired of wizarding people,” she said. “When I open my own wand shop, I think I’ll do it in a hidden city.”</p><p>“Would they permit it?” Hermione asked, raising her brows. The hidden cities were enclaves of magical beings that varied in size and population, and they were almost always closed to humans.</p><p>Luna smiled. “So long as I wasn’t human while I worked,” she said.</p><p>Hermione tilted her head. She was just about to ask what Luna meant when Fleur tugged sharply on her hand, drawing her into her seat.</p><p>“Croyne,” Fleur murmured, nodding slightly at the woman who’d taken a seat across the table, two seats down. “Speak with her now, before it gets loud.” Hermione grimaced up at Luna, who gave her an understanding nod before heading a bit further down the table, where she was seated near  Dennis Creevey and Parvati, who watched the crowd with razor sharp focus.</p><p>Hermione braced herself, glancing at the list. Margaret Croyne’s name was near the top. She leaned forward, waving as she shoved her panic down. “Margaret?” she called.</p><p>The conversation was dreadful, and Hermione struggled to hold Croyne’s interest in the projects they were working on at the agency. It didn’t help that the bodies seemed to blur, pressing in on her from all sides, and as time went on, more and more people found their places at the table, chattering loudly.</p><p>“With research, we’ve found that wands might be a helpful focusing tool for a wide variety of magical beings,” Hermione said. Margaret Croyne sipped from a flute, looking incredulous.</p><p>“But if they already have a method of casting, why does it matter?” she asked.</p><p>Hermione pasted a smile onto her face. “Because they want the choice, and they deserve it,” she said.</p><p>Margaret made a noncommittal sound. “Yes, well, you’ve given me something to think about, haven’t you?” she said. But she didn’t sound as though she’d be thinking about it at all. She sounded bored. Hermione’s hand clenched. Before she could right the conversation and steer it back to her talking points, Margaret extended a hand and called to another attendee who’d just sat on her right. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, with a plastic smile.</p><p>“That is disappointing,” Fleur murmured. “But we will keep trying.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed and nodded.</p><p>The double doors at the end of the hall flew open, and the dull roar of the guests faded.</p><p>Magnus Vane strode in, a clutch of older wizards behind him. The wards shimmered as they passed through, and the hum of the crowd picked back up as everyone lost interest while the new group had their wands checked.</p><p>Why couldn’t she breathe.</p><p>Why couldn’t she breathe.</p><p>George’s hand found hers under the table.</p><p>Vane smiled thinly at the auror, then crossed between the tables. His cane tapped lightly on marble. But he didn’t head to a seat. Instead, he climbed the stage. The light music cut.</p><p>George went still at her side.</p><p>“What’s he—” Hermione started.</p><p>“Good evening,” Vane announced, pressing his wand tip to his throat. “On behalf of the planning committee, I’d like to welcome you to tonight’s Gala, which is graciously hosted by none other than our Minister.” He nodded at Kingsley, clapping lightly. A smattering of applause echoed through the hall.</p><p>Kingsley didn’t smile. Harry crossed his arms at Shacklebolt’s side, eyes fixed on Vane.</p><p>“I’ll let you return to your food and the dancing that is to follow in just a moment,” Vane said, smiling. “I must extend my apologies on behalf of Romilda, who worked quite tirelessly alongside many others to plan this event.” He looked over the crowd, and a sad look slipped over his face. Hermione narrowed her eyes.</p><p>“Unfortunately,” Vane’s voice was loud and lilting. “She isn’t feeling well tonight.” He sighed. “Doubtlessly made all the worse by the persistent fear of attack that she now lives under.”</p><p>Around the hall, people murmured in agreement, but their end of the table was silent and tense. Flitwick had gone stiff, staring at his goblet. Mrs. Weasley ducked forward, murmuring something, but Flitwick shook his head.</p><p>Hermione’s free hand clenched into a fist.</p><p>“Fortunately, we needn’t cower for long,” Vane said, straightening his shoulders. “In an emergency meeting held earlier this evening, the esteemed members of our Wizengamot—”</p><p>Harry’s eyes went dark, and he darted in, whispering to Kingsley, who shook his head.</p><p>“—ruled in favor of a more aggressive approach to bring an end to this senseless violence,” Vane said. “And I find myself humbled to be stepping into a new role, as elected Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. Kingley didn’t react, but Harry’s face went molten, jaw working as he looked between Shacklebolt and Vane.</p><p>She’d known that Shacklebolt was interim Chief Warlock, but could they oust him so easily? In a single evening? So quickly?</p><p>She blinked. They’d done the same to Dumbledore, right before Hogwarts was overrun by Umbridge and her ilk.</p><p>George’s breath was tight and fast at her side.</p><p>Applause rang, but none of the Weasleys were clapping. Hermione’s heart pounded in her throat as she looked around the table. Luna, Parvati, and Dennis were all still. Further down, she spotted Terry, sat beside his Mum and across from Cho, who was gripping the table’s edge tightly. As though she was bracing.</p><p>“It is a great privilege to serve the Wizarding World in this capacity, and I am honored to take over for the Minister, who has left a <em>distinguished mark</em> on the position during his years of service.”</p><p>The noncompliment was ridiculous, but the Wizengamot officials nodded along, as though Vane had said something, rather than nothing at all.</p><p>He nodded at Kingsley, lit by camera strobes, but Kingsley didn’t nod back, only stared hard at Magnus. Vane smiled tightly, then swallowed and shifted suddenly to face the other direction.</p><p>“I can promise you this: Moving forward, we will do our best to prioritize the safety of our Wizarding community to—”</p><p>Snow fluttered from the central chandelier, falling into the aisle between the tables.</p><p>It all happened at once.</p><p>Kinsley’s eyes widened. His wand slashed, and with the movement, the great, long tables flew across the floor, away from the danger.</p><p>The crowd broke into screams, people tripping away from their tables as Harry shouted, “Go!” Parvati leapt from her seat, vaulting over the table as the illusion on her gown broke, flickering into the grey auror robes that now dotted the vicinity.</p><p>Her wand was out before she landed, and gleaming, blue thestral leapt from it.</p><p>Apparition cracks rang thick in the air, but Parvati and the others advanced towards the snow, blue light building on the end of their wands.</p><p>The hall erupted.</p><p> Ice burst from the floor’s center in a massive, jagged spike that pierced the ceiling, and Hermione couldn’t hear a single thing over the horrid cracking sound that it made. Acrid, smoke swirled around the white, grey and thick, swarming out, through the room.</p><p>George.</p><p>Where was George?</p><p>She stumbled back, bodies streaming around her as she ripped her wand from her bag.</p><p>Oh, there wasn’t enough.</p><p>It was only a tight pull, faintly there—</p><p>Angelina moved in unison with Fred, just in front of her, Eagle and—and Phoenix, darting amongst the others, circling the ice. Hermione whirled. Bill, Mr. Weasley, Fleur, and Mrs. Weasley were all grouped along the back wall, doing much of the same, weasels, a lion, and an albatross. Luna and  Ginny’s faces were steel at Harry’s side, who was planted firmly at Shacklebolt’s side, hare, stag, and horse galloping through the air before them, alongside a lynx. But where was—</p><p>The column twisted, and shards of ice began to splinter, shooting out over the hall. The Patronuses swarmed, chasing after the artillery. Some hit the wall, but others were consumed, melting away. Shouts, thick and frantic. Harry and Sturgis, yelling.</p><p>A single shard zipped by her face, hitting the wall at her back with a nauseating snap.</p><p>A hand grabbed hers.</p><p>Three things happened at once.</p><p>First: The column exploded.</p><p>Second: The room collapsed in on itself—rock and ceiling and the great, glass chandeliers, all freed into the air amongst the ice. People drifted on the floor, submerged beneath an ocean of peril.</p><p>Third: George twisted, wrapping his arms around her as he yanked her back, spine to his chest, and his wand hand wrapped around hers.</p><p>
  <strong>“Protego!”</strong>
</p><p>George’s voice thundered in her ears, and the magic surged, coursing wildly through her empty insides—up her wrist, elbow, into her ribs, lighting her with a fire she’d never known as he caste the spell through her wand. The river of magic swelled, some of it coalescing in her chest as the rest returned to her right hand, hurrying up the wood and out, into the air.</p><p>They were casting it—together.</p><p>The blue wall slammed from them, pushing back the glass, rubble, and stone, turning it to dust.</p><p>At the very same time, Fred and Angelina flipped their wands upward, and the Patronuses flashed, chasing the ice.</p><p>Hermione gritted her teeth as the force of the Protego shook her. It was like holding a lightning bolt—power clapping through her. But as she held tight, the magic continued to burrow deep. It flooded her ribs, twisting in two, joined streams—gradually charging the store that had laid nearly empty, pinched, and strained for days and days.</p><p>Half of it felt like her. But the other half was</p><p>Parchment.</p><p>Cinnamon.</p><p>Nutmeg.</p><p>Sunshine.</p><p>Fields.</p><p>And overwhelming love.</p><p>The shield cracked out.</p><p>Hermione staggered forward.</p><p>She had magic.</p><p>She blinked, purple strobing her vision.</p><p>She had <em>magic.</em></p><p>“Hermione!” George’s shout sounded tinny, ringing. She turned. His irises flashed gold as he gripped her shoulder, but there was no spiderwork in his skin. He snapped, and a thin, brown stick hurtled through the air, smacking his palm. Ice charged over the wall behind him.</p><p>Fred and Angelina stepped in unison, twisting back on their left feet as they flung another wave up. An uncompromising, synchronized dance. Fred’s eyes widened as he spotted them. His hand grazed Angelina’s elbow, and the two vanished, only to appear at George and Hermione’s sides.</p><p>The world closed in on itself with a metallic pop.</p><p>#</p><p>They cracked just outside the Burrow, and Fred fell forward, vomiting over the ground.</p><p>“Angelo!” Angelina screamed, dashing for the house.</p><p>“They’re still back there!” Hermione shouted. “We’ve got to go back!”</p><p>Fred tried to answer, but he couldn’t stop heaving.</p><p>“Could’ve taken us to the shop!” George cried. “Apparating all the way here? Are you mad?”</p><p>“Angelo,” Fred choked.</p><p>George dropped onto the ground beside him, steadying him with a hand on the shoulder.</p><p>Fred pressed his head into the dirt, gasping.</p><p>“We have to go back!” Hermione cried.</p><p>“No,” Fred said, breathing hard. “Our job was clear—evacuate the two of you and set up a base.”</p><p>“But I’ve got magic now,” Hermione said, frantic. “And—”</p><p>“I’m not in charge of the plan, Hermione,” Fred snapped. He shoved to his feet, face contorted. “We’re to stay here and coordinate the other teams.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“No,” Fred cut in, volume growing. “I’m not sending you and George in without—”</p><p>“Freddie,” George said quietly.</p><p>The Burrow’s door banged open. “Hurry!” Angelina shouted. “It’s Lee!”</p><p>Fred sprinted for the house as George shoved to his feet, taking off after him. Hermione’s shoes stuck in the mud, clumps of it flinging up as she ran.</p><p>Lee was yelling on the Burrow floor, in front of the floo. A massive burn stretched over the side of his face and his left arm, where the sleeve hung in tatters.</p><p>“Angie! Hermione!” Fred shouted. “Hurry!”</p><p>“Okay—okay—” Hermione hit the floor, wand out.</p><p>“No, no, buddy, let’s go make some tea,” George’s murmur was soft.</p><p>“Why’s he—” Teddy’s question cut out as a Muffliato cracked through the room.</p><p>She whispered the spells over Lee rapidly, starting on his face, working the skin back together slowly and carefully as Angelina did the same on his arm.</p><p>“Salazar’s—” Lee hissed, biting off the phrase as Hermione worked the spell over his cheek.</p><p>“Was there any ice?” Hermione choked.</p><p>“Already got it,” Ron snapped.</p><p>“Careful,” Lee yelped as she directed the spell towards his throat. “That’s-my-job-that’s-my-job-that’s-my—” he hissed the words rapidly as her wand shook and the spell quavered.</p><p>“Sorry,” Hermione whispered, straining to hold the magic steady. It wasn’t easy. It felt more unruly than usual, and it leapt out of her at a faster pace than she was used to.</p><p>Lee shoved her wand away. “You’re going to make it worse,” he said, wincing. Angelina gently pushed her back, and Hermione blinked, staring at her hands.</p><p>She’d always been able to manage healing spells before. But she’d never caste with her magic like this. Not that she could remember, at least.</p><p>Gradually, Angelina finished the job, and Lee’s head tipped back on the floor.</p><p>“What’s the situation?” Fred said, once the other man had caught his breath. The healed skin shimmered a bit, but the magic settled, and it was soon indistinguishable from the rest of his face.</p><p>“Bad,” Lee said, eyes closed. “I was evacuating people through the floos when a some falling rubble drove me into a frozen wall. Tried to stay, but one of the aurors shoved me through. Think it was Harry, actually.”</p><p>“Is everyone—?” Fred didn’t finish the question.</p><p>“All still kicking, last I saw,” Lee said, wincing and blinking at the ceiling. “They’re going ahead with the contingency plan. They’ll stay until it’s contained.”</p><p> Fred nodded briskly, then disappeared into the other room. When he returned, he had Angelo bundled against his chest, and his mouth was pressed to the toddler’s forehead. “We’ll sit tight. Wait for orders.”</p><p>Then, Fred paced, shoes clicking on the wood.</p><p>Hermione backed away, towards the kitchen. As she passed through the Muffliato barrier, a sharp shriek pierced her eardrums, then stopped.</p><p>“Shhh-sh-sh-sh—” George’s whisper was soft.</p><p>She turned. He had Victoire on his hip as he rifled through the cupboards.</p><p>“Mummy and Daddy will be just fine,” George said. “Just fine.”</p><p>“She doesn’t listen,” Teddy said, sounding more than a little put out. “Never does.”</p><p>“Keep working on those biscuits, Teddy,” George said. “I’m relying on your finding capabilities.”</p><p>“I know,” Teddy said, sighing. He pulled open the bottom cupboard door. “But why can’t we have the circle ones?” He glanced at the table, where a plate already sat out.</p><p>“Because I really fancy a special biscuit,” George said lightly. “Don’t you?”</p><p>He glanced up, catching her watching.</p><p>A hesitant look flashed over him. “Lee’s better,” Hermione mouthed. George nodded.</p><p>His wand worked over a package on the counter, and the color shifted, taking on a sparkling appearance. George slipped it into the drawer at his hip quietly.</p><p>“Have you tried this side of the room?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione watched, blinking back tears as Teddy located the package, shouted for George, and proceeded to tear it open.</p><p>“Thanks, buddy,” George said. “Save one for Lee, though. Auntie Mione sorted it, and he’s all better now.” The second part was added casually, as though it was an after-thought.</p><p>Teddy glanced towards the living room, nodded, then returned his attention to the dish that George slid onto the table before him.</p><p> Hermione slipped onto a chair beside him. “Angelina actually did most of it,” she said.</p><p>George frowned. “That’s not one of her specialties,” he said.</p><p>“I learned after Angelo’s accident.” Angelina’s voice was calm and steady as she entered the kitchen, headed to the sink, and filled a glass with water. “No reason to not, really.” She patted Teddy on the head as she crossed back to the living room, where Fred, Ron, and Lee crouched around Fred’s phone.</p><p>“We were camping in a fort,” Teddy said, lifting his cup with two hands. As he did, George hoisted Victoire higher on his hip and flicked his wand behind Teddy’s shoulder. The steam over the liquid faded.</p><p>“When?” George asked as he helped Victoire into a highchair. He sounded a little distracted.</p><p>“Tonight, waiting for everybody,” Teddy said. “Uncle Ron set it up.”</p><p>“That’s nice,” George said, casting a charm to secure Victoire in the seat.</p><p>“I told him it wasn’t as good as your forts,” Teddy said simply.</p><p>George winced, glancing at Hermione. She bit her lip. Teddy was watching George, as though waiting for approval.</p><p>Harry was right. Teddy had picked up on it.</p><p>“Oh, don’t say that, Buddy,” George said lightly, glancing at Teddy. “I’m sure his forts are very good.”</p><p>Teddy frowned. “But—”</p><p>“Everyone makes forts different, and that’s what makes them special,” George said. “Hermione’s forts have got tea and books and movies, and mine have got sweets and music and—”</p><p>“Uncle Ron’s have got stories about giant spiders,” Teddy supplied brightly. “And rat people.”</p><p>“Exactly,” George said. “I haven’t got any of those.”</p><p>The children went silent, munching on biscuits. George leaned back against the wall, exhaling and closing his eyes as his shoulders uncoiled.</p><p>He was tired.</p><p>“When’s Daddy coming home?” Teddy asked, shoving a few crumbs into his mouth.</p><p>George flinched behind him, but then his face cleared, and a bright, relaxed smile fell into place. “Oh, I dunno,” he said, rounding to a stand behind Hermione. “Hopefully soon.”</p><p>He’d barely had a moment to unwind, and he was already performing again.</p><p>“Why was Uncle Lee yelling?” Teddy’s next question promptly followed the first. He didn’t lift his eyes to look at George.</p><p>George faltered. His hand landed, soft on her shoulder.</p><p>“There was some magic that went poorly,” Hermione said, jumping in quickly. “But we fixed it.”</p><p>Teddy nodded.</p><p>“Was it like the magic that took Mumma and Papa?” Teddy asked, glancing up at her, open faced.</p><p>Hermione’s insides slammed together. She didn’t know how much he knew, how Harry wanted it explained to him.</p><p>But George seemed to understand how to go about it.</p><p>“No, this bad magic was a little different,” George said. He leaned around Hermione’s shoulder for a moment to tap the table in front of Teddy. “Now finish your tea or it’ll get cold.”</p><p>Teddy returned his focus to his mug. George’s hand drifted up, brushing light along her cheek. His thumb trailed a warm, settling glow over her skin. Hermione swallowed. After nearly a month of muted sparks, it was a bit staggering to feel the bond come to life with vibrancy.</p><p>She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.</p><p>“Granger!” Fred called.</p><p>Ron appeared in the threshold. “I’ll watch them,” he said.</p><p>Hermione rose, heart pounding, and returned to the living room. George followed.</p><p>“Yes, thanks,” Fred said into the phone. He waved her over, handing it to her.</p><p>“Hello?” she asked.</p><p>“Hermione?” Her Mum’s voice filled the receiver.</p><p>Hermione put her hand to her mouth and sank to the floor. “Is everything alright?” she cried. George knelt at her side, watching, his look urgent.</p><p>“Yes, but there are these girls who say we’re not to leave the house?” Mrs. Granger sounded rattled and tense. “Is it the war again?”</p><p>“No—” Hermione managed, tears filling her eyes.</p><p>“Where are you?” Mrs. Granger said. “Are you safe? We love you, Sweetheart, but please tell me you aren’t going to—”</p><p>“I’m fine. I’m okay,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m with George.”</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>“One of them wants to speak with you,” Mrs. Granger said.</p><p>“Okay, put them on,” Hermione said.</p><p>A pause. “They won’t do what you did, before?” Mrs. Granger asked.</p><p>“No, Mum,” Hermione whispered, hoarse. She tipped her head against the wall, steadying herself with a hand on the cool surface. George’s brow furrowed.</p><p>“Are they alright?” he whispered. Hermione nodded, inhaling sharply. George’s eyes closed.</p><p>“Hermione, this is Padma,” The new voice cracked through the speaker. “I’m here with Katie and Susan, and there are others watching the street. We’re not leaving the premises. Okay?”</p><p>“Okay, thank you so much,” Hermione said, blinking rapidly. The world swayed. They’d volunteered to help her parents, and-and—</p><p>“Did—” Padma paused. “Did you see Parvati?” Suddenly, the other witch sounded far younger.</p><p>“Yes, um, I did,” Hermione stuttered, trying to focus. “She was helping when we apparated. I-I don’t know about what’s happened since, but last I saw, she was alright,” Hermione said.</p><p>A rush of static.</p><p>“Okay, thank you,” Padma said, and the words were hushed.</p><p>The phone began to shake in Hermione’s hand.</p><p>“Padma, there’s another call coming in.”</p><p>“Take it,” Padma said quickly. “We’ll send word if anything happens here.”</p><p>The line died.</p><p>Fred swooped in, taking the phone, and Hermione wrapped her arms around her knees. George’s hand brushed her shoulder.</p><p>“What? Slow down!” Fred said. His face contorted. “No, stay put Neville!” He winced, pacing back towards the fire. “We need the lot of you at Hogwarts.” As he rose his voice, Angelina wordlessly pulled Angelo from his arms, taking him to the kitchen.</p><p>And with that, Fred began his familiar dance.</p><p>Click, click, click, went Fred’s dragon-leather shoes on the worn, wooden floor. The sound seemed to draw George’s attention.</p><p>He looked at her. “You okay?” he whispered.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>George climbed to his feet, travelling to the radio and taking a spot beside Lee. The two whispered as Fred’s voice boomed through the room.</p><p>“Bloody—” Fred stopped, then sighed, sliding his hand down his face. “Harry’s got London sorted. We need you there.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Okay, okay, Mate, put Dean on,” Fred snapped.</p><p>Click, click, click, cutting through the tense quiet.</p><p>“Everyone accounted for?” Fred asked. He snapped his fingers at George, who was crouched by the radio, mouthpiece raised as Lee held the headphones to his ears, working the dials. Fred’s hand faltered. “And where’ve Seamus and Alicia gone to?”</p><p>Fred grimaced.</p><p>Click, click, click.</p><p>Fred tipped his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, you’re right—they shouldn’t have.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“Yeah, it doesn’t matter if they saw someone suspicious. Send a Patronus and get her and Seamus back on grounds. If they come for the school, they’re not going to waste time in the village.” Fred’s tone was grim. “And besides, Aberforth can manage that. Let’s stick to plan.”</p><p>Another pause.</p><p>Click.</p><p>Click.</p><p>Click.</p><p>“Ring when they’re back.”</p><p>The phone snapped shut, and immediately, Lee began to read out another number. Fred didn’t falter before punching it in, and George’s voice was low, speaking rapidly into the transmitter as he read from a parchment Lee had shoved in his direction.</p><p>“Confirmed, team A and B in position. B’s scrambling, but they’re sorting it.”</p><p>Then, Lee twisted the nobs and shoved a second parchment at George, pointing.  George lifted it, rolled his shoulders, and his demeanor shifted.</p><p>“Hello everyone, this is Rapier on Wizarding Wireless, and we bring you an emergency update from the Ministry.” The words rolled off his tongue, smooth and calm in a perfect imitation of Fred’s tone. “There has been another extremist attack at a gathering in London, but our aurors are working to stabilize the situation as we speak.” George glanced at the sheet and lifted the transmitter to Lee.</p><p>Lee leaned in, hand on the dials. “River here! Minister Shacklebolt has a request for any individuals residing within a close proximity to Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, Godric’s Hollow, Hogsmeade, and Ottery St Catchpole: Stay indoors. I repeat, stay inside. If you can walk from your home to Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, Godric’s Hollow, Hogsmeade, or Ottery St Catchpole, this applies to you.”</p><p>George pulled the transmitter back as he glanced at the parchment. “Thanks River, and really, if anyone feels a pressing need to leave their home, consider that this is might be a fabulous opportunity to take up knitting or macrame.” George rolled his shoulders, tossing the sheet aside. “Love a bit of macrame, and it’s really a dying art. Everyone’s into crochet now, and that’s a crying shame.”</p><p>He prattled on, going back and forth with Lee, repeating the serious announcement between quips. Finally, Lee twisted the knob, and the broadcast cut. “We go again in twenty,” Lee said.</p><p>“Okay,” George said.</p><p>The spark in their voices had died the moment the radio clicked off. Fred waved his wand, and the Muffliato faded.</p><p>“Send an announcement over the team frequency,” Fred said, cradling the phone in the crook of his shoulder as he pointed. “Tell them Royal has landed, and—.”</p><p>Lee worked the knobs. George leaned into the transmitter, waiting. Fred paced.</p><p>“And-and he’s not backing down, and—” Fred paused. “Pardon?” His voice went soft.</p><p>George waited, watching intently.</p><p>Suddenly, Fred nodded, pacing again. He pointed at George and Lee, then the radio. “Okay—He humbly requests his knights keep to their stations until further notice.”</p><p>George nodded, whirling to the transmitter. Lee nodded and pointed at him.</p><p>“Royal has landed, I repeat, Royal has landed—”</p><p>The message thundered through the wireless like a signal fire. Hermione stared. She ought to do a round through the perimeter, but news was pouring through the room, and she couldn’t tear herself away yet.</p><p>“—until further notice.” George’s face was grim.</p><p>The three were absorbed, completely focused on the task at hand. Lee on the headphones, George manning the transmitter, and Fred sorting the phone. Occasionally, after a call, Fred would nick the transmitter, point at Lee, and give a new announcement, also posing as Rapier as he shuttled directives to the volunteer teams active across Wizarding Britain.</p><p>Angelina crossed through the room from the kitchen, completely unphased.</p><p>She kissed Fred’s cheek, and headed up the stairs. Angelo snored in her arms. Ron followed with Victoire shortly after, and Teddy came to settle beside Hermione, tucking his head against her arm as he watched the proceedings with round eyes.</p><p>Perhaps she shouldn’t let him see.</p><p>But they were using code names and terms, and Teddy’s grip on her hand was quite tight. She looked down at him, debating.</p><p>Just then, Teddy crawled into her lap, closing his eyes.</p><p>So, Hermione held him close, letting the quiet rush of the radio work spill over her.</p><p>After a bit, George glanced up in the middle of a broadcast, stuttering over a word as he caught sight of them. “—stabilize the situation as we speak.” He recovered smoothly, but his eyes didn’t leave hers as he finished it.</p><p>All the while, Fred paced his grim waltz across the floor.</p><p>Three steps.</p><p>Turn.</p><p>Three steps.</p><p>Turn.</p><p>Unceasing, pounding the rhythm out as they coordinated the plan and held the line. The Wizarding World’s defenses kept in place by a ragtag radio crew in a broken-down house.</p><p>They’d stepped into the role with a practiced ease.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>It wasn’t their first time.</p><p>#</p><p>May 2, 2003, 11:59 p.m.</p><p>Hermione paced the Burrow’s perimeter for the fifth time. The night sky was still clear, and the late spring breeze swept over the fields, but despite the familiar, dewy smell that it brought, she remained rigid.</p><p>She peered over the horizon, then slipped back onto the porch, easing through the door.</p><p>Inside, Teddy slept, sprawled against George’s arm on the sofa. Fred hunched over the radio, and Lee and Angelina whispered softly in the kitchen. Ron sat against the wall by Fred, phone open in his lap.</p><p>“Still clear,” Hermione whispered. George’s gazed fixed on her, and the look was tired and worried at once. She walked over, resting her hand on his head. He exhaled, and his eyes slid shut, only to pop back open moments later.</p><p>“You can sleep, you know,” she whispered.</p><p>George shook his head.</p><p>The clock hands moved wildly, ticking back and forth between Mortal Peril and Travelling.</p><p>Hermione swallowed, turning her wand over in her hands as she tried to calculate how many people had remained that were capable of casting a Patronus.</p><p>The floo whooshed, and Harry tumbled out.</p><p>Covered in burns and propped up by Ginny, who was wearing the outer coat of his auror uniform. He gave a sharp, exhausted cry and collapsed on the floor.</p><p>George started upright, and he balked, covering Teddy’s face with a hand. His apparition cracked through the room as the two vanished, and Hermione heard the pop echo upstairs.</p><p>“Help me,” Ginny gasped, yanking Harry away from the hearth. “The others are on the way.”</p><p>“Is there ice?” Ron shouted.</p><p>“No, Bill melted anything that wouldn’t tear away before we floo-ed,” Ginny said.</p><p>When they turned him over, Harry’s eyes were feverish, and he struggled to keep them open as Angelina began to caste, shaking his head. Hermione hesitated, then darted forward, lifting her wand.</p><p>“Nobody died,” Harry mumbled, as though reassuring himself. “Nobody died.”</p><p>Lee was already at the radio, reading out a new announcement on the team frequency, but it unspooled into meaningless sound to Hermione as she stared at Harry’s battered form.</p><p>“Yes Harry,” Ginny whispered, taking his hand. “You did brilliantly.”</p><p>Harry nodded at her, and his eyes slid shut.</p><p>Hermione swallowed, looking between the two. Her magic seemed to have steadied since the last time she tried, and she was able to hold her wand still enough to help. Hesitantly, she began to caste, holding the spell back a bit to compensate.</p><p>“Did anyone get hit by an explosion directly?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Ginny nodded. “We didn’t, um—” she stumbled a little over the word. “—lose anyone as far as I know, but a few guests and several aurors were hit in blasts. Sturgis is at Mungo’s, and Mum—”</p><p>The floo roared, and Mr. Weasley’s voice filled the room. “Get the Dittany.” It was sharp and clipped. A dripping sound echoed over the floor, and Fred bolted forward, helping him carry Molly to the sofa. Hermione only saw a flash of the woman as she concentrated over Harry, but what little she registered from the corner of her eye made her stomach turn.</p><p>“Bloody Hell.” Ron’s voice squeaked upwards.</p><p>Next came Bill and Fleur, who remained on their feet, thankfully. Fleur headed to the staircase without speaking. Bill wheezed, dropping to sit against the wall.</p><p>Finally, Luna popped in. She glanced over the room, and Hermione could only just make out the sound of her counting under her breath.</p><p>But Hermione kept her wand at work.</p><p>“Where’s George?” Luna asked.</p><p>“Upstairs,” Hermione said, furrowing her brow. “He’s okay.”</p><p>Luna exhaled, then straightened. “That’s good. I should see about Father.”</p><p>“Can you apparate after all that?” Ginny asked, glancing up with a bewildered expression.</p><p>Luna’s reply was light and lilting. “I’ve got enough left, I think,” she said.</p><p>She walked through the front door, and it creaked shut behind her.</p><p>A pop echoed from the field.</p><p>Finally, Hermione and Angelina finished with Harry, and she rested back on her heels, exhaling. She blinked between Molly and Ginny. Angelina pointed at Ginny’s hand before climbing to her feet and crossing to help at the couch.</p><p>Ginny wouldn’t let go of Harry, and Hermione had to caste around the tangled fingers.</p><p>She was partway done when a heavy set of footfalls echoed down the stairs.</p><p>“Fleur said—” George’s voice stilled. Then it went strained and tight: “Mum.” He practically tumbled down the rest of the way, launching across the room. “What happened?”</p><p>“We kept casting the Patronus Charm, over and over, because nothing else would work.” Ginny’s eyes had a distant, cold look in them. “But it stopped exploding, and it won’t spread to the street.”</p><p>Fred moved aside to make space, watching with a grim expression as Arthur stooped over Molly. The man kept his hand on Mrs. Weasley’s forehead, not moving it as he worked. Mrs. Weasley looked worse than anyone, and Hermione’s stomach clenched at the horrid scorch marks crawling over every inch of Mrs. Weasley’s exposed skin.</p><p>“We fought it on brooms, primarily,” Ginny whispered, sounding hollow. “But every time we got too close to a surface with ice, it burned.” She dragged in a breath before continuing. “We should have insisted. Sent her back ages ago. She was so tired—I could tell.” Ginny’s voice cracked. “She wouldn’t leave without us, though. Not until it was stabilized.”</p><p>George’s eyes were round as he looked frantically between Ginny and Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“It’s okay, Mollywobbles,” Arthur whispered hoarsely, casting another healing spell, but Molly didn’t respond. “You’re-you’re alright. It’s okay—” His voice broke.</p><p>She’d never heard Mr. Weasley cry before.</p><p>Bill pushed to his feet and headed for the kitchen, shoulders rigid.</p><p>Ginny turned, then hurriedly looked away. Her knuckles went white as she gripped her arm. “We were able to stay out of its path for the most part, but Mum hadn’t ridden a broom in years. She did brilliantly, right up until the end, when we went to leave through the roof. We were supposed to double check that the ice wasn’t moving there before apparating to the Ministry and flooing home.”</p><p>Ginny’s next words were barely audible. “I guess Mum ran out of energy. I looked over, and suddenly, she was falling back, into the building, two stories to the ballroom floor.”</p><p>“Ginny,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>Ginny dragged her arm over her nose, and the skin was streaked in soot. “I-I didn’t see in time, I didn’t get there, and it-it grabbed her.”</p><p>George’s face contorted as he leaned over the back of the couch, helping Mr. Weasley.</p><p>“Careful!” Arthur snapped, and George grimaced, adjusting his wand to stoop lower. Ron and Fred huddled between them, near the arm of the sofa, helping.</p><p>“Dad and Harry went down after her, and they had to break through it, because it’d covered all the way up to her neck, and the pieces went everywhere, all over her face and—” Ginny’s voice trailed off.</p><p>“Were there any other attacks?” Bill spoke for the first time, appearing with a fresh set of vials from the kitchen.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said softly.</p><p>Bill nodded. “Good.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>Bill tossed a vial to Fred, who snatched it out of the air and dumped it over Molly’s face before snapping for another. Ron circled the room, silently examining each of them for signs of the ice, but finding none.</p><p>Hermione glanced around. The only people left untreated were actively working on others. She paced to Bill, raising her wand in question. He nodded and pointed to the spot next to George.</p><p>She’d only seen him this afraid once—five years ago to the very day.</p><p>George’s hands worked rapidly, but his face was a mess of snot and tears, and he had to gasp, choking out the spells. Restarting each time his voice cut, growing more and more frustrated with himself.</p><p>“Molly, don’t—” Arthur said. “Don’t—”</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut, wand shaking.</p><p>On instinct, Hermione reached around him, taking his casting hand. George stilled.</p><p>She might not understand the mechanics enough to properly help, as he had earlier. But at the very least, she could prop him up a bit.</p><p>“I’ll just hold it steady,” she whispered. “You do the casting.”</p><p>George nodded slowly, sucking in a breath.</p><p>He said the words. Hermione moved the wand.</p><p>For several minutes, the only sound was that of the spellwork, the rapid steps, the rattle of glass, and Arthur—begging Molly to stay.</p><p>A melody of mending, singing quietly against a terrible darkness.</p><p>Sometimes, things couldn’t be fixed.</p><p>Sometimes, they could only be endured.</p><p>But as it turned out, underneath her mask of silly, knitted housecoats and frazzled red hair, Molly Weasley was quite practiced at enduring.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Locomotor Wibbly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Locomotor Wibbly: The Jelly-legs jinx.</p><p>Baby steps.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello Loves! </p><p>Welcome to this week! &lt;3 I hope it greets you well and wonderfully. &lt;3</p><p>Thank you so much for the wonderful encouragement last week, for taking the time to read, and for generally being excellent. &lt;3 I didn't think too much when I was typing out the note to last week's chapter, and I didn't mean to worry everyone. Of course, there are times when writing can be hard, but I want to clarify that for the most part, this fic has been a positive experience for me. &lt;3 I want to provide others and myself with a place to decompress, and if this fic has been helpful in that way for you, I'm glad. &lt;3 You all are so lovely. Thank you for caring.</p><p>Second: More than a few people have kindly suggested taking a break for a bit if I get tired. Thank you. &lt;3 Taking breaks is scary.</p><p>In a spirit of honesty, I have been considering taking a week off sometime soon to prevent burnout. Unintentionally, I have not properly slept on a Sunday night since November. This is completely my own doing, and I am often smiling through the all nighters because writing this fic is fun for me, but also--sleep is important. I probably write stronger content when I'm well-rested. [Hermione's "fifth wave" nonsense in "Pine" may or may not be inspired by my own experiences, and if I'm going to lecture Hermione with George, I should probably apply that same advice to my own life.]  </p><p>IF I end up taking that route, I'll be sure to let you all know by including it in an edit to the most recent chapter's author's note. :) I hope that's okay! That being said, I don't know if this is something that I'll actually do, as writing on this fic provides me with some structure and goal setting that I find helpful for mental health reasons. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>Now that I'm through with rambling--let's get to the fun!! :)</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or these characters.</p><p>PLAYLIST: -“Ice Field” by WYS (January 7, 3 p.m.).<br/>-“Comforting You” by WYS (Jan. 7, after our favorite prefect shows up).<br/>-“Satellite” by WYS (After he wakes Jan. 7 through Jan 8, 8:00 a.m. scene).<br/>-“Flowers in Your Hair” by The Lumineers or “The Polar Express” by Tom Hanks (Jan. 8, 5 p.m. until the game starts).<br/>-“Thunder” by Imagine Dragons (Jan. 8, During the game).<br/>-“All I Want” by Kodaline (Jan. 9).<br/>-“Run Baby Run” by 2WEI &amp; Ali Christenhusz (When you see the smoke through Jan. 10, 7 a.m.).<br/>-“Leave a Light On” by Tom Walker (Jan. 10, 10 a.m.).<br/>-“All I Want” by Kodaline again/”Fragile” by Kygo &amp; Labrinth (Jan. 11).<br/>-“I Don’t Want to Love Somebody Else” by A Great Big World (Jan. 11, when you see the stale snow).<br/>-“Survivor” by 2WEI and Edda Hayes (Jan 11—when Hermione brings up laws until the story’s done).<br/>-“Infinity” by One Direction (Jan. 11, just generally during the conversation).<br/>-“Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns N’ Roses (Jan. 11 at the Fever Fudge mention). </p><p>Grab your snack (maybe a carton of ice cream?), your drink (Chamomile for SURE this week, if you've got it. Side note: if you drink chamomile, I'd LOVE to know what kind in the comments because I adore trying new varieties), and your largest blanket. </p><p>This chapter is a little bit of a love letter, for all of us.<br/>Asking for help is scary, but we can be brave.</p><p>Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Thirty-Two: “Locomotor Wibbly”</h2><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>January 7, 1999, 3:00 p.m.</p><p>Water dripped into the drain, plinking against the copper. With frantic, hurried movements, George gripped the side of the tub in one hand and yanked up the left leg of his trousers with the other. The skin looked the same as always, but it was searing to touch. Under the surface, the nerves had been lit.</p><p>It wouldn’t stop burning.</p><p>The lantern overhead flickered dimly, and his wheeze rattled as he struggled to push himself further along the tub’s edge to sit closer to the spout. He fumbled the faucet handle, his sore back and neck twinging. The metal squeaked, and frigid water rushed out. Gingerly, George shifted his leg under the flow.</p><p>It was a momentary relief, and he exhaled, tipping his head back.</p><p>But after a few moments, his nerves began to tingle, and the pain crept back in.</p><p>Building.</p><p>More and more.</p><p>“Bugger,” he whispered. He’d known it wouldn’t help for more than a moment, but he was willing to try anything.</p><p>According to Bill, certain curses had anchor points used to maintain hold on the body during casting. It’s where the symptoms were worst after. Sometimes the anchor point was random, sometimes it was determined by the place the spell hit, and sometimes, the curse would always pick the same spot.</p><p>This curse—Stringos Verbero—appeared to have been designed to anchor to the leg. That’s where it had chosen, both times he’d experienced it.</p><p>A brutal, but smart choice on the Spellcrafter’s part. It would keep victims from running. Incapacitate them for ages after an encounter.</p><p>George stared hard at the gleam off the copper spout.</p><p>Last time, the burning feeling had appeared almost instantly after his return from the Ministry. It had lingered, constant for a day. But with time, the constant pain had dwindled, only flaring to intolerable levels when he put weight on it. It’d taken months to completely fade until he didn’t notice it at all, even when he jumped.</p><p>He’d have to tough it out.</p><p>Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long until he could rest without it bothering him.</p><p>He hung his head between his shoulders, face contorting as the water pounded. This time, it was ghastly. Bloody awful. Hard to focus.</p><p>The anxiety pushed under his sternum, clawing to get out.</p><p>What if it didn’t go away?</p><p>After all, it had been slightly different, this time.</p><p>It had crept up on him, coming on slowly after he’d returned to his flat the night before. When he collapsed into his bed, it was uncomfortably warm and itchy.</p><p>This morning, he’d woken to agony.</p><p>It was worse this time. Even though Umbridge’s use of the curse had been more painful in the moment, Flint’s use had extended far longer.</p><p>At least, that’s what he suspected. It was hard to tell. After the first several minutes, the whole thing had become a horrific blur of sensation and sound. Cold fire. His torn, gagged cries as he’d tried to beg through the Langlock.</p><p>He’d tried to beg.</p><p>George’s face burned with shame.</p><p>He couldn’t—couldn’t think about it.</p><p>A rap sounded on the door.</p><p>“Yeah?” George croaked.</p><p>It cracked open, and Fred leaned through, face lined with concern. “Is it bad?”</p><p>George stared at the water coursing over his shin. He nodded. Fred’s mouth thinned.</p><p>Fred had been there after his last bout with the curse. There was no point in hiding it. He’d know.</p><p>His brother’s eyes worked over him, calculating. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be as terrible this time,” Fred said. “You didn’t seem bothered last night.”</p><p>George shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Maybe I was numb or something,” he said. “It sort of built while I was asleep.”</p><p>“Mm,” Fred replied. “Water doing anything?”</p><p>George sighed, then grimaced and reached for the handle. “No,” he said bitterly. The metal squeaked again, and the flow stopped. “Help me up.”</p><p>Fred nodded and made his way over. His arms wrapped under George’s, and he grunted as he hoisted him to his feet. “Merlin, Mate,” Fred said, grimacing and tugging George’s arm over his shoulder.</p><p>“You’re getting soft without Quidditch,” George said.</p><p>Fred rolled his eyes. “I help Angelina practice,” he said. George hissed as his left foot brushed the floor. Fred pretended not to notice the sound, but his hand tightened on George’s side as he braced him. “If anyone’s getting soft, it’s you.”</p><p>“Is it really playing if she just bullies you across the pitch?” George asked. He’d witnessed a few of their more recent practice sessions. Since their time in school, Angelina’s skills had only increased, and she was almost impossible for his brother to keep up with. Fred snorted.</p><p>“I do my part,” he said, helping George through the door.</p><p>Pots and pans clanked in the flat’s kitchenette. “How are we feeling, Georgie?” Mrs. Weasley called. George pinned Fred with a tired look. Fred shook his head.</p><p>“I’m alright, Mum,” George said. She’d refused to leave the flat since arriving that morning.</p><p>“Don’t lie to me, George,” she said, and her tone went tense with the warning as she furiously stirred something in a metal bowl. George furrowed his brow. Had she brought her own things from the Burrow?</p><p>“I’m not,” George said, eyeing her white-knuckled grip on the spoon. “And this is totally unnecessary. I’m a grown man.”</p><p>She whirled, pointing the spatula at him. George sighed. Another lecture was incoming.</p><p>“Don’t give me any of that,” she snapped. “If you’d waited on the proper authorities to—”</p><p>“Mum,” Fred cut in, but Mrs. Weasley kept on.</p><p>“The way the two of you constantly insist on getting into trouble—like you have some sort of death wish.” She waved the spatula through the air, looking wildly about the ceiling. His mum was truly cross. Horribly so. And there was nothing to be done about it, other than waiting it out. “We didn’t win a war to—”</p><p>“He had to, Mum,” Fred said, raising his voice. “You know that.”</p><p>“Sit down,” Mrs. Weasley said tightly. “You’ll eat dinner, rest, and not a word of complaint or I’ll floo your father, and he’ll come too.”</p><p>Fred lowered George onto the couch. “I’m not hungry,” George muttered. “I’d rather just sleep it off.”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley’s spatula clanged in the bowl, and Fred paced over, murmuring something in her ear. The clanging stopped. His mum peeked at him over her shoulder, gaze alarmed.</p><p>“Oi!” George called. “Stop it, Fred.”</p><p>Fred lifted his hands, then took Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder and pulled her further away, still whispering.</p><p>“Terribly rude to talk about someone in front of them, especially inside their own bloody home,” George said.</p><p>“Language,” Mrs. Weasley replied, snapping her fingers back at him without looking. She didn’t turn to face him as Fred continued to speak in low, unintelligible tones.</p><p>George didn’t need to hear it, though. He knew what Fred was on about. And now it would take even more work to convince his mum to go home to the Burrow. He sighed and leaned his head back. The snow blasted against the side of the flat.</p><p>Outside, High Street would be a mess of drifts.</p><p>Hopefully, Granger wouldn’t try to walk home in it. Perhaps she’d apparate. Or maybe McGonagall would allow her to use the floo.</p><p>His eyes slid shut, and he tried to think about anything other than the persistent searing tearing up and down his leg.</p><p>A soft hand landed on his forehead. George peeked up. His mum stood over him, frowning.</p><p>“Georgie,” she whispered, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead.</p><p>George managed a tired smile. “I’m okay,” he said.</p><p>“Did Bill—?” Mrs. Weasley asked quietly, hesitating.</p><p>She’d already asked that morning.</p><p>George shook his head. “Already told you—Bill said this one doesn’t have much to do, other than wait it out,” he said.</p><p>Molly huffed, and a frustrated look came over her.</p><p>“I’ll manage,” he said. “It’s okay.”</p><p>“I can make you some pudding or whatever you’d like,” Mrs. Weasley said, but the words were thick and halting. George examined his mum. Her hair was frazzled, and her apron hung a bit loose on her frame.</p><p>She needed to get off her feet.</p><p>“Actually,” he said. “It’d be lovely if you could just sit with me for a while.”</p><p>Molly dried her hands on her flowery apron and made her way around the sofa. She sat beside him, drawing his head onto her shoulder. George forced his face to relax, even though his leg still burnt terribly.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley fretted over him, stroking his hair over his scarred ear and muttering about his reckless nature.</p><p>“Mum?” he whispered.</p><p>“Yes Georgie?” she asked.</p><p>“I didn’t end up out there on purpose,” he said. Her hand stilled over his head. “But I had to intervene. There wasn’t time.”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley didn’t reply, only squeezed his shoulder.</p><p>George let her fuss.</p><p>Eventually, she returned to the kitchenette, as though she could simply bake the problem away.</p><p>George didn’t complain. Sometimes, a body needed to do something, especially when not much could be done.</p><p>#</p><p>A few hours later, George still hadn’t moved from his spot on the sofa, head tipped back and left foot propped on a pillow on coffee table. The hearth creaked with steady flame. At some point, his mum had draped a blanket over him before finally returning to the Burrow.</p><p>George stared at the ceiling, teeth grinding, counting his breaths five at a time.</p><p>One.</p><p>His leg burned.</p><p>Two.</p><p>Like the skin was blistering under his trouser fabric.</p><p>Three.</p><p>Surely, it wasn’t. But—</p><p>Four.</p><p>Without moving his head, George reached down. It still felt smooth through the fabric, but the touch made it flare.</p><p>He hissed on five.</p><p>Right. Okay.</p><p>One.</p><p>“You’re really bringing the mood down,” Fred said. He tilted his head back to glance at George as he picked through the fridge’s top shelf.</p><p>“Sorry to disappoint,” George muttered.</p><p>Fred stared down the neck of a glass Pumpkin Juice bottle. “I forgive you, I suppose,” he said. He took a swig. There was a pause. “Want to try more ice?”</p><p>George shrugged. Waste of time. Ice wouldn’t do anything for more than a moment.</p><p>The floo whooshed, and Angelina stepped out. Her Harpies practice robes were soaked and grass stained, and her nostrils flared as she ripped at the padding's fastenings. </p><p>“How was work, Love?” Fred called from the kitchenette. Angelina yanked at the straps holding her armguards in place.</p><p>“Still rubbish,” she said. George offered her a faint, sympathetic smile, and Angelina patted him on the shoulder as she made her way to Fred.</p><p>The mess of golden knitting lay abandoned in the basket on the floor, and the beaten paperback teetered on the couch’s arm, quill tucked inside to keep his place. He’d intended to finish with the fifth chapter before going back to notate through the sizeable portion Hermione had read the night before.</p><p>He’d tried at it, scrawling a few notes into the margins, but it was hard to focus with the pain. He'd had to quit after only a few minutes. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.</p><p>If tomorrow wasn’t better, he didn’t know what he’d do.</p><p>Salazar.</p><p>George clenched his fists, focusing on the timing of his breath.</p><p>“The ice, George?” Fred prompted, waiting at the fridge.</p><p>“I dunno,” George muttered. “Probably wouldn’t help.”</p><p>A sleeping potion wouldn’t help, either. It’d only leave him in a terrible, confusing set of nightmares. Better to be aware.</p><p>But it was awful. He was tired of it—completely worn through, and it would be hours and hours until he could hope to see some sign of improvement. And that’s if it faded as quickly as the last time.</p><p>Fred crossed the floor, frozen rag in hand. Wordlessly, he took a seat on the coffee table, shoved George’s trouser to the knee, and pressed stiff, blue fabric against George’s skin.</p><p>“Glacius,” Fred muttered, pressing his wand into the rag fibers.</p><p>“Careful,” George hissed as the wand tip prodded his shin. His muscles to seized from ankle to hip.</p><p>The floo whooshed without warning, and sunshine spun out.</p><p>“You’ll never guess what Minerva said in class today!” Hermione shouted, laughing as she tugged the purple scarf loose from around her throat. The knitwear fluttered, landing in a heap on the navy armchair.</p><p>For a moment, George forgot all about the pain in his leg.</p><p>Her curls were flecked with snow, and her uniform had been exchanged for a pair of denims and her old Weasley jumper. Even better, she had his jean jacket layered over top, and her books were towered high in her arms. She chattered, swinging her schoolbag to the ground with a heavy thump.</p><p>Was she going to stay long, then?</p><p>George’s insides lit with hope.</p><p>Hermione watched the floor, kicking her trainers off beside the hearth. “—except one of the seventh-years got the bright idea of ranking all of the courses in order of usefulness today,” she said. “And they left the parchment right on the—”  Hermione glanced up to check his reaction, but her eyes snagged on Fred and him.</p><p>“Go on, Granger,” Fred said amusedly. “Do tell. I’ve been stuck inside making sure Georgie stays put all day, and I’m dying of boredom.”</p><p>Hermione faltered as her gaze flicked over them, then landed on his leg. George stiffened, and he tried to draw it back. But Fred’s grasp on his shin was firm, and George’s leg had yet to unseize. He flinched at the jolt the effort sent through him.</p><p>“Let’s trade,” Angelina said tiredly, leaning over the counter and taking a sizeable bite from an apple. “Flying conditions were rubbish today.”</p><p>George snorted, but his insides twinged, still sore from the encounter in the woods. His back ached all the way up his neck, but he scrambled to keep an easy, amused expression pasted on his face.</p><p>Granger lowered her books to the coffee table, watching him. George kept his hands still at his side, trying for an unbothered air, but there was something in her look as she stared at him that was off—like—like fear.</p><p>George gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted was for her to be afraid. He was going to be fine.</p><p>She spoke slowly. Her earlier, playful tone had vanished, replaced by a hint of distraction. “She said it was a bumbling thing to do, and that, um, if one were to be so brave as to rank fields of study, they had better do it the proper way.” Granger eased upright, still watching him.</p><p>George snorted despite the pain coursing from his hip to his heel. “And where was Transfiguration on the list?”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes were still working over him, up and down. George swallowed. “Near the bottom, I think,” she said. “But I couldn’t make out the original writing after she set it on fire.”</p><p>Angelina and Fred barked in laughter.</p><p>“Well, at least she got some free kindling out of it,” George offered, raising his brows. Hermione bit her lips together and nodded. She glanced at the stack of books, expression pinched.</p><p>He needed to distract her.</p><p>“Is that all homework?” he asked, nodding at the books. Hermione nodded again. She pushed her hair out of her face, looking between the books and him.</p><p>George swallowed. She’d probably want to leave to work on it.</p><p>But then Granger began to tug the jean jacket off, laying it on the armchair. “I thought I might do it here?” Hermione asked. “Is that alright?” She spoke slowly as she rounded to the sofa. A little wrinkle had formed between her brows.</p><p>“So long as you don’t bore us to death,” Fred quipped from his seat at the coffee table, where he still held the blasted rag against George’s leg, casting nonverbals into it. Useless.</p><p>The fire had already returned.</p><p>“What’s this?” Granger whispered, eyeing his leg.</p><p>“We’re not sure, but it responds to the name George,” Fred said, playing at confusion. “Been following me around for years.”</p><p>George sighed dryly.</p><p>Hermione didn’t laugh at the joke, caught up in frowning at his leg. Suddenly, Fred motioned her closer. George stilled, trying to slide away, but Fred was already handing him off like he was a crate that needed unpacking or something and-and—</p><p>Granger’s hands landed softly over his shin, and the horrid, searing feeling faded.</p><p>Oh Merlin.</p><p>The trail of sparks rushed through his leg, stifling the cold fire’s ghost.</p><p>“Does this help?” Hermione asked, eyeing the frozen rag she held to his shin. George hesitated, dismissal ready on the tip of his tongue.</p><p>But then he stopped, and what came out was honesty.</p><p>“Yes,” he said faintly. “It does.”</p><p>Hermione gave him a small smile. “Nice socks, by the way,” she whispered, smiling at the striped, Nordic pattern that was propped on the cushion in her lap. George nodded thickly, struggling to follow.</p><p>George exhaled. “Didn’t knit them,” he mumbled, blinking at her.</p><p>She was lovely. Snow-damp curls stuck to her face and crawled wildly over the purple knitwear on her shoulders. He remembered how carefully he’d put the seams together, all those years ago.</p><p>“Knitted that, though,” he mumbled, nodding at her jumper. “H for Hermione.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Did you really?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, swallowing and giving her a dazed grin. “I’m tired.”</p><p>The thick, golden glaze was back, and he felt as though he might fall asleep.</p><p>It wasn’t just the burning feeling under his skin that had faded. The pressured, locked-tight feeling that ran the length of his back, up his neck eased. The soreness that had dwelt where each blow had landed went soft, as though she had untied it, and the mess was floating away. Vaguely, he was aware the tempo of his breath had shifted to a deep, slow crawl, of his head tipping back.</p><p>Everything went soft, and George couldn’t have told his right arm from a Niffler.</p><p>Fred’s hand clapped on his shoulder, but the voice was muffled.</p><p>George blinked heavily.</p><p>Hermione’s fingers were steady and soft on his skin.</p><p>The glow worked over him, and his eyes slid shut.</p><p>#</p><p>George started forward, lifting his face off the sofa. He was sprawled over the length of the couch, blanket wrapped snugly around him. His leg burned, but it was muted. Not nearly so terrible as it had been all day. Fred sat in the armchair, working away at the bracelet. The windows across the room were dark.</p><p>But the books. The books were gone. And the jacket. And the scarf.</p><p>All around him smelled of Chamomile, but she was nowhere to be seen.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“Where’s Granger?” George croaked.</p><p>“He lives,” Fred muttered, raising his brows. George frowned. “Harry needed to take a statement from her, but I’d imagine they’re through with that by now. She’s probably asleep at her own flat.”</p><p>Hermione had gone.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“He wanted to chat with you as well,” Fred continued. “But I told him to sod off because you needed the sleep.”</p><p>George slumped. “You should’ve woken me,” he grumbled. “I’m fine.”</p><p>Fred didn’t respond.</p><p>“Really,” George said. “I feel far better now.”</p><p>“Don’t suppose that has anything to do with Granger?” Fred asked.</p><p>This time, it was George who went quiet.</p><p>“Harry reckons we’ve got enough to put Flint away,” Fred said. “And most of the others who were there.”</p><p>“Good,” George said. He paused, listening as Fred muttered spells over the bracelet. “Did you find all six?”</p><p>Fred didn’t look up. “Hermione did.”</p><p>“What happened?” George asked. Fred’s movements paused.</p><p>“I think you should talk to Granger about that,” he said. “But, um—” Fred’s eyes bugged out as he worked. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”</p><p>“Like what?” George asked, lifting his head.</p><p>“Like a storm,” Fred said, glancing at him with an apprehensive look.</p><p>George studied him quietly for a moment.</p><p>“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” George said. He stretched, bracing his hands behind his head. “Granger’s always been a storm.”</p><p>#</p><p>January 8, 1999, 8:00 a.m.</p><p>Fred ran a comb through his hair in the bathroom mirror. “Angie will be back from running drills in an hour or so, but the game doesn’t start until five,” he called.</p><p>“Alright,” George shouted back. He hobbled to the sink, wincing as the pain lanced up his leg. It had calmed to an annoying but tolerable throb, but it flared whenever he put weight on it. He dropped the three breakfast dishes into the basin, then caste a cleaning charm.</p><p>The two had stayed the night so Angelina could help Ginny prepare for the match during her free period that morning.</p><p>“Honestly, Gin’s the only one who can fix the Harpies’ issue,” Fred continued, circling back to the topic he’d been ranting on for the past thirty minutes. “None of their chasers are fast enough to take advantage of Angie’s throwing arm, and she’s kind of wasted on them right now.”</p><p>Fred’s sigh was so loud that it echoed from the loo.</p><p>“I know, Mate,” George said, plucking a clean, soaked dish from the charmwork in the sink. He cast a hurried drying charm on it. “They’ll sort it. She’s got plenty of time.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said. He swung out of the loo, gripping the door frame with a hand as he leaned wide to look around the corner and into the kitchenette.  “Rather wish—” he halted. “Never mind.”</p><p>Fred ducked back into the loo.</p><p>“Rather wish what?” George called.</p><p>“Oh, it’s nothing,” Fred said. “We want Angelina to take the championship before we start trying.”</p><p>“Trying for what?” George said, casting another drying charm on the second dish.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>George reached for the third dish.</p><p>“I don’t mind waiting,” Fred called. “I’ll be happy to try whenever she’s happy, but I think it’s starting to rankle her a bit, especially considering that she’s one of the best in the league, the team ought to be placing better than they are.”</p><p>George’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t answer my question,” George called. “Try for what?”</p><p>Fred laughed loudly.</p><p>The dish slipped out of George’s hands as it hit him.</p><p>“Godric, you mean—” The glass shattered.</p><p>Fred rounded the corner. “We’ll open for a few hours around noon, then?” he asked, as though he hadn’t just shared something earth shattering and wonderful. But mischief sparked in his smile, and George shook his head, pointing at him.</p><p>“Who all knows about this?” George asked.</p><p>“Angie, me, Gin, and you,” Fred said. “You can tell Hermione, but keep it to yourself, otherwise.”</p><p>A bolt of excitement zipped through him at the thought of Fred and Angelina having a baby. It would still be a ways out from the sounds of it, but he hadn’t known they’d been seriously discussing it.</p><p>He blinked at Fred.</p><p>It was big deal. A major life event.</p><p>A journey that Fred was planning to step out on, and George would be on the sidelines.</p><p>A small pinch of jealousy formed in his chest.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>George shook himself. That was alright. He enjoyed his life the way it was now. Children were wonderful, yes, but he was nowhere near ready to raise one alone. Kids were always something he’d pictured for later. A pursuit for a more responsible, older George—maybe a George who didn’t leave his shoes out and who stood beside—</p><p>George blinked hard. No.</p><p>So, Fred and Angelina were talking about it a bit more seriously. That was wonderful for them, but George wasn’t there yet, and that was alright. That shouldn’t change just because someone else was moving at a different pace.</p><p>All those blasted headlines were getting to him.</p><p>He caste a cleaning charm to take care of the dish pieces, then returned his attention to the shop.</p><p>There would be a flux of visitors—mostly parents and family coming to the game. It marked the halfway point of the school’s Quidditch season, as McGonagall had doubled the amount of games following the war. But the increased number of matches didn’t seem to discourage patrons from attending. If anything, people flushed the rebuilt stadium even more than before.</p><p>Probably eager for something happy to focus on.</p><p>“I’ll check stock, then,” George said.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Fred called back.</p><p>He walked ginger-footed towards the shop door, trying to keep the weight off his left side as much as possible.</p><p>George braced on his good leg as he turned the handle and pushed. The door banged against something, and he stopped, peering around the edge.</p><p>The Pensieve.</p><p>What was the Pensieve doing out?</p><p>He turned in a slow circle. Mugs littered the counter, and the early morning light glared off the snow-laden street, piercing the windowpanes. It caught on a weathered slip of parchment, just beside the till.</p><p>George limped over. Familiar scrawl marched over the page.</p><p>
  <em>“North—Hermione, Luna, Winky. South—Fred, Angelina, Harry. East—Aberforth, Arthur, Filius, Minerva. West—Bill, Fleur, Ginny.”</em>
</p><p>It was Hermione’s handwriting, but it was cramped and smeared.</p><p>Anxiety rose like an over-inflated balloon under his sternum.</p><p>Underneath, the lists were repeated, names rearranged into different groups. Further down the sheet, there were more people added. More groups. He looked from the sheet to the Pensieve.</p><p>Remnants from when they’d searched for him.</p><p>Harry had probably used it to review the memories George had supplied.</p><p>George looked down at the parchment.</p><p>At the smeared ink.</p><p><em>“Like a storm.” </em>Fred’s words rang through his mind.</p><p>But what kind of storm?</p><p>His ribs constricted.</p><p>#</p><p>January 8, 1999, 5 p.m.</p><p>The stands were stuffed with bodies, but the faculty and visitor seating was a bit more sparse. George folded his hands between his knees, listening as Angelina and Fred went through the team’s statistics again with Delia Dartforth. The Harpies coach sat silent on the end of the row, eyes trained on the empty pitch. It was unusual to see a coach at a game, rather than a scout. Angelina must’ve pulled some strings.</p><p>Angelina nodded at Dartforth. “I worked with her all break. She’s ready,” she said. She leaned forward, studying the pitch before continuing, more than a little proudly: “I’ve been coaching Ginny since her first season at Hogwarts. The second I saw her on that broom, I knew.” Angelina grinned at George and Fred. “You lot getting booted was the best thing that happened to the team.”</p><p>“Oi.” Fred sounded a little pinched.</p><p>“She outstripped one of Krum’s flight record over the Burrow last week,” Angelina said, nudging him.</p><p>George’s brows shot up. “Remind me—which one and by how much?” he asked.</p><p>He already knew, but it gave Angelina a chance to talk Gin up in front of the coach.</p><p>“Pitch distance, and by a little over a second,” Angelina said.</p><p>George whistled lowly. “Krum’s the best flyer in the league,” he said.</p><p>“Yes, well, I expect that’s about to change,” Angelina said. Delia rolled her eyes, but she smiled.</p><p>Fred leaned in, whispering to Angelina, and George turned back to face the playing area, which remained empty before the match’s start. The spot to George’s left was still empty.</p><p>The wind tore at the skin on George’s neck, and he rubbed at it, trying to coax the heat back in. Hermione had yet to give him back his scarf, and he wasn’t sure how to ask for it.</p><p>It was too bad the students had to sit in a separate section.</p><p>“Who let you out of the flat?” George glanced up. Harry smiled down at him before dropping into the spot at his side. Teddy’s eyes were wide in the carrier on his chest. As he spotted George, his hands stretched out.</p><p>George grinned. Brilliant.</p><p>“I’ll just—” George said, reaching for Teddy. Harry laughed as George plucked Teddy from the carrier and hoisted him against his chest. “So big!” George cried.</p><p>Teddy was dressed in an appropriately-sized Gryffindor Quidditch jumper, and George grinned, tugging on the hem. “Did Grandma make this?” he asked.</p><p>By way of reply, Teddy burst into a stream of babble.</p><p>“Yeah, your Mum’s always sending us little things like that,” Harry said. “Makes it easier. He keeps growing out of everything.”</p><p>George smirked. “I’ve heard they do that,” he said, bouncing Teddy higher. “Goodness, boy. A few more inches, and you’ll tower over Harry.”</p><p>Harry rolled his eyes and shoved George’s arm, laughing.</p><p>Teddy continued to chatter, and George replied seriously. “Yeah, I know, Mate,” George said, nodding along wide-eyed. “Your dad’s a sod.”</p><p>“Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall snapped from the row behind him.</p><p>“He’s um, talking about me, Professor,” Harry said, turning to face her.</p><p>“I’m aware, Mr. Potter,” Minerva said.</p><p>“Biggest prat in the world,” George continued loudly, as though he couldn’t hear them.</p><p>Harry laughed again.</p><p>Suddenly, Teddy yanked on his shoulder, and his feet kicked out before shoving against George’s right leg. George blinked as Teddy pulled to a stand in his arms.</p><p>George stilled as awe stole over him.</p><p>“Helga’s Garden,” he said, stunned.</p><p>“He can also sit upright,” Harry said, sounding excited. “And crawl.”</p><p>George’s mouth dropped open. “Come off it,” he said, staring round-eyed at Teddy.</p><p>“He’s not sorted the standing unassisted yet,” Harry said. “But one of the books Mione gave me—” Harry reached into the large bag at his feet, rifling through a stack of nappies. He drew out a colorful volume.</p><p>
  <em>“What to Expect: The First Year.”</em>
</p><p>“—said this is right on track.” Harry pointed the book at Teddy, beaming.</p><p>George blinked at the thick volume. Loads of little, multicolor tabs peeked out of the pages. “You read that whole thing?” he asked.</p><p>Harry flushed. “I did, actually,” he said. “Mione sort of read it first and then marked the most important bits for me,” he said, running a thumb across the tab work. “But I ended up working through the whole thing.”</p><p>When had Hermione had time to do that?</p><p>Probably when she should’ve been sleeping.</p><p>But it seemed Harry had benefitted, though. That was good.</p><p>Teddy smacked George in the face. “Oi,” George said, moving his hand away. “Lower your weapons, Sir.” He grinned.</p><p>Teddy grinned back. His soft, brown hair shifted into a coppery shade. George blinked. Teddy’s left ear vanished.</p><p>#</p><p>The Quaffle soared upwards. The Hufflepuff team zipped through the sky, but the clap of Ginny’s shout echoed above the crowd as she signaled her team into motion.</p><p>Six, red cloaks, snapping like fire in the wind.</p><p>Ginny streaked across the pitch.</p><p>The stands roared, and Harry darted in towards George, casting a hasty Minor Muffliato around Teddy’s head before he joined in the shouting himself.</p><p>“I believe Gryffindor’s lion is on the prowl,” Luna’s soft, dreamy voice floated through the sound system. “She’ll take a win or blood tonight.”</p><p>The Gryffindor stands exploded, but Harry was louder, leaping to his feet as he yelled.</p><p>George grinned. He’d be doing the same if his blasted leg weren’t in its present state.</p><p>“The throat!” Angelina screamed, jumping up and down against the bar at the front of their section. “Go for the throat, Gin!”</p><p>Ginny stopped on a dime, pointed at Angelina, and took off as the Quaffle jetted through the air. She intercepted the pass before it could reach the Hufflepuff chaser near the Gryffindor goalposts. Then, with nimble precision, Ginny tucked the ball under her arm, leaned forward, and unleashed.</p><p>It was as though she’d apparated, almost.</p><p>Dartforth leapt out of her seat, joining Angelina at the front. The Hufflepuff defense was steely and solid, like a brick wall, but Ginny blasted right through them, performing a seamless Sloth Grip roll to dodge a bludger before sinking the Quaffle deftly through the center hoop. She’d crossed the pitch in a matter of moments.</p><p>“Godric’s Ghost,” someone shouted.</p><p>“Owl the manager,” a man behind George snapped, and there was a scrambling sound as a second man bolted from the stands. George glanced over his shoulder.</p><p>The man wore a Puddlemere United crest on his navy robes stood, jaw firm and arms crossed. Two rows back, a Montrose Magpies scout whispered to a woman in a blue Tutshill Tornados robe.</p><p>George jostled Harry’s elbow, tilting his head back. Harry nodded excitedly.</p><p>“Ginny Weasley has scored. Gryffindor leads with ten points,” Luna said. “And a new pitch crossing record, I believe?”</p><p>Ginny tore through the sky, a free, blazing look on her face.</p><p>Fast as light, outrunning shadows.</p><p>Ginny did brilliantly, as expected, and Gryffindor soundly won by a surplus of 400 points.</p><p>As the game concluded, George searched the stands across the pitch.</p><p>He couldn’t quite make out the faces in the Gryffindor student section.</p><p>#</p><p>January 9, 1999</p><p>“Would you stop it?” George groaned, tipping his head back against the desk chair. “I can’t focus with you flitting about like that.”</p><p>Hermione shook her head and continued to pace. “I think it actually looks best next to your bed,” she muttered.</p><p>“Whatever you say,” George said, turning back to the bracelet. Three wires splayed out from the middle joint, and he was attempting to attach a fourth.</p><p>The large wardrobe thumped as it rose into the air, drawers clunking. Hermione had dragged it in via a levitation charm twenty minutes ago, without warning. In the time since, she’d moved it back and forth five times already, adjusting the position of the bed in between each move. It was tall and a deep brown shade with two doors on the front and three drawers at the base.</p><p>He hadn’t had a wardrobe since moving out of 93 Diagon.</p><p>“I can use my trunk,” he tried, but Hermione snorted.</p><p>“Your clothes are rumpled constantly,” she said. “You’ve been here for months, and it’s ridiculous.”</p><p>“What if I like my clothes rumpled?” he asked, dropping the bracelet to the desk with a clatter. He didn’t. Not really. But every time he looked at her, she was either steadfastly avoiding his gaze or watching him with that same, haunted expression she’d had the other day, before helping him with his leg. In latter cases, the second she noticed him looking at her, she’d turn hurriedly and keep working.</p><p>And George didn’t know what to do about it.</p><p>It certainly didn’t help matters that she hadn’t sat down for long enough for him to broach the subject.</p><p>“No one likes rumpled clothes,” she said, studying the wardrobe’s new position. It rested against the wall at the foot of his bed, which was now positioned in its original corner, only perpendicular, against the other wall.</p><p>Previously, the foot had faced the sitting area in front of the floo, but now the bed’s side would be evenly exposed to any heat from the fire.</p><p>It was a smart move, honestly, but—</p><p>She was obfuscating. Hermione lifted her wand, frowning.</p><p>“Looks brilliant,” George said. “I insist you keep it right where it is.”</p><p>Hermione lowered the wand.</p><p>Without further warning, she nodded, then crossed to his trunk. George’s mouth dropped open as she pulled it open and began to unpack the items.</p><p>“Excuse me?” he squawked. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“I’m switching your things over,” she said, as though she wasn’t doing anything odd. “It’ll be easier for me to, since you’re um—” she trailed off.</p><p>She seemed to have forgotten he was a wizard.</p><p>George huffed, exasperated. “You could ask, Granger,” he said.</p><p>Hermione stilled, face going pink. “Oh.” She faltered. “Do you not want me to?”</p><p>George hesitated. Truly, he didn’t mind. It had just surprised him. But, even now, she wasn’t meeting his eyes, and it chafed at him. She was cross or frightened—he couldn’t tell which.</p><p>He needed to say something.</p><p>“No, it’s fine, but—” He winced, hobbling over. “I don’t think this is actually something you’re wanting to do.”</p><p>Hermione frowned. “Of course I want to,” she said, grabbing a stack of jumpers from the top.</p><p>“Come off it,” George said. Hermione shrugged and carried the jumpers to the Wardrobe, laying them into the bottom drawer. She returned, reaching into the trunk again. “Are you going to ignore me forever?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione scoffed again. “How am I ignoring you?” she replied. “I’m literally doing your chores.”</p><p>“Yeah, without prompt, because you’re avoiding me,” he said.</p><p>Hermione looked steadfastly into his laundry as she pulled an armful of George’s pants and boxers out. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, heading back to the wardrobe. George huffed through his nose and wobbled after her. His footsteps thudded unevenly on the flooring.</p><p>“You’re avoiding the conversation,” he said.</p><p>“I’m not avoiding anything!” she snapped, throwing the pants into the top drawer. George firmed his jaw and leaned over, yanking them out.</p><p>“I forbid you to put anything into this wardrobe until we properly talk about this,” he said. “I’m fine, okay?”</p><p>“Oh, is that properly talking about it?” Hermione said tightly. Her eyes flashed, and she strode back to the trunk. George followed her, wincing, and threw the pants back inside. Hermione didn’t react. She only grabbed them up again and headed back to the wardrobe.</p><p>George blinked and stumbled after her, hissing at the pain. “Granger!” he said, shocked. She didn’t answer, sticking them back in the top drawer. George darted forward and grabbed a handful, but Hermione snatched the rest before he could nick them. “Are you serious?” he asked.</p><p>“Are you?” she snapped. “Stop!”</p><p>“What’s gotten into you?” he said, searching her face. “You’ve been—been—” he shook his head, unable to sort how to express it.</p><p>Off. She’d been off.</p><p>And he didn’t know how to help. One foot off the ground, off-balance.</p><p>Anxiety rose up his throat, clawing at him.</p><p>Suddenly, Hermione dropped the pants, lurched forward, and threw her arms around him.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>She gasped into his apron, rigid, clutching him. Slowly, he brought his arms around her, cradling her shoulders and the back of her head.</p><p>She clung tighter.</p><p>“Talk to me,” he breathed. He could feel the fabric of his Oxford wrinkling in her fists. His heart pounded, deep and heavy and fast in his chest.</p><p>She pulled back, and when she blinked up at him, her look was raw, and her eyes were full of tears. George sucked in a breath.</p><p>No.</p><p>“Hermione.” His throat closed. “I’m okay, truly,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze hardened. “No one would be okay after—”</p><p>A pop rang through the room.</p><p>An apparition, right through his wards.</p><p>George ripped his wand out, whirling. The motion sent a jolt of fire up his leg, and he stumbled, hitting the floor with a painful thud. A small, cloaked figure stood on the counter.</p><p>“Merlin’s beard, Winky!” he yelped. “You can’t just do that!”</p><p>“But Winky did,” Winky said. She leapt from the counter to the floor, glancing shrewdly at the pile of clothes, then at the both of them. Her eyes narrowed. “The Wheezy hasn’t been making her cry, has he?” Her tone was steel.</p><p>George groaned. “I didn’t do anything,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face.</p><p>“It’s fine, Winky,” Hermione said, but she sniffed.</p><p>Winky looked unconvinced.</p><p>Salazar’s pants, he was fumbling everything.</p><p>“Is-is anything wrong?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Winky nodded. “Yes, but first the Wheezy.” She stretched a finger towards George as she spoke, and suddenly, he began to rise by no actions of his own. He was weightless, suspended on his back in the air, pinwheeling his arms.</p><p>“Winky!” he cried, panicking. He had no control—none at all. Winky’s expression was neutral, and George found himself turning, his legs slowly moving under him, until she rested him gently against the floor in a stand.</p><p>“Oh,” he breathed.</p><p>Winky folded her arms, watching Hermione. “There are four elves at the Travers Mansion.”</p><p>The room quieted.</p><p>“The human is in Azkaban,” Winky continued. “But his elves have been bid to continue their work.” Her expression was unreadable, guarded.</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione said quickly. “We’ll go, then.” George nodded in agreement.</p><p>Winky’s stance relaxed. She looked between them.</p><p>“Can Wheezy open the stone like this?” Winky asked, staring at him.</p><p>“That’s mind magic, not physical combat,” George said. “I’ll manage.”</p><p>Winky nodded.</p><p>She apparated out with a sudden crack.</p><p>“She can cut through wards like butter,” George whispered, staring in shock at the place she’d stood. Only family should’ve been able to apparate in—close family, for that matter.</p><p>“You’re not going,” Hermione said quietly.</p><p>George stiffened. “Of course I’m going,” he said.</p><p>“Bill will have to manage—maybe he can teach me your part.” She began to pace, holding her temples.</p><p>“Bill doesn’t know my part,” George said. “He’s a Cursebreaker, not an Occlumens. I’ll have to go.”</p><p>“Look at the state of you, George!” Hermione cried. “Last time, it nearly killed you. You can barely walk!” Her pitch swung upwards as she flailed a hand at him.</p><p>He flinched and forced himself to lean evenly across his feet. His leg seized, but he tightened his jaw and bore through it. If the situation was anything like Auntie Muriel’s, he was the only one with the Occluding experience needed to defend the group long enough for Hermione to chisel.</p><p>“Respectfully,” George said lowly, tipping his chin down to meet her eyes with his own hard stare. “You can’t stop me.”</p><p>Hermione’s nostrils flared. “I think I can,” she said. “You would be a danger to the mission in your condition. You can cooperate and make peace with that, or you can be left out of the planning.”</p><p>George faltered.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>She turned on her heel and left.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>His clothes.</p><p>His clothes were all over the floor.</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut and flicked his wand.</p><p>The clothing rustled as it floated into the wardrobe. He didn’t look up. It was too sad to watch.</p><p>He wasn’t useless. He wasn’t broken—well, not that broken.</p><p>Besides, they were friends. Didn’t she trust him?</p><p>He wanted to help, but Hermione didn’t care to have him. Not like this, anyway.</p><p>#</p><p>Smoke singed George’s nostrils. The dark, bobbing hoods in the distance turned his stomach. Not here. There were so many of them.</p><p>George tripped through the forest, panting.</p><p>The hoods swarmed into funnels of black smoke, tearing towards a lone figure in the distance. No, no—</p><p>“Granger!” he shouted. They’d found her. She was Muggleborne, and they’d found her.</p><p>His foot caught on a tree root.</p><p>George cried out as he went down.</p><p>The world tipped.</p><p>George shoved to a stand, his ankle screaming as he ran. Branches whipped at his face. But he couldn’t stop.</p><p>“Granger!” he shouted.</p><p>As he moved, with each step, the bones in his leg snapped. First the ankle. Then the shin, cracking into bits. Then his knee collapsed, and he choked as his thigh shattered. He fell, just as he reached the girl in the clearing.</p><p>He’d meant to help, but now he was helpless.</p><p>He was dragging himself along the forest floor, reaching for her. Dirt and debris caught in his brown cardigan sleeves.</p><p>“Granger,” he choked.</p><p>Hermione turned where she stood, tangled curls and a ripped, tan jacket.</p><p>He tried to pull his wand out, gasping as he scrambled to face the incoming Death Eaters.</p><p>Hermione looked down, eyes flashing. “You’ll only get in the way,” she whispered. “Go back.”</p><p>Her words hit him like a bludger to the sternum. At the thought, he felt the bone crack, as though one actually had. His wand vanished from his hand, landing in a lone pile of snow. Suddenly, snow was everywhere.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>No.</p><p>The pain would start again. The cold fire.</p><p>He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He gasped, struggling to stay upright on his elbow.</p><p>“Granger, please—” he wheezed. “Help—”</p><p>Her brow furrowed, and she stopped casting. “They’re coming,” she said, frantic. “You’ve got to go back.”</p><p>Copper filled the back of his throat. “I-I can’t,” he choked. “I can’t go back. Can’t walk.” His breastbone splintered, breaking in two, and a hot, terrible wet slicked over his sides. He shook. “Please—please help me.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened in horror. She pointed her wand at his chest.</p><p>And the dark hoods descended.</p><p>No.</p><p>“Run, Hermione!” he gasped, trying to shove her away.</p><p>But she didn’t.</p><p>She stood over him, casting a shield to cover him.</p><p>But not her.</p><p>The hood at the front raised their wand.</p><p>
  <em>“Stringos Verbero.” </em>
</p><p>The curse hit Hermione—cords of cold fire, and she dropped, screaming.</p><p>#</p><p>January 10, 1999, 7:00 a.m.</p><p>George bolted upright, throat raw with his own yell.</p><p>His chest rose and fell in rapid heaves, and his soaked sheets clung to his skin. The burning fire ravaged his leg, and George wheezed.</p><p>It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened.</p><p>He repeated the mantra, over and over, until he could feel the texture of the blankets under his hands.</p><p>He tripped to the basket. Caste on as many stitches as would fit over the needles. When he ran out of the dark, blue yarn, he unraveled the whole thing. Started again.</p><p>#</p><p>January 10, 1999, 10 a.m.</p><p>“I mean, what am I supposed to do?” George asked, rubbing his hands over his face. Healer Marcus stared at him from across the table, half eaten piece of toast in hand.</p><p>“Have you considered talking with her about it?” Marcus prompted calmly. “Pass the orange juice.”</p><p>George sighed and hoisted the glass carafe across the table. It was odd, being there on a Sunday morning, but he’d woken from a nightmare, panicked, drenched, and in pain, and the feeling had only faded a marginal amount after hours of knitting. So, he’d called and asked, and Marcus hadn’t turned him away.</p><p>“Which part?” George asked.</p><p>“Maybe start with what happened the night you went missing?” Marcus suggested. “The rest of it seems to have spiraled out from there.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’d like to, but that’s kind of—” George trailed off.</p><p>“Kind of what, George?” Marcus asked. The juice splashed into a large tumbler. The healer lifted it, then sent it hovering over the table with a flick of his wand. It landed in front of George.</p><p>“Intimidating,” George said quietly. He looked into the glass. Marcus didn’t say anything for a moment as he filled a second cup for himself.</p><p>“Why is that?” Marcus asked softly.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Honestly, I’m not especially looking forward to reviewing what happened. It feels like I’m barely stumbling through everything myself, and every time I try to convince her that I’m alright, she looks cross—” he faltered. “Or scared, even, and I don’t know how to make it better.”</p><p>Marcus lifted his glass and paused. “Are you alright, though?” he asked.</p><p>“I think so, considering,” George said. He swallowed. “I guess I just don’t want to make her worry more, but I don’t want to lie to her.” He grimaced. “It’s a little overwhelming, and I don’t know how to approach it.”</p><p>Marcus nodded and took a sip from his drink. “There are a lot of routes a conversation can take,” he said, tone gentle. “I can see why that would be hard.”</p><p>George shrugged.</p><p>“Sometimes, we practice for conflict or fears that may not even happen,” Marcus said. “We like to brace for the worst, and in the process, we can isolate ourselves.”</p><p>George hesitated. “I don’t think she’s going to attack me or something, if that’s what you mean?”</p><p>Marcus smiled and leaned over to adjust the curtains covering the windows. A warm beam of sunlight spilled over the middle of the table. “That’s good,” he said. “But, it might be more productive to focus on what you hope for from the conversation.”</p><p>George exhaled. It was hard to envision. He wanted to explain what had happened. To know her side of things. But mostly, he wanted to know that she was okay. That she still saw him the same way.</p><p>But all of that was putting words in her mouth. He’d have to ask her and accept her answers, whatever they might be.</p><p>“George,” Healer Marcus said. “How have you been sleeping since the attack happened?”</p><p>George laughed ruefully. “Varies,” he said. He drained his orange juice, then shoved up, bracing himself on the table as he stood. Marcus’s gaze followed him, neutral and waiting. George sighed. “Yeah, okay, I know I’m probably more broken than I was last week, but I’d rather not get into it today.”</p><p>Marcus tilted his head, but he nodded. “If that’s what you’d like,” he said.</p><p>George gave him a tight smile. “We can talk about that on Tuesday?” he offered. A compromise.</p><p>Marcus nodded once more.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said, sighing. “Cheers for this, but I should head back. I’ve got some projects to finish.” George began to limp across the space, towards the floo in the sitting room.</p><p>“Wait,” Marcus said. He rose and hurriedly disappeared around the corner on the opposite end of the kitchen.</p><p>A minute or two passed. George reached out and held the wall above the rolltop desk near the floo, steadying himself.</p><p>Marcus returned, a long, wooden object in hand. He strode over, lifted George’s arm, and propped the thing underneath. “This is crutch,” he said. “Don’t get much use for them in the Wizarding community, except in the occasional, odd case like this, but—” he took George’s left hand and brought it to a handle in the middle. “Hold here—that’s it—” Marcus muttered. “Should help you keep weight off of it.”</p><p>George blinked. Sometimes he forgot that Healer Marcus did more than mind work.</p><p>Marcus showed him how to stand with it, how to move it, then walked with him to the floo.</p><p>“Bring it back whenever you’re through with it,” Healer Marcus said. “Take as long you need.”</p><p>“Thank you,” George said softly.</p><p>Marcus laid a hand on George’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it, Mate. I’d be gutted if you fell and died,” he said. “Would hate to miss out on all those Galleons you bring in.”</p><p>George tipped his head back and laughed.</p><p>Marcus smiled, and George began to make his way into the floo.</p><p>“George?” Marcus asked as he handed him a fistful of powder.</p><p>“Yeah?” George replied, dust suspended over the hearth in his fist.</p><p>“It’s okay to be unsteady,” Marcus said. “Be patient with yourself, and try not to overthink things. Sometimes, we need a little extra care.” He glanced at the crutch. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”</p><p>George stared hard at Healer Marcus.</p><p>Tried to believe him.</p><p>George dropped the powder, and the floo knocked him off balance.</p><p>#</p><p>January 11, 1999</p><p>He fought with himself on it all day. While he rang up customers, each till chime struck like a pendulum swing.</p><p>To admit it, or not.</p><p>To explain how he’d broken to bits, or to move on. Convince himself and her that it hadn’t been that bad and quell her fears, or crack it all open like an egg.</p><p>He didn’t even know if she wanted to talk to him after the fight they’d had.</p><p>Outside, the street fell into dusk, then darkness as the clock on the wall ticked closer to six.</p><p>George hunched over the counter, breathing hard.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Oh, bugger.</p><p>He wanted the scarf back.</p><p>The Chamomile.</p><p>The feeling cared for.</p><p>His arms quaked against the countertop.</p><p>Why was he so afraid?</p><p>The store creaked as the building settled in the rapidly dropping temperatures. George used the muggle stick to maneuver out onto the street, locking the door behind him.</p><p>He knew what he had to do.</p><p>It was hard to find dry purchase for the crutch to land on, but he managed it, making it slowly up the cobblestone street.</p><p>He got a few odd looks from other pedestrians, but he brushed them off.</p><p>Onward.</p><p>Tomes and Scrolls came into view. The stairs hugging the building’s side were draped in a fresh layer of unmarked snow, and the white glistened under the streetlamp’s flicker.</p><p>George took a deep breath.</p><p>And he began to climb. Propping the crutch up one stair, then the next. Hopping, almost. Pulling himself up, one precarious step at a time. At one point, he almost slipped and tumbled, but he caught the railing in time.</p><p>He reached the top, flicked his wand, and cleared a dry spot.</p><p>Then, he sat down. Pulled the beat-up paperback out of his pocket, and began to read.</p><p>He would wait.</p><p>George poured over the book, scrawling notes into a passage where Jo threw a snowball at Laurie’s window—a neighbor boy she had danced with at a party.</p><p>He quirked his brows at the description of the way the bloke’s face lit up. He was starting to think Laurie might fancy Jo a bit. He read on. Apparently, Laurie was sick. Not with Dragon Pox or Spattergroit, but a common cold. That was odd. It would be rubbish to get laid up by a cold for a week.</p><p>In the passage, Jo volunteered to come up and read to Laurie, and George’s hand faltered as he remembered the way Hermione had stayed with him for days when he was ill.</p><p>He pressed his quill to the margin.</p><p><em>“That’s nice of her,”</em> he wrote. <em>“Reminds me of someone I know.”</em></p><p>Then, he sank back into the story, smiling faintly at the way Jo swept through Laurie’s room, setting it to right.</p><p>#</p><p>Hours passed, and the foot traffic on High Street ebbed to the occasional straggler, but Hermione still hadn’t come home.</p><p>He was terribly cold. He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, palming the book there with his mitten-clad hand.</p><p>At least he still had those.</p><p>The moon hung high overhead, and the wind ripped stray flakes from the snowdrifts, spinning them through the air. George tucked his chin deeper into his coat collar.</p><p>The soft echo of footsteps crunching through stale snow. George started and lifted his head.</p><p>Hermione rounded the side of the building, walking slowly as she read over a parchment. The fabric of her bag strained under its load, and she heaved the strap higher on her shoulder as she approached the stairs.</p><p>George’s heart pounded.</p><p>Hermione dragged a bare, red hand over her face, sniffing. Then, she lifted her gaze. She went still as it rested on him.</p><p>“George,” she said, measured and careful. “Why are you here?”</p><p>George’s breath sped.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, this was hard.</p><p>He flexed his hands, taking hold of the crutch. “Um—”</p><p>Hermione climbed the stairs, brow furrowed. Her expression was guarded.</p><p>“I-I—”</p><p>Had he lost the ability to speak?</p><p>He was unpracticed when it came to talking first.</p><p>“You were right,” he said, suddenly. Hermione tilted her face. George tilted his head back against the railing, speaking hoarsely. “I’m not okay.”</p><p>White flag, snapping in the air.</p><p>The snow drifted over them. Granger’s eyes rounded.</p><p>“I know, George,” she whispered. George swallowed, watching her climb the stairs. She extended her hand, and he took it. She pulled him to his feet, then handed him the crutch. Wordlessly, she unlocked the door and held it open.</p><p>Her bag thunked on the floor, parchment fluttering on top. She pointed to the shoe tray, and he kicked his boots off, wobbling, and stuck his mittens in his jacket pockets. He had to brace a hand on the wall while removing his coat, and she took it and hung it on the hook beside the one holding the purple scarf and her own coat.</p><p>“I’m freezing,” she said, blowing on her hands. “Could you make some tea or maybe light the fire while I change?” She didn’t wait for a reply, padding softly down the hall to her bedroom, scarf still draped on her shoulders.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>He eased down the corridor. A flick of his wand brought the hearth into shape on his way to the kitchen. His face prickled from the temperature change.</p><p>His hands shook a bit as he put the kettle on, but it wasn’t from the cold.</p><p>He crossed to the cabinets to retrieve the cups.</p><p>On the backsplash above the counter, a new set of hooks held a few mugs.</p><p>There was a new purple one, there.</p><p>A faded “G” printed on the front.</p><p>George stared at the mug.</p><p>He stared at it until tears pricked at his eyes.</p><p>The kettle whistled, and rapid footsteps echoed down the hall. “Is it ready?” Hermione called.</p><p>George swallowed back the lump in his throat and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. She swept into the kitchen, flicking the burner off.</p><p>“Chamomile?” Granger asked, tone casual as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Her arm brushed his as she plucked up the purple mug and a plain, grey one beside it.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said hoarsely. Hermione’s hand grazed his shoulders, like she knew.</p><p>“Why don’t you go sit, and I’ll bring it over?” she suggested. George sucked in a breath.</p><p>“Okay,” he said.</p><p>He waited on the sofa, face burning as he stared at his hands in his lap. Hermione tucked the mug onto the side table to his left. Then she sat on the opposite end, looping her arms around her knees and holding her own tea between two hunter-green, knit sleeves that draped around her fingertips.</p><p>George raised his gaze.</p><p>She was wearing his old jumper over a pair of pajama bottoms.</p><p>He never wanted it back. It was hers, now.</p><p>“So,” she said quietly.</p><p>George bit his lips together. “Yeah,” he said.</p><p>The fire popped.</p><p>“Were you waiting for long?” she asked.</p><p>George shrugged. “I read,” he said.</p><p>“I’m terribly sorry—we had student teaching training,” she said.</p><p>“S’fine,” George said.</p><p>“Okay,” Hermione whispered. She paused. “George?” Her gaze was urgent. Searching. A little bit raw. Her curls gleamed in the firelight.</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut, floundering.</p><p>“I was hoping we could chat about what happened with Flint and them,” he said. “If that’s alright.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lip and nodded.</p><p>“I-I can go first,” he said. And then, before he lost his nerve, he rushed into it.</p><p>Explained the way he’d seen Flint on her staircase, how he’d thrown him off, the sudden jolt of apparition.</p><p>Hermione stared at her tea.</p><p>“When got there, I-I couldn’t get away,” he whispered. “You said you saw blood, um—” He buried his face in his hands. “It was mine, but that wasn’t the worst part—”</p><p>“I know, George,” she said suddenly.</p><p>“Please, um—please let me finish,” he said, wincing. If he didn’t get it out now, it would be twice as difficult later. Hermione quieted. “Sorry,” He said, blinking. “They used this particularly nasty curse on me—Stringos Verbero. Something the Death Eaters concocted during the war.”</p><p>“George,” Hermione whispered, sounding as though she might cry.</p><p>George grimaced. This is what he’d been afraid of.</p><p>“It’d happened to me before,” he said, swallowing. “At the Ministry.”</p><p>He heard a sharp intake of breath, but he pressed forward.</p><p>“They kept at it for quite some time,” he said. He rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose, then returned the hand to his lap. “Left me there when they were through. I think they thought I was half-dead because they didn’t post a guard.” He exhaled in a whoosh. “Lucky they didn’t. I was able to summon my wand and apparate, and um—I guess you know the rest.”</p><p>He scrubbed his hands through his hair, keeping his eyes trained on his legs. “I’ve had some nightmares about it, and sometimes it’ll randomly come to mind, but the mental aspect doesn’t feel as bad this time, actually, compared to the first time it happened.” He tilted his head. “I think it’s because this time feels less lonely in the aftermath.”</p><p>Finally, he lifted his head.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes were full of tears. “I know,” she said. “Not what happened at the Ministry, but what happened in the-the forest. I didn’t know how to tell you, but I knew.”</p><p>“I don't understand,” George said. The look on her face—something was wrong. Anxiety pressed under his sternum, cold.</p><p>“We saw what happened in the Pensieve,” she whispered. </p><p>George froze. “How do you mean?” he asked.</p><p>Surely, he was mistaken.</p><p>Hermione laid her mug on the coffee table. “We’d been looking for you for hours and hours,” she said. “We found the camp early on—the scarf, the tents, the-the blood,” she whispered. “We set some wards and kept looking.”</p><p>George waited, rigid and silent at the look on her face.</p><p>“Later that night, the wards went off,” she said quietly, twisting her hands. “And we found one of the men—no one any of us knew. Harry caught him, and when he brought him back to Hogsmeade, the man made a bargain to lighten any charges he might face.”</p><p>“Bargain?” George asked quietly.</p><p>“Memories,” Hermione said, finally meeting his eyes. “Of what had happened that day.”</p><p>His insides snagged.</p><p>“Fred, Harry, your dad, and I watched them, hoping to sort out where we could find you,” she said.</p><p>She’d seen.</p><p>George’s chest went tight and cold.</p><p>No.</p><p> He tore his gaze away, fixing his eyes on his hands.</p><p>“How much?” he asked.</p><p>“All of it,” she said. “From when they took you to when, um, when they left you there.”</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut.</p><p>No.</p><p>His stomach turned.</p><p>“All of it?” he whispered, voice going ragged.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pressing a hand to her mouth and nodding.</p><p>She’d watched them rip the scarf off of him. Watched Flint beat him. Heard him, as the curse hit and he fell to bits. Through the whole thing.</p><p>It felt like his organs had been ripped out and laid on the floor for everyone to see.</p><p>He’d—he’d begged. Or tried to.</p><p>She’d heard him try to beg.</p><p>He couldn’t speak. He’d rather go through the whole thing all over again than have her witness it.</p><p>No wonder she’d been looking at him oddly.</p><p>He was shards in the snow.</p><p>The sofa squeaked, but George didn’t register it as he held his face in his hands.</p><p>A pitter patter echoed across the floor. Crookshanks brushed against his ankles.</p><p>“Here,” Hermione whispered. George blinked.</p><p>She held an ice cream carton out with a spoon. “Do you know how many times I’ve hit rock bottom in front of you?” she said softly.</p><p>George ducked his head at the echo of his own words.</p><p>“Take it,” Hermione said, nudging the carton into his arm.</p><p>George pulled it from her hands. “That’s very clever, but I’m a bit gutted just now,” he said.</p><p>“Talk to me,” she said.</p><p>George shrugged. “Rather wish you hadn’t seen it,” he said. He pried the lid off the top. “Heard it, for that matter.”</p><p>“And I rather wish it hadn’t happened to you at all,” Hermione said firmly.</p><p>George tipped his head to the side and bugged his eyes out before digging the spoon in. “Now there’s an idea,” he said, sarcasm licking through the words.</p><p>The ice cream was the same brilliant, chocolate flavor she’d had the other day. He shoveled another scoop in and shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this pathetic.” He spoke with his mouth full.</p><p>“Stop it,” Hermione said. George glanced up at her. Her eyes flashed. “You are not pathetic. You were—you were brave.”</p><p>George shot her an incredulous look. “Right,” he drawled. “And that’s why you’ve been looking at me like I might blow away on the wind all week.”</p><p>“Anyone can blow away on the wind,” Hermione said quietly. “That’s not weakness—that’s life. And—and I was only looking at you like that because I care.” She nicked the carton and spoon from him, speaking more crisply. “Additionally, the only reason they caught you is because you were trying to protect me. So come off it.”</p><p>She took a heaping bite, then handed it back.</p><p>They passed it back and forth for a few minutes, watching each other. The uncharted territory was shaky under him.</p><p>“Still wish you hadn’t seen,” he said finally.</p><p>“That’s fair. I’m sorry,” she whispered.</p><p>He’d lost his footing. Didn’t know how to retrieve it. Forward was the only direction.</p><p>“I feel like you’re going to look at me differently, now.” George’s voice went strained as he finally voiced the fear.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Hermione said. “The only difference is a renewed awareness of how important you are to me and everyone else.” She leaned in, looking at him intently. “And that’s not really a difference, honestly. It’s just a reminder. Like, when you accidentally lose a book, and then find it and get more excited to re-read it.”</p><p>George faltered. “You want to read me?”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “You know what I mean,” she said. “I’m grateful that you here. Very grateful.” She smiled. “But apart from that—no. You’re still the same George.”</p><p>George exhaled heavily, and the tightness in his ribs eased away. Little shards, rising from the ground, coming back together. Making something new.</p><p>“Honestly, if anything, um—” Hermione hesitated. “It’s myself that I’m reassessing at present. I-I didn’t anticipate the way I handled everything.”</p><p>George paused. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, lifting his brows and scooping out another bite.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth thinned. “I think I may have broken some laws,” she said.</p><p>George’s spoon halted over the carton. “What happened?”</p><p>She had a cold, distant look in her eyes. “I was so—so livid, um—”</p><p>
  <em>“She was a storm.”</em>
</p><p>George hesitated, concern filtering through his chest.</p><p>“Luna and Winky helped us track them down,” Granger said. “One by one.” She tightened her grip on her knees. “Until we found Flint with the last two, all at once.”</p><p>Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t stop,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t. Harry had to yank my foot from Flint’s neck.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“And Fred’s Expelliarmus took my wand,” she said. “So, I used my hands instead.”</p><p>“For what?” George asked faintly.</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin. “To keep casting the lightning.”</p><p>Godric’s Hollow.</p><p>George’s mind went blank, shock turning the space to an empty cavern.</p><p>Hermione glanced to the side and swallowed. “After the others got me to, um, calm down, Harry tried to question them, but they wouldn’t tell us where you’d gone. We kept searching for hours, until Fred and Angelina insisted on taking me back to the flat, and we found you.”</p><p>George rubbed a hand over his mouth, watching her.</p><p>“And to think I was here the whole time,” he said quietly.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Yes, I was a bit cross about that,” she said flatly. “And the almost dying bit. That was also terribly insensitive of you.” She pinned him with a dry smile.</p><p>“Why didn’t I set your wards off?” George asked. “I figured I would at least send up a ping.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged and pulled the carton from his lap. “They’re keyed for family,” she said.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He ought to have thought about that. Wasn’t even surprising, really, at this point. But still. A warm, wonderful feeling settled in his chest.</p><p>“You caste me in as family?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione lifted the spoon, confusion flickering over her face. “Obviously—don’t you have me as family as well?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “I did it back when we connected the floos,” she said.</p><p>That long ago?</p><p>Hermione took another bite, suddenly focused on the spoon.</p><p>“Right, um—” George cleared his throat. “Are <em>you</em> okay?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Hermione said softly. “But I’m not very keen on seeing you leap into danger any time soon.” She swallowed and dropped the spoon into the carton. “I wanted to talk to you about it, but you didn’t seem ready, and then you kept insisting you were fine, and-and I didn’t mean to snap at you like I did.” As she spoke, the words had begun to tumble out, faster and faster until she reached the end of it with a wince.</p><p>“Forgiven, and I'm sorry too,” George said. He thought for a moment, hesitating. “Look—it’s-it’s your mission, and you get to decide who goes along. I do want to help, but if you don’t think it’s safe with me like this, then we can sort something else out.”</p><p>Hermione paused. “I just—” She twisted her fingers. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She propped her chin in her hand, staring at the wall. “But at the same time, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out who would go instead, and I can’t think of anyone accessible who has the experience you do that I would trust with this.”</p><p>“I see,” George said. He took a deep breath. “We’ll figure it out.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>The fire popped, and both of them were silent for a while.</p><p>Until, finally, Hermione spoke again. “George?” she asked.</p><p>“Yeah?” he replied.</p><p>“I’m very glad you told me what you did,” she said.</p><p>George looked at her. “Me too, actually.”</p><p>Suddenly, she stood and paced over to the linen closet in the hall. “Knit or quilt, Weasley?” she called.</p><p>“Surprise me,” he said. He reached behind him and picked up his tea. Hermione bounded back over, blankets in tow. She stooped over him, draping a quilt around him.</p><p>“Is—is that the only thing you came over for, then?” she asked, watching the quilt’s edge as she tucked it into place with a trained focus. “Is there anything else you need?” Sparks rushed up his arms.</p><p> </p><p>He was caught between her hands, which were braced against the sofa on either side of his shoulders. He floundered.</p><p>There was something else.</p><p>He wanted the stitchwork. The Chamomile. The sound of her voice. The settling presence.</p><p>He was a Gryffindor, but asking for help was terrifying.</p><p>George swallowed. “Well, I wanted to talk, but I also, um—”</p><p>Oh, Merlin.</p><p>“Also what?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George took one, faltering step towards an infinity that he had yet to comprehend or acknowledge.</p><p>If Hermione Jean wanted to care, George wouldn’t stop her.</p><p>“I was hoping you might take care of me a bit,” he whispered. No apology. No overthinking. No hedging.</p><p>The bravest thing George Fabian Weasley had ever spoken.</p><p>His face burned.</p><p>But Hermione smiled, and her eyes lit. “How?” she asked.</p><p>George opened his mouth. Closed it. He shrugged. “Honestly, any distraction would be helpful,” he said hoarsely. “Just something normal.”</p><p>Hermione Jean nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Wait here.” She stepped away, walking into the hall, only to return after a few moments with her bag. George watched as she slid onto the cushion on his right.</p><p>At his side.</p><p>All those open seats, and she’d sat next to him.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“I have the most to catch up on for Professor Vector, so I think I’ll start with Arithmancy first.” She’d slipped easily into the thoughtful, distracted tone that she often used while working, and George smiled. Hermione flicked her wand, and a thick book sailed from the top of the bag. She shifted to get comfortable, and suddenly, she leaned back into his arm, curling her feet on the farthest cushion.</p><p>The trail of sparks rushed up his shoulder, then over his middle, until it found his leg, stifling the dull throb. Hermione’s head tilted back, and George smelled Chamomile as she adjusted the book to rest against the blanket on her bent legs.</p><p>The world’s turning slowed with his breath. His face tipped to the side as he looked down over Hermione’s curls.</p><p>“I bet you’d have some thoughts on this reading,” she said, flipping pages.</p><p>“Why’s that, Granger?” he managed, pulling his chin back from where it had almost come to rest atop her head.</p><p>“It’s on proper usage of Maths in spell adaptation,” she said. She flicked her wand again, and her journal floated from her bag, along with her quill. “And you have loads of experience with that.”</p><p>George bobbed his head, then let it fall against the sofa back. “We’ve done a bit,” he said faintly.</p><p>The thick, golden glaze was back, trying to carry him off to sleep. But he held himself in check as Hermione chattered softly about the reading, reciting some parts aloud and making notes. All the while, George tried his best to listen, fighting through the haze to make short remarks and nod in response to her commentary.</p><p>George got the Chamomile. The sound of her voice. The settling presence.</p><p>But not the scarf. She didn’t seem ready to give it back, yet. He would wait.</p><p>After a time, Hermione paused. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked.</p><p>“Yes, actually,” George said. “You make a good distraction.” He took a slow breath, mumbling the words over the top of her head. “Um—Thanks.”</p><p>Amusement lit her otherwise dry reply as she scrawled another bullet point into her notes. “Do you tell all the girls they’re diverting?”</p><p>The groggy feeling suddenly vanished, and George’s eyes widened at the playful jab.</p><p>Alright, then. Two could play that game.</p><p>“Why? Is that the sort of thing a bird likes to hear?” he asked. Hermione snorted. “What sort of line would that be?” George raised his brows, letting mischievous impulse take the reins. He ducked lower and whispered close to her ear. “You’re very distracting. Most distracting woman I’ve ever met. Now go on a date with me.”</p><p>Hermione cracked up, flushing with laughter as she reached behind her to shove his face back. George grinned.</p><p>“That’s—that’s ghastly,” she managed once she’d calmed. The book had slipped sideways on her lap, and Granger straightened it.</p><p>“Innit?” George asked, nudging his arm into her spine. “Honestly, woman. I shudder to think of how you imagine my flirting to be.”</p><p>As the words left his mouth, he froze. What had he just said? Heat rushed up his neck.</p><p>Good Godric. He’d—he’d tripped right into it.</p><p>But she didn’t seem phased.</p><p>“Oh, yes,” Hermione said, tone wry. “Now there’s something I’ve given a terrible amount of thought.” She breathed out another laugh. “Git.”</p><p>Then, she turned the page, beginning to read aloud from another passage. Something about the dangers of Spellcrafting at a student level, but George couldn’t focus.</p><p>An image of him, lifting his arm and Hermione settling back into the crook of his shoulder snagged at his mind. The want to hold her hit him hard, right under the ribs where it always did. Just then, she turned her face, and blinked up at him. George swallowed. She looked so comfortable and lovely, and—</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked, staring at him expectantly.</p><p>He tore himself from the thought.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows, and he blinked as he realized she was waiting for a reply. What had she said?</p><p>“Pardon?” he asked, faltering. “I-I didn’t catch that last bit—” He reached, groping for a familiar joke to smooth it over. “Um—Must've been listening with the bad ear.”</p><p>Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes. But then she paused, and her hand came up, near his face.</p><p>“Did you actually sustain damage to your inner ear when it happened?” she asked quietly, and concern laced her tone. Her fingers were warm, ghosting just out of reach of his scar.</p><p>George opened his mouth to reply, but he blanked when Hermione’s thumb brushed over his ear, making light contact as she studied it.</p><p>A pleasant shiver flitted up his spine.</p><p>George melted like Fever Fudge left on a windowsill.</p><p>She was close. Eyes working over him. A little closer, and—</p><p>George choked back the rogue impulse to kiss her.</p><p>“No, Granger,” George said, and his voice sounded a little wobbly. “Only joking.”</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said. Her hand dropped, and she laughed softly. “Honestly,” she muttered, turning back to her book. “You’re ridiculous.”</p><p>George blinked at the hearth.</p><p>His legs had turned to jelly.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Harmony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sing loud.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ATTN: LUMOS will be going on break this week. You can expect to see LUMOS return on 02/22. &lt;3 This is for two reasons: <br/>1. I overdid it a touch this last week and as of this note edit (on Thursday), I'm just now starting to feel like a human being again. This is completely on me. I had so much fun writing "Harmony" that I didn't go to bed for a couple of days. Thank you for caring enough to encourage me to take any time that I need last week. Your replies were so incredibly kind, and I'm sending all of my love. </p><p>2. I want to make sure that this next chunk of the story receives the attention and care that it deserves. <br/>----<br/> (I'll also be responding to comments on last week's chapter a bit late this week, as I'm going to sleep now. &lt;3 I hope that's okay!)</p><p>There are probably typos in this. I've been editing for some time, and I know I've certainly missed some. I apologize. My brain is done for the night, though. &lt;3 This is one of those chapters that I loved writing, but I'll probably return to polish. Thank you so much for your patience in that matter. &lt;3 &lt;3 </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters.</p><p>This is a double-feature. &lt;3</p><p>Thank you so much for reading and for all the kindness! &lt;3 I hope you all have a lovely week.</p><p>Playlist:<br/>-"Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses (May 3, 2003, 10 a.m./ you'll know).<br/>-"Fernando" by ABBA (May 3, 2003, 10 a.m./you'll know).<br/>-"One More Light" by Linkin Park (May 3, 2003, 10 p.m.--when you see Arthur.)<br/>-"Wild" by John Legend (May 3, 2003, 10 p.m.--when the convertible comes up. This song also works for the writing on the wall.)<br/>-"Anything Could Happen" by Ellie Goulding (May 4, 2003, 9:05 a.m.--when you see the envelop on the table)<br/>-"Hey Jude" by The Beatles (May 4, 9:13 a.m./you'll know)<br/>-"Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da" by The Beatles (May 4, 9:13 a.m./you'll know)</p><p>Grab your snack (I'm recommending toast this week), your drink (This is a Hot Cocoa week), and maybe, just maybe, a purple quilt. If you have one. If not, any warm blanket will suffice. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>LUMOS</h2>
<h2>Chapter Thirty-Three: “Harmony”</h2><p>May 3, 2003, 10 a.m.</p><p>“If we wait patiently for Auntie Mione to wake up, and then we ask very nicely, I bet she’ll make us Hot Cocoa.” George’s whisper hummed over her head, and Hermione craned her neck, blinking. She’d fallen asleep on the floor, wand pressed under her face. She inhaled, then turned onto her back.</p><p>As she moved, she caught a glimpse of her surroundings.</p><p>Fred laid on the sofa across the room. Angelo slumbered on his chest, wiry, dark reddish curls flattened under his father’s left hand. Fred twisted his wand over his wristwatch, a frown on his face. There was thud, and Teddy’s face peeked around the coffee table, just before a pair of denims that stood behind it.</p><p>The toddler pounced.</p><p>“Are you awake?” he shouted, landing squarely on Hermione’s stomach. She sputtered and lurched upright.</p><p>Angelo slept right through it.</p><p>“Careful, Teddy—” George said, darting forward. With a gentle swoop, he hoisted Teddy to the side and rested him on his feet. The little boy frowned before looking back at Hermione.</p><p>“Are you awake?” Teddy said again, this time in a loud whisper. Hermione breathed out a laugh, blinking to clear her vision.</p><p>“Easy there, Bludger,” George whispered. He held a placating hand out. “Why don’t you run to the kitchen? We’ll meet you there in a bit.” Teddy hesitated, but the rapid patter of his footsteps reverberated across the floor.</p><p>Hermione rubbed a hand over her face, trying to clear the residual, sleepy fog. She peeked upwards. George’s face mirrored the way she felt—worn. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual. They’d gotten precious little sleep after transporting Molly to Mungo’s the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had yet to return. Hermione had crashed on the floor. She wasn’t sure where—or if—George had slept.</p><p>George crouched at her side in a set of worn jeans and the most atrocious navy jumper she’d ever seen. The article was frayed, ill-fitting, and lopsided. The shoulder seam appeared to be off—extended by several, extra inches, making the whole side of the article drape oddly. As she watched, he shoved up the sleeve on his right arm and lifted a steaming mug from the low table.</p><p>“Coffee?” he mouthed, holding it out.</p><p>She could kiss him.</p><p>“Merlin, yes,” she said. George’s eyes crinkled.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The breath seemed to have left her lungs.</p><p>Girded by a momentary impulse, she reached out—not for the coffee, but for a handful of the ridiculous jumper, gathering the fabric right over his chest in her left hand. In a rapid motion, she tugged him in and kissed him—right on the mouth.</p><p>George’s brows shot up as she pulled him in, and he made a short, pleasant “mmf,” sound.</p><p>His nose pressed against her cheek, and the coffee wavered in the air, still extended.</p><p>And then it was over, contact broken.</p><p>Inexplicably, a familiar set of notes rang through her mind—the guitar riff at the start of an old song. One she used to jump around to in her bedroom near the corner of Heathgate and Meadway, while waiting on her parents to return from Granger &amp; Granger Dentistry after school. It’d been years since she thought of it, and yet, “Sweet Child O’ Mine” had taken up residence in her head, for no reason at all.</p><p>But now, the melody seemed to chime deeper, mirroring the strobe of her magic as she gripped his navy jumper. The kiss, as quick as it had been, sent her magic singing—dancing through her in great, warm surges that echoed the beat of her heart.</p><p>She sputtered out a short, surprised laugh at the sensation and lifted a hand to her mouth. And then George was laughing with her, quietly and under his breath, but laughing as he puzzled over her with a bewildered sort of happiness.</p><p>His eyes sparked as they traced her features, then he breathed out in a whoosh and bit his lips together, barely containing his grin.</p><p>“Uncle George,” Teddy called from the next room, sounding quite impatient. Hermione struggled to quell her laughter and turned to look. Teddy’s face appeared from behind the dining room’s threshold. The toddler’s hair was black today, and wildly messy. “Aren’t we going to make Hot Cocoa?” he asked.</p><p>“Absolutely,” she said. She took the coffee from George, and their palms sparked as he helped her to her feet. She downed a sizeable gulp, then rested it back on the table. George’s old pajama set was a bit big on her, but it had certainly been better than sleeping in her ragged gown from the night before. “Let’s see what we can dig up in the pantry, okay?”</p><p>Teddy grinned and nodded, racing over and taking George’s hand to drag him along faster. Hermione smiled and started after them, but Fred’s voice stopped her.</p><p>“Granger,” he whispered. Hermione turned. Fred looked up from his wristwatch, pointing his wand hand at her as his face lit with a tired but mischievous smirk. “Very nice,” he drawled softly, holding a hand over Angelo’s ear to keep him from waking. “If you want full marks, though, you’ll—” Suddenly, a splash of yellow sparks hit Fred’s mouth, and he flinched, voice cutting out.</p><p>Hermione turned. George stood in the threshold to the dining area with a neutral look on his face, lowering his wand. “—not listen to a word that git says,” he said calmly, despite Teddy’s yanking on his other wrist.</p><p>“Langlock? Really?” Fred muttered as he wiped the spell away with his own wand.</p><p>“Mind your own, Freddie,” George said, but his voice was amiable. He tucked his wand behind his ear and extended his free palm to Hermione. “I believe we have some breakfast to make?” he asked softly.</p><p>Hermione grinned and strode over, taking his hand in hers. George’s thumb stroked over her knuckles. He still looked knackered, but there was a bit more spring in his step as he led her into the dining area. They passed the table, and Harry lifted his head, giving them a small smile.</p><p>He sat there with Ron and Bill. As she approached, a Muffliato tingled in her ears, and suddenly the conversation came to life.</p><p>“He was holding another press conference when I left the Ministry earlier,” Harry said, staring hard at the parchments spread over the workspace. “Shacklebolt said he’s had control of the Chamber for quite some time. This only makes it official.”</p><p>“Yeah, well Kingsley’s still Minister, and this sod’s not taking any of our aurors for his task force,” Ron said. “That’s for sure. Almost everyone around the office hates him, and—”</p><p>Ron’s reply cut out into buzzing as Hermione passed through the Muffliato barrier once more. She sighed, trying to force the stress from her with the air. With the exhale, she glanced down. Teddy watched the table from George’s opposite side. A worried frown rumpled his round, little face.</p><p>Rats.</p><p>Hermione pasted a smile on and squeezed George’s hand before releasing it. The sparks faded. </p><p>“I think it’s chocolate time?” Hermione whispered conspiratorially, stretching her arms out to Teddy in question. Teddy brightened and took hold of her. He grinned as she hoisted him onto her hip.</p><p>“Yes please!” he said, looping both hands around her shoulders. They entered the pantry, and Teddy bounced excitedly. The small space smelled of wood and spices—warmly lit and every jar labelled.</p><p>Molly.</p><p>Hermione forced her expression to remain neutral.</p><p>“Alright, I’ll need your help,” Hermione said, gazing over the shelving. “Do you see any Cocoa Powder?” Teddy’s eyes narrowed in focus as he looked around. George leaned in the doorway, watching them.</p><p>Hermione swayed back and forth, humming as she peered over the jars and cans. Surely, there was Cocoa Powder somewhere. The Weasleys stockpiled sweets like squirrels hoarding acorns.</p><p>To her surprise, as she reached the chorus, Teddy brightened, and chimed out the words. “<em>There was something in the air that night—</em>” he cried. Hermione laughed, delighted.</p><p>“<em>The stars were bright</em>,” she sang, poking the boy’s cheek with her nose.</p><p>“<em>Fernando</em>,” Teddy shouted, far off pitch. What he lacked in tune, he made up for in enthusiasm. They kept going, searching through the shelves. She handled the main lyrics, and Teddy shouted the Fernandos with gusto.</p><p><em>“If I had to do the same again, I would my friend—”</em> Hermione sang softly.</p><p><em>“Fernando!”</em> Teddy shouted.</p><p>“Oh—There,” she said suddenly, pointing at the middle shelf. “Could you get that for me?”</p><p>Teddy nicked it, then clutched the box to his chest. Hermione kept humming the song. George stepped up to her side, reaching over her head for the bag of sugar. She smiled at him.</p><p>He held the sugar, throat bobbing as he stared at her like he’d seen a ghost.</p><p>He needed sleep.</p><p>“Thanks,” she said softly.</p><p>“Haven’t heard that one in a while,” George murmured.</p><p>“It’s our special song,” Teddy said, scrambling from Hermione’s arms.</p><p>George bent down, hands on his knees. “I know, Mate,” he said, tone brightening. “But I don’t think you shouted it loudly enough. There are still a few birds in the thicket that haven’t been frightened off yet, and maybe—”</p><p>Teddy laughed and ran past him, holding the Cocoa box to his chest.</p><p>Hermione watched as Teddy approached Harry, who took the box, pried open the seal, and passed it back. Teddy returned, carton held carefully in two, sticky hands.</p><p>“Excellent,” Hermione said. “Why don’t you go sit at the table, and I’ll bring it to you." Teddy nodded, heading for Harry.</p><p>Harry’s gaze flicked to him with a look of concern. He held up a hand, and Bill stopped short. Hermione bit her lips together, watching as Harry lifted Teddy up. The two rounded the table, and Harry stuck him in a seat near the end opposite end, where the surface was mostly cleared. He kissed Teddy’s forehead and ruffled a hand through the boy’s black, messy hair, but when Teddy looked away, Harry’s smile faded—replaced with a rawness.</p><p>“No, Daddy, sit with me,” Teddy started, brow furrowing as Harry made to return to the other side.</p><p>Harry crouched. “I can sit with you in a few minutes. While you wait, you can color or read. Which would you like?”</p><p>Teddy frowned.</p><p>“I vote drawing?” George called. “Auntie Mione hasn’t had anything new to put on her desk in quite some time.”</p><p>“Teddy, do you draw?” Hermione asked, leaning over the counter.</p><p>Teddy’s face lit up, and he nodded. Harry stood, shooting her a grateful look.</p><p>“I’m very good at it,” Teddy said. “I-I can even do people.”</p><p>The bureau drawer scraped open. Harry withdrew a wooden box, heaping with chubby, wax colors. As he rested it before his son, his wand flicked, adjusting the perimeter of the Muffliato to doubtlessly exclude Teddy’s end of the table.</p><p>“Any word from my parents?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“They’re still spending time with new friends, but, um, if all goes well, the volunteers will be leaving later tomorrow night,” George said. “Harry’s going to keep some eyes on the area, though.” Hermione bit her lip. She couldn’t expect the team to remain there indefinitely, but it seemed rather soon for them to depart.</p><p>What if the people who sent the ice were only biding their time? And her parents—not a lick of magic to fend them off.</p><p>She made her hands busy to distract from the cold press of anxiety under her sternum.</p><p>“Hermione,” George’s voice was soft. “We can check in on them, or maybe stay there, if you’d like.”</p><p>She nodded briskly. “It’ll be a bit crowded tonight, but maybe tomorrow—just until things feel a bit more settled?” she asked. George nodded. “I know there were no other incidents, but—”</p><p>She halted mid-sentence. Teddy was watching, crayon paused in the air.</p><p>Better switch tacks.</p><p>“How’s your Mum?” Hermione asked, turning to George.</p><p>He gave her a bright smile. “Last I heard, still napping at Mungo’s,” he said in a casual, lilting tone, but when he turned his back to the dining area to face on the stove, George’s pretense faded.</p><p>She could see the hours they’d spent the night before, casting. The echo of Arthur’s grief. The weight of carrying his Mum through the floo with the others. The exhausted stoop of his shoulders—as though he were still holding the load, even though he no longer had a grasp on Molly’s ankles. He continued more quietly. “Dad and Ginny are with her.” His hand was tight on the kettle, and when she met his eyes, the tired, pained look there yanked at her.</p><p>She hesitated. Then, she went up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It sparked against his stubble. When she pulled away, George’s eyes were closed. He paused, taking a slow, weary breath as he lifted his hand to the spot.</p><p>“I’m here,” she whispered.</p><p>George’s palm lowered to the kettle, but his grip was looser, now. “I know,” he said. Hermione rubbed a hand over his arm, and George took another slow breath, like he was stocking up the touch to brace for the surrounding trials.</p><p>Perhaps he was.</p><p>Hermione resolved to keep at it, then. At every opportunity throughout the day. A smattering of small touches couldn’t make it all better, but it could help, maybe. She gave him another gentle pat before heading back to the Cocoa Powder. He trailed behind her, as though reticent to be out of reach. When she glanced back, there was a hesitant, vulnerable look in his eyes.</p><p>She returned it with a meaningful nod. “I’m here,” she mouthed again, brushing her hand over his elbow. She’d keep saying it, over and over. It was the only way she knew how to vocalize her intentions, her feelings, the way she was determined to remain at his side. George exhaled and nodded back. The vulnerable pang in his gaze eased into apparent relief.</p><p>She’d been right.</p><p>Something warm settled in her chest. She’d-she’d sorted it out. Anticipated what he needed from her. She—not the other Hermione—had figured out how to fill a need.</p><p>And it was one she was more than prepared to address. The concept of having anything helpful to offer was a beacon, strobing over the dark sea of uncertainty.</p><p>Onward.</p><p>“Well, sleeping makes people better, doesn’t it?” Hermione said, continuing the conversation as she reached for a spoon. Teddy grinned and bobbed his head before he leaned forward over the table, gazing at the papers strewn about.</p><p>“Absolutely,” George answered, darting around the countertop and swiping a parchment from under Teddy’s hands. “Big mug or little mug, Sir?” he asked.</p><p>“Big,” Teddy said. George nodded firmly, tucking the paper out of view. “You heard the man, Auntie Mione. Big mug it is.” Teddy reached forward again, picking up another sheet. It was part of a newspaper, but Teddy didn’t seem to mind this when he stretched it out and began to drive the crayon across the surface.</p><p>The inky, black lettering was wiped clean by the broad strokes of innocent green.</p><p>A marked improvement.</p><p>As George rounded back into the kitchen, she saw part of the parchment he’d nicked sticking from his back pocket.</p><p>A list of wounded.</p><p>When Teddy had settled with the mug, she held her hand out, and George wordlessly placed the paper in it.</p><p>“Any owl from Gringotts?” she whispered.</p><p>“Not yet,” George replied, jaw tight as he stared straight ahead. “At least, not when I stopped by the flat with Fred and Lee early this morning. It’s fine, by the way. No damages or anything.” His reassurance about their living space did nothing to soften the blow of the impending deadline, which seemed ridiculous to be worrying about, given the violence from the night before. Hermione’s stomach clenched, and she looked down at the paper.</p><p>Above the list of wounded, there was a primary article. The headline and main image made her stomach churn.</p><p>
  <em>“Chief Warlock Vane Demands Task Force: New Changes at the Ministry in Response to Horrific Attack.”</em>
</p><p>Magnus spoke at a podium in the Atrium, dressed in the same robes from the night prior, bandage wrapping his left hand as he pointed, eyes flashing.</p><p>“Apparently, he got hit by some rubble or something,” George muttered. “Harry said he made a show of it in the Ministry this morning.” His bitter scoff was a touch loud, and Teddy glanced up. George schooled his features and nodded for Teddy to finish his drink but continued in a low murmur. “Shacklebolt’s too busy sorting where the orphans will stay and regrowing the skin on his arms to worry over publicity stunts.”</p><p>He leaned a hip against the counter at her side, bracing a palm there.</p><p>“Maybe he should, though,” Hermione whispered, biting her lip as she glanced over the article. “Worry at least a little, that is. We’ve got to change the narrative. A task force? That can’t be—”</p><p>“Aren’t you going to have any Cocoa?” Teddy’s voice was soft and eager as he cut in, watching them from the other end of the dining table. Hermione crumpled the paper and stuck it in her pocket. George had gone quiet, his hand motionless on the countertop.</p><p>She could feel the heat from his chest and arm, just out of reach.</p><p>“What a good idea,” Hermione said, smiling at Teddy as she discreetly shifted her hand to bump against George’s. With a slight wriggle, she worked it under his, and then he flexed his palm before lacing his fingers through hers, over the back of her hand.</p><p>Glow danced through the touch.</p><p>Teddy’s chin lifted, and excitement sparked in his eyes. “It’s really good,” he said. “And you can sit by me.” He looked at them expectantly.</p><p>Hermione smiled. “That sounds lovely,” she said and pulled the cupboard open, but there were no more mugs. She frowned.</p><p>“Where’d they all go?” she whispered.</p><p>“I dunno,” George said, staring at their joined hands with a deep line between his brows. “Loads of people have been in and out all morning.” His tone was soft and distracted. Hermione nodded and patted his arm, then withdrew her hand from his before heading to check the sink. As she pulled away, George turned towards her direction, folding his arms and studying the floor with an absent-minded frown.</p><p>The sink was empty.</p><p>That wasn’t ideal.</p><p>Only one thing to do, then. Teddy watched her, round eyed, as she headed for the men grouped around the table. Wordlessly, she tugged the mugs from Harry and Ron.</p><p>“I wasn’t finished—” Ron started, but the Muffliato barrier cut him off.</p><p>“Sorry?” Hermione mouthed, feigning confusion as she held up the mugs.</p><p>Ron rolled his eyes and returned to the conversation.</p><p>Teddy’s laughter lit the room, and Hermione winked at him.</p><p>She returned to the sink and gave the cups a quick scrub before pacing over to the makeshift Cocoa station. The mugs weren’t quite dry, but that didn’t especially matter.</p><p>There was chocolate to be had.</p><p>Hermione glanced up at George as she approached. He was the picture of haggard, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and shoulders stooped, scruff crawling over his jaw. He wasn’t fully present—his eyes marked with a sort of distance that often accompanied his late-night work sessions, as though he’d vacated the space to make room for extra worry.</p><p>One person could only carry so much. A lump filled her throat.</p><p>He deserved better than all of this.</p><p>A sudden want hit her—to see George, relaxed and happy, not in the slightest bit of danger, not facing eviction, not worrying over the state of the world, or his family, or her. He deserved to be happy.</p><p>She clenched her teeth and lifted her chin.</p><p>They wouldn’t give up. There was hope yet, and she would grip it, tight-knuckled on his behalf.</p><p>As she approached, George pushed off the counter and reached for the kettle, scrubbing a finger along the bridge of his nose.</p><p>She swallowed back the ache in her throat and held the mugs up at him with a smile. The words came to her easily. “There’s always something,” Hermione said. The ceramic scraped as she rested it on the wood and reached for the spoon to scoop out more powder. She peered into the bag, speaking in what she hoped was a calm, reassuring tone while she spooned the ingredients into the first cup. “You only have to know how to look for it.”</p><p>George started, and the liquid inside the kettle sloshed.</p><p>“Alright?” she asked, glancing up as she held his mug out for him to fill.</p><p>George scrubbed a hand over his mouth, staring at her. “Yeah,” he said faintly. “Just—” he stopped. Blinked. “Never mind.”</p><p>Hermione nudged his arm with the mug, a moderate concern building in her ribs. Clearly, he was exhausted. It took him a moment to shake himself free before tipping the spout down.</p><p>The water steamed as it trickled into the ceramic.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows at him and dunked the spoon in. It clinked as she spun it through the mixture.</p><p>She really ought to tell him to lie down. Hermione caste a drying charm over the spoon and rested it on the worktop.</p><p>As she turned back to face him, she heard him muttering faintly, under his breath: “Godric’s Hollow.”</p><p>Hermione fixed him with a bemused look as she held out his dink. But he didn’t catch it. He was too busy yanking up the uneven, longer sleeve so he could properly take the handle. Hermione eyed the uneven stitchwork in distaste.</p><p>“By the way, that’s the ugliest jumper I’ve ever seen in my life,” she whispered.</p><p>George stopped. Then he cracked into a grin. “Is it?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “It belongs in a bin,” she said, spooning powder and sugar into her own mug.</p><p>George shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’d sooner part with my remaining ear.”</p><p>Hermione laughed. “Honestly,” she said, then turned and held out her cup for water. “It should be set on fire.” George faltered as he poured it, looking rapidly between her and the cup, like he didn’t quite understand.</p><p>Was he so exhausted that he was having trouble following the joke? He wasn’t like her. He didn’t stay up all hours frequently.  She bit her lip.</p><p>“Um—I wouldn’t actually do that, just so you know,” she whispered.</p><p>Amusement flashed over George’s features. “I know, Hermione,” he murmured.</p><p>Oh, good.</p><p>“I mean, I might question your taste, but if you like it, then I’m happy,” she said. George dropped the kettle and it clanged over the countertop as he stared at her. Hermione started back at the sound.</p><p>George shook his head, blinking. “Um—sorry. Right,” he said, sounding a bit winded. “That’s good.”</p><p>“You need to sleep sometime today, okay?” Hermione whispered, glancing at Teddy, whose eyes had followed them the whole time.</p><p>George nodded, apparently speechless with exhaustion.</p><p>“Maybe later,” he mumbled. Hermione flashed a stern frown in his direction.</p><p>“Not too much later,” she said.</p><p>With that, Hermione waltzed to the table and took a spot beside Teddy. “I’ve heard that Fleur is teaching you to count in French,” she announced. “Could you show me?” George’s footsteps were slow and halting as he dragged up a chair at her side.</p><p>The paper was a tight, crumpled ball in her pocket, digging a bit painfully into her hip. But Hermione kept her expression light and playful as she chatted with Teddy. Under the table, a warm, rough hand found hers. She held it fast, as though she could squeeze away the headlines and the horrors, the Wizengamot, the danger, the Galleon deadline. The dreadful quiet coming from the Burrow’s master bedroom, where no one had slept the night before.</p><p>Eventually, Fleur emerged from upstairs, a fussy Victoire struggling in her arms. Fred joined soon after and plunked into the chair on George’s other side. He rattled a handful of Pixie Puffs free from their box, letting them scatter over the bare table in front of him. Angelo reached for them eagerly.</p><p>George slipped back into his role, making light jokes and re-enacting stories with a tenacity and vibrance that held even Victoire and Angelo’s interest. Mostly. Victoire wouldn’t stop squirming and whining for more than a few minutes at a time.</p><p>George waved an arm around as he re-enacted how Harry had won them the Quidditch Cup third year, stretching his fingers out as he impersonated Harry’s exuberance at catching the Snitch. But under the table, his hand gripped hers.</p><p>The lot of them played house through their late breakfast, making as though everything were fine. The unspoken agreement held fast: the children were to be kept aloft, suspended safe in a world far kinder than the one the adults inhabited.</p><p>#</p><p>After eating, Fleur gracefully suggested she take the children to the garden, and Harry nodded. But Fred balked when she reached for Angelo.</p><p>“I believe you have things to speak of?” Fleur asked lightly, glancing between Fred and the others. Fred’s hold on Angelo tightened.</p><p>“Maybe—um, maybe Angelo stays in here,” Fred muttered, watching the floor. George’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, watching his brother with a deep line between his brows.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip, remembering Fred’s panic the night before.</p><p>Fleur seemed to understand, however. Her tone was sober and reassuring as she said, “We will not leave the sight of the window.”</p><p>Angelo began to squirm, as though he could tell the fate of his morning hung in the balance.</p><p>“We must get the wiggles out,” Fleur said, prompting with a delicate smile.</p><p>Fred snorted. “He’ll never run out,” he said. “But, um—” he paused. “Just the garden, then?” he asked quietly.</p><p>“Yes,” Fleur said. She flicked her wand, and two, small wellies tumbled from the pile at the door. She pulled them over Victoire’s feet. “Where are his shoes?”</p><p>Without a single quip, Fred brought Angelo over and began to pull a small set of boots over the boy’s overalls.</p><p>“Just the garden,” Fred said again, standing rigid as Fleur reached for Angelo’s hand.</p><p>“Yes,” Fleur said.</p><p>“Okay,” Fred said, releasing Angelo. His jaw flexed, but when Angelo glanced up, Fred grinned.</p><p>Fleur gave Bill a meaningful look before leading the small procession through the door. Angelo and Victoire in each hand, Teddy in the lead.</p><p>The second the door shut, the energy in the room took a nosedive into the earth’s core. There was a moment of extended silence as Bill, Fred, Ron, Harry, George, and Hermione all watched the table.</p><p>Then, Fred exploded into a rapid pace, looping back and forth in front of the table, checking the window over the sink each lap.</p><p>“When’s Perce getting in?” Ron asked, watching Fred’s route with a wary gaze.</p><p>Bill shrugged. He stretched and draped an arm over the chipped, white paint on his dining chair’s back. “Last I heard, he’s still struggling to acquire a portkey.”</p><p>“What about Charlie?” George asked. He twisted his mug back and forth. He hadn’t used a coaster. Mrs. Weasley probably wouldn’t care for that.</p><p>Annoyance flashed over Bill’s face at George’s question. Quietly, Hermione pulled her wand out and summoned one of the knit squares from the sideboard. She slipped it under George’s mug.</p><p>“Still haven’t been able to get ahold of him,” Bill said, tone bland. “Typical.” Hermione raised her brows. She’d thought Bill and Charlie were close.</p><p>“He’s in a remote area, Mate,” George said slowly.</p><p>Bill glanced at George with a flat look. “Not that remote,” he said.</p><p>George’s expression went stony. “What are you implying?” he asked, picking at the coaster’s stitched border. He focused on it, jaw tight.</p><p>Hermione brushed her foot against his under the table. George glanced at her.</p><p>Bill gave a long sigh. “That he’s not here when he should be,” he said.</p><p>Fred’s footsteps continued to click. Bill yanked at his leather jacket, rubbing his hands over his face. “Could you sit down, Fred?” he said. It was more of a command than a question.</p><p>“No,” Fred said. “I’d rather keep an eye on things.”</p><p>“Think my wife is perfectly capable,” Bill said tiredly.</p><p>“Right,” Fred said, but he wasn’t paying attention, wholly fixated on the scene outside the window.</p><p>The room went quiet, tension snapping as each of them waited for someone else in the group to venture into darker territory and bring up any number of the burdens facing them.</p><p>Slowly, Hermione pulled the wadded parchment from her pocket, smoothed it out, and placed it in the middle. Harry exhaled heavily, Ron’s face tightened, and Fred’s footsteps faltered, then picked up again.</p><p>“It could’ve gone worse,” Bill murmured.</p><p>Harry folded his arms. “It also could’ve not happened at all,” he said, tight and clipped.</p><p>Bill rubbed his hand over the ridges crossing his face. “No one died,” he said. “And I’ve a suspicion we avoided other attacks due to how thoroughly you and Ron planned this out.” Bill paused to shoot Ron a firm nod. “If they had half a brain, they’d have gone for Hogwarts or the Ministry or other hotspots last night. But whoever it was—they didn’t, and that’s probably because they weren’t anticipating the security teams and the networking you prepared.”</p><p>Harry’s eyes flashed with anger. “That’s all well and good, but twenty-seven children woke up this morning without a home to return to.” He stood and crossed to the sink, where he filled a glass with water as he continued to speak in a tight, low tone, anger mounting as he carried on. “Twelve people are in critical condition at Mungo’s—the head of the Auror Office <em>and Mum</em>, mind. And we’ve counted an additional 46 sustained injuries besides that.”</p><p>He’d rattled the numbers off so quickly.</p><p>Was he including his own? Probably not, knowing Harry.</p><p>“It still could’ve been more,” Bill said. “We need to recognize that the strategy you employed was successful.”</p><p>The cup smashed in the sink. Fred’s pacing halted.</p><p>“It should’ve been less,” Harry’s shout reverberated off the ramshackle cupboards. He threw his glasses on the counter, and the right lens cracked. “Does this feel successful to you?”</p><p>Suddenly, Hermione felt as though she might be fifteen again, watching Harry combust in the wake of Cedric’s death in the little bedroom at Grimmauld Place.</p><p>Hermione rose, instinct guiding her feet. If she knew one thing, it was this: Harry must be looked after.</p><p>It wasn’t until she reached his side, however, that she realized she hadn’t come over alone. George and Ron were there as well. George leaned around Harry and vanished the glass, and Ron wordlessly handed Harry’s glasses to Hermione.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly, not looking up. “Shouldn’t have yelled.”</p><p>Hermione lifted the round frames, tapping them with her wand silently.</p><p><em>Occulus Reparo</em>.</p><p>Harry wouldn’t meet her eyes as she put them back over his ears. The quiet from the dining table was deafening.</p><p>She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tightly.</p><p>“Sometimes it’s helpful to have a good yell,” George offered. “A group scream can be therapeutic.” He glanced at Bill as he said it.</p><p>Fred laid a hand on George’s shoulders as his pacing brought him back over. “He’s got a point,” he muttered, staring distractedly out the window.</p><p>“I think it’s fair to say that we’re all a bit on edge, with everything,” Bill offered.</p><p>Harry frowned and nodded. “Doesn’t help that the entire thing’s giving blood supremacists a chance to grab for power,” Harry said. “Despite all that talk, I noticed that none of them seem too concerned over victims who don’t have Wizengamot seats.”</p><p>“What will happen—to the orphans, that is?” Hermione asked quietly.</p><p>“They’re at the Diggory estate across town,” Fred said. He reached up and held the windowframe over the sink. “Angie’s been back and forth, helping Amos and Celia set up more permanent rooms for them all day. Said it was pretty grim. The kids lost almost everything—again.” He sighed.</p><p>Harry closed his eyes. “I stopped through earlier on my way back from the Ministry.” He sounded exhausted. “Never seen the lot of them so quiet.”</p><p>“We should send some things,” Fred said, watching Angelo jump beside Fleur.</p><p>“I’ll sort it,” George said. He blinked heavily, snapped, and took up the quill and parchment that zipped to his hand. “None are over eleven, correct?”</p><p>Harry nodded. “The older ones are at Hogwarts, still,” he said.</p><p>“Wasn’t sure if there were any squibs,” George murmured. “Twenty-seven…” he mumbled under his breath, making some notes against the counter. “They need socks? Clothes? Furniture? Toys?” He nodded. “They’ll need toys. Can’t do the bigger fireworks, and Snackboxes aren’t age appropriate either. Maybe—”</p><p>“Actually,” Harry said suddenly, scratching his nose. “I-I’ve sorted the toys already.”</p><p>George paused. He looked a bit taken aback at Harry’s statement, but the expression quickly disappeared as George stooped low over the parchment. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Well, get us a list for clothes and the like.”</p><p>A strained silence filled the room as George scratched down a few notes.</p><p>Ron’s gaze was fixed on the wall, eyes flickering as though solving an unseen puzzle. “Kingsley will ask you to step up,” he said finally, heading back to the table and dropping into the seat where Teddy had colored earlier that morning. He shifted through the wax-coated parchment slips, lifting a green and red-soaked picture with mild interest.</p><p>“How d’you mean?” Harry asked, scrubbing both hands through his hair.</p><p>“He’ll offer you Department Head,” Ron said. He dropped Teddy’s drawing. “You’re the only reasonable choice with enough public support, given everything going on. It’ll be interim, probably, until Sturgis is sorted, but with him getting hit by the ice blast directly—” Ron shook his head. “That could take ages.” He propped his boots back on the table’s edge and exhaled roughly.</p><p>The mud flaked from the soles, onto the wood grain.</p><p>Hermione shot him a look and caste a Scourgify, but Ron pointedly ignored her.</p><p>Harry’s face twisted into a grim frown. “I don’t want Department Head,” he said.</p><p>“Look on the bright side,” Ron said. “Least you can fire Clarke.”</p><p>“Cheers to that,” George said, leaning back against the counter and folding one ankle over the other. “One less viper in the forsaken cesspit.”</p><p>Harry glanced at George, amusement flickering over his features. “Tell us how you really feel, George.”</p><p>“Rather fancy being an enigma, but if you insist—” George cocked a brow in sarcasm and sighed before continuing more seriously. “Clarke’s a smarmy git, and seeing him leave the Ministry would be almost worth enduring a visit to that abyss you call a building.” He folded his hands and smiled. “Almost.”</p><p>Hermione snorted, and George glanced over.</p><p>“You like that one, do you?” he asked.</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“I’ve got plenty more,” George said. “What’s the difference between a hinkypunk and the Office of Wizengamot Administrative Services?” He snapped again, and his mug sailed from the table, into his hand.</p><p>“I don’t know. What?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Oh, that was genuine question,” George said dryly. “Seeing as I can’t find any myself.” He stared darkly into his mug. “All either does is drag people into hopeless bogs.” He quirked his brows and drained the dredges from his cup.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. That one hit a bit too close to home.</p><p>“We’ll be neck deep in one of those if we don’t hear from Gringotts by day after tomorrow,” Fred muttered.</p><p>“What’s day after tomorrow?” Harry asked.</p><p>“When the fine is due,” Hermione said. George winced, and Hermione faltered. Maybe he hadn’t wanted Harry to be reminded.</p><p>“I don’t know that you’ll get one,” Bill said, looking stricken. “Things have slowed down considerably at the bank.”</p><p>Fred’s shoulders contracted. “Lovely,” he said.</p><p>“They’re not going to give you an extension, considering?” Harry asked.</p><p>“Lee’s trying to get one, but I don’t think it’ll happen. Magnus has been looking for chance to ruin us for ages,” George said calmly, staring at his feet with folded arms. “It is what it is.”</p><p>Hermione started. George’s attitude about the fine seemed to have shifted over the last twenty-four hours. He’d been stressed and nervous before, but now? He sounded numb. Resigned.</p><p>As though he’d run out of energy to care.</p><p>“I think it’ll work out,” Harry said bracingly. He spoke with a strange confidence, tone going bright. Hermione furrowed her brow.</p><p>George spoke softly. “I hope so.” He shrugged. “But we’ve got bigger things to worry over, presently.”</p><p>As though on instinct, George’s gaze flicked up, seeking the clock. He seemed to crumple inward at the sight of it.</p><p>Three hands on “Hospital.”</p><p>#</p><p>May 3, 2003, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>George still hadn’t slept. Victoire flailed in her seat, whining. He wouldn’t drop the front for a moment. He seemed to have taken it upon himself to keep the children entertained, but as the morning spun into early afternoon, his movements grew slower and slower, and he started having trouble keeping up with the conversation around him.</p><p>He was reaching the end of his store of energy. She could tell.</p><p>Hermione glanced at the clock. He’d been going nonstop.</p><p>“George,” she whispered. He glanced at her, lowering the sock puppet he had thrust over his fist.</p><p>“How much sleep did you get last night?” she asked. George blinked in confusion, then continued to act out the tale of Babbitty Rabbitty as Angelo watched, round eye-ed. Teddy colored on his other side, tongue poking out in concentration.</p><p>Hermione caught Fred’s gaze.</p><p>Fred shook his head. “None,” he mouthed. Hermione grimaced, and Fred nodded to the living room pointedly. Hermione bobbed her chin.</p><p>“Then—um—” George blinked heavily.</p><p>“Then Babbitty hid in the stump,” Teddy supplied, reaching for a blue crayon.</p><p>“Yes, that’s-that’s right,” George said, sucking in a breath. He straightened his shoulders and hopped the rabbit puppet over the table.</p><p>“They won’t find me here,” George said, but it was in his own voice—not the cadence he’d been using for the story’s dialogue when he started.</p><p>He was fading.</p><p>Fred tugged on Fleur’s elbow, whispering. Fleur quit fussing over Victoire and stepped back, eyes calculating as they worked over George.</p><p>George meanwhile, continued, unaware that the rest of the adults in the room were staring at him with no small amount of concern.</p><p>Suddenly, Fleur started forward. She pulled the puppet from George’s hand and swooped low, speaking in a dramatic, performative tone as she placed two hands on the table and grinned wildly at the three children.</p><p>“But the evil king didn’t realize she was clever,” she said, widening her eyes. “And she made herself small—into a rabbit.”</p><p>George slumped back in his chair. “That’s—yes—” he said. Without a word, Hermione grasped his hand and pulled him from the chair.</p><p>“I’ve got to help with—” he mumbled, tripping after her.</p><p>“Yes, I know,” Hermione said. She brought him to the sofa. “I need something, though.” She flicked her wand behind her back, casting a Muffliato, and the noise from the dining area faded.</p><p>“Okay,” George whispered. Hermione crawled into the sofa’s corner and pulled a throw pillow into her lap. She patted the spot next to her. George’s shoulders slumped as he looked between the couch and the dining table, where Fleur was carrying on.</p><p>He eased onto the couch. “What can I do for you?” he asked faintly. He could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to finish the question.</p><p>Oh, Georgie.</p><p>Hermione reached up, tugging him down to rest in her lap. George stiffened a little, but his willpower seemed to give out as she drew him close. He dropped with a huff, landing on his right side. A pink tinge swept over his face.</p><p>“You can rest for a bit,” Hermione whispered. “That’s what I need from you.”</p><p>“But I’ve got to, um…” he mumbled, blinking as he strained to lift his head. Hermione drew him back down with a gentle hand on his shoulder. The muscle felt like a mass of rocks, bound up tightly. Hermione worked her thumb into the tension. “Oh Merlin—” George exhaled in a rush, going limp.</p><p>The magic pulsing through her hand felt a bit different. Tranquil.</p><p>He seemed to lose a sense of himself, turning onto his stomach, clutching the pillow under his head and chest with his left arm as he blinked slowly at the coffee table.</p><p>“Only for a bit,” Hermione whispered. “The children are fine.” Her left hand worked steadily, up and down his back, between his shoulder blades, and George’s eyes dropped closed.</p><p>He mumbled something, but it was nonsense. The pink on his face deepened to a red. The scar marking the side of his head stood out, stark and pale over his flushed skin.</p><p>Hermione smiled. “I’ve got you,” she murmured. “Sleep.” Keeping her palm steady on its journey over his spine, she lifted her free hand to his head and dragged her fingers through his hair. George let out a low hum in the back of his throat—the sound tinged with a sort of tired appreciation.</p><p>His right arm shifted up, snaking between the sofa and her back, until his hand closed around the far side of her waist. Hermione bit back a smile and worked her fingers through again, starting at the base of his skull and skating it all the way over his scalp. His body seemed to melt, and his breath slowed.</p><p>“Not too long,” he mumbled.</p><p>“I know,” she said. “When would you like me to wake you?”</p><p>George didn’t answer. He’d already faded off.</p><p>He found sleep, and she held him, stroking his face and back all the while. For the most part, he rested soundly. But occasionally, he’d stir, his face contorting or his feet twisting a bit at the other end of the couch. It was during one of these moments that her name slipped from his mouth in a contented sigh.</p><p>“Hermione—” he breathed, and his arm tightened around her.</p><p>Magic buzzed deep in her chest, and she leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple.</p><p>It hit her in a strobe. The image of George, sprawled, asleep on a wooden floor in a rumpled apron. Her hands on his shoulders as she shook him, but his eyes didn’t open. <em>“Hermione—”</em> he breathed, but he didn’t wake, not even at the frantic tone of her voice.</p><p>Cold wall clanging in her mind, river rushing, pounding. Hermione’s head spun.</p><p>And then it was gone.</p><p>What had she been doing?</p><p>She couldn’t think.</p><p>Her head tipped back, and she lost consciousness.</p><p>#</p><p>May 3, 2003, 10 p.m.</p><p>The floo roared, and Hermione woke with a start. Her lap was empty, and the comfortable, warm glow was gone. She blinked.</p><p>Where was George?</p><p>A thud sounded, followed by a low rolling noise as quiet voices filled the room.</p><p>“I—I need to—” Mr. Weasley was saying. Hermione pushed upright. Bill, Fred, Ron, and Ginny grouped around the floo, lifting a wheelchair over the hearth. Molly slumped in it, unconscious. Some of the horrid burn marks had faded, but others were still rather ghastly. It looked as though her hair had been chopped off. Only a few, scraggly strands of red slipped from the grey, knit cap covering her head. She looked paler than Hermione had ever seen. Almost grey.</p><p>Hermione stared, rigid.</p><p>Molly’s shoulders lifted with a shallow breath.</p><p>Relief filtered through Hermione’s ribs.</p><p>“We’ve got her, Dad,” Bill said.</p><p>“No, she—she needs me—” Arthur frowned, extending a hand towards Molly.</p><p>“Stop it,” Bill said firmly, stepping between his father and the others. “You’re dead on your feet, and you’re going to hurt yourself if you carry on.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Arthur said, but he didn’t look fine. He looked like he was about to hit the floor, pale, shaky, and trying to fight past Bill uneven steps.</p><p>“Dad, please,” Bill said. Mr. Weasley ignored him, and Bill pulled him away from the wheelchair. “I know what you’ve been doing. You give her anymore, and we’ll have to carry the both of you.”</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s look hardened, but Bill folded his arms.</p><p>A clash of wills. Eldest son against father, and Mr. Weasley looked as though he might put up a formidable fight, despite his state.</p><p>Bill winced, like he’d been dealt an invisible blow.</p><p>Suddenly, Mr. Weasley blinked, stepping back as a confused expression flashed over his face.</p><p>Bill’s wand slipped into his pocket. “That’s a great idea, Dad,” he said, and the words dripped with confidence and enthusiasm. “You wait out here with Hermione, and we’ll make you some tea while we get Mum situated. Then, the both of you can have a good nap.”</p><p>Arthur’s brow wrinkled. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Is something wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong at all,” Bill said. “You’re just tired.”</p><p>“Just tired?” Mr. Weasley asked. Bill nodded. “Just tired.” Arthur repeated the words as though he’d never heard them put together before. When Mr. Weasley turned, Bill exhaled and squeezed his eyes shut. Behind him, Fred, Ginny, and Ron were pale, glancing at each other with hesitant, concerned expressions.</p><p>Then, Bill looked at Hermione. “Confundus,” he mouthed. “Watch him.” Before Hermione had time to protest his unorthodox methods, Bill disappeared around the corner with the others.</p><p>Arthur stood, dazed, still dressed in his tattered suit.</p><p>“Mr. Weasley?” she asked.</p><p>“You used to call me ‘Dad,’” Arthur said softly, sounding distracted as he looked over the mantle.</p><p>Hermione froze. Her ribs constricted inwards.</p><p>Had she?</p><p>Mr. Weasley frowned at the clock, looking a great deal older than he had the day before. As she watched, he stepped closer, gaze working over each hand. Though he seemed confused, there was a set in his shoulders and an urgency in his eyes as he double, then triple-checked each spoon. It sent a pang through her.</p><p>Of course she had.</p><p>Hermione crossed the floor and braced herself. “Dad,” she tried. It felt odd, rolling off her tongue. “Why don’t you sit down?”</p><p>Arthur glanced at her, then back at the clock. She looked. Most of the hands were clustered on “<em>Home</em>,” save for Harry, whose spoon pointed at “<em>Work</em>,” while Percy, Angelina, and Charlie’s pointed to “<em>Travelling</em>.” George’s, however, made no sense.</p><p>George’s hand lay on “<em>Dentist</em>.”</p><p>Hermione frowned, forgetting her intent in coming over.</p><p>“Why’s it there?” she asked. Surely, George wasn’t at the dentist right now. In fact, the Weasleys’ didn’t use a dentist. No one in their world did.</p><p>As though spurred to movement by her thoughts, the silver piece clicked over several slots, resting on “<em>Travelling</em>.”</p><p>Mr. Weasley spoke with a glazed, distant tone as he stared at the place George’s spoon had been moments before. “Cropped up one September,” he said faintly. “Middle of the first war. Very strange.” He slipped his hands in his pockets, then removed them. “Hadn’t the foggiest of what it meant until I met your parents.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. She’d meant to ask why George’s spoon was there. Not why the label was included. She’d always thought Mr. Weasley had added it as a joke after meeting her family in Diagon Alley, the summer before second year.</p><p>“In September?” she whispered. “September 1979?”</p><p>He glanced over, frowning. “Molly’s clock always knows,” he said, distracted. He scratched the back of his head and began to turn in another circle. “Clock always—” he stopped. Then he turned back.</p><p>Continued to watch the spoons.</p><p>The floor roared, and Hermione instinctively pulled Mr. Weasley away from it. He stumbled, blinking at her with an absent expression.</p><p>Her stomach tightened.  </p><p>George stepped out of the flame. “Granger,” he called, dusting ash from his jumper.  His hair was windswept and tousled, and a dark streak of soot marked his cheek. He looked up, spotting her.</p><p>“Oh good,” he said. “You’re awake.” He paused and nodded at Mr. Weasley. “Dad.” Arthur tilted his head, expression hazy. George paused.</p><p>His eyes flicked to Hermione. “Everything alright?” he asked in a measured tone. Hermione glanced at Arthur and nodded. George braced a hand on the mantle and began to toe his shoes off. Water squelched out of them.</p><p>“Drying charms never get the socks,” he muttered.</p><p>“Where were you?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George glanced up as he directed his wand to his left foot. “Checking on your parents,” he said. “They’re managing.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>The realization hit her, and she glanced at the clock.</p><p>Dentist.</p><p>“I left a note on the table?” George continued, sounding confused.</p><p>“I didn’t see it,” she said faintly. “Um—does it always point that way, when we’re at their house?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded. “I reckon it does,” he said, shrugging. “Sorry, Love. Didn’t mean to worry you.”</p><p>Unless the enchantment had acted at random, under strange coincidence (which was almost never the case with magic), it appeared as though the Weasley clock had accounted for her years ago.</p><p>How? Why?</p><p>George stepped in and wrapped an arm around her shoulder in a quick hug. As he neared, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Why’s Dad look like he’s seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?”</p><p>“Bill Confunded him,” Hermione whispered back. “I-I think he tried to give your mum too much magic or something. He wouldn’t stop, and Bill got concerned.”</p><p>George swore under his breath. “He can’t—” he stopped and hissed. “Salazar. This’ll be a mess. Bill should know better.”</p><p>Hermione frowned. While Mr. Weasley clearly needed to be with Molly, if he didn’t have enough magic left, he couldn’t do her much good, anyway. She’d be angry too, in Arthur’s place, but the man was hardly upright. And as far as she knew, Bill didn’t have personal experience with the way the magical bond between his parents worked. He’d probably underestimated it. Could they really blame him for not knowing?</p><p>Hopefully, once Arthur was thinking clearly, he’d realize that Bill had acted only out of misguided concern. It was a misunderstanding. That was all.</p><p>Or maybe there was more baggage to it.</p><p>There seemed to be, based on George’s expression.</p><p>George stepped away, a pained look coming over him as he turned to his father. “Bugger.” He clicked his tongue. “It’ll be less jarring if we let it fade naturally,” he said, sounding resigned. “Come on, Dad. Let’s make you a cuppa.” He took Arthur by the shoulders and pushed him towards the kitchen.</p><p>Hermione helped George settle Arthur in a chair. The man watched the tabletop without speaking. His hands jittered over the surface, fidgeting.</p><p>He looked lost.</p><p>George’s eyes didn’t leave his dad as he filled the kettle. “As I was saying, your parents are fine,” he murmured, pulling a mug from the now fully restocked cupboard. Someone must’ve cleaned up a bit while she was asleep. “A bit shaken, but following directions to stay put for now, until the Auror Office has a better understanding of what exactly happened.”</p><p>At the table, Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it. His frown deepened, and his fidgeting sped.</p><p>“Okay, Dad?” George called softly.</p><p>“Something’s not right,” Arthur said, shaking his head slowly.</p><p>“He’s coming out of it,” George murmured. “Brace yourself. This won’t be pretty.”</p><p>Hermione put Chamomile in the mug, and George poured the water. When they slid it in front of Mr. Weasley, he didn’t react. He squeezed his hands together as he searched over the room.</p><p>Something about the movement reminded her of George, all those days he’d spent nervous and afraid, under the curse.</p><p>She swallowed and took the seat beside him, opposite of the one George had taken. Then, she reached to Arthur’s hands and gently brought them around the mug. “George made you tea, Dad,” she said. George inhaled sharply, but Hermione frowned as Arthur’s fidgeting didn’t stop.</p><p>“No thank you,” Arthur said, drawing his hands back to check his jacket pockets. “Where’s your—” he mumbled, breathing raggedly. He drew out a pocket watch. Flipped it open. Snapped it shut. It clanked on the floor. His hands shook over the chair’s armrests. “Your mother,” he finished quietly. Then, again: “Your mother?” He blinked. “Where’s—where’s Molly?”</p><p>“Dad,” George said carefully.</p><p>Suddenly, Mr. Weasley sucked in a breath, shaking his head rapidly. “I don’t—where’s Molly?” His voice hiked in alarm.</p><p>“It’s okay,” George started, but Mr. Weasley didn’t seem to register the response.</p><p>“But, she was—wait. Wait.” Suddenly, the chair scraped, and Arthur leapt out of it. “Molly?” He called for her, spinning in a circle. His gaze caught on the small, knitted coaster. “She’s—not—not gone?”</p><p>“No, Dad, no—” George said hurried.</p><p>Arthur’s gaze flicked up, darting to the hutch. It landed on the dishes. On the little, carrot print.</p><p>The fog left his eyes, and anger filtered in.</p><p>“William!” he shouted, striding for the master bedroom.</p><p>“Dad, wait,” George called, jumping after him, but Mr. Weasley seemed to anticipate this. Without turning to look, Arthur whipped his wand behind his head, the movement livid and sharp. The nonverbal jinx threw George back into his chair.</p><p>At the impact, the chair toppled, George landed on the floor in a heap.</p><p>“William!” Arthur’s roar was deafening. Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Bloody Hell,” George wheezed. Hermione winced and reached down to help him up.</p><p>“You okay?” she whispered. George nodded and rubbed the back of his head before propping the peeling, blue chair upright and reseating himself.</p><p>Ginny, Fred, and Ron slipped from the bedroom, eyes round.</p><p>“Dad’s gonna kill him,” Ginny said tiredly, heading for the kettle. Ron leaned over her, grabbing an apple.</p><p>“Bill can take care of himself,” Ron said. “I mean, this is Dad we’re talking about.”</p><p>Fred, for once, didn’t have a one-liner. He watched the door over his shoulder with a queasy expression. “I dunno, Ron.”</p><p>“You’re being unreasonable,” Bill’s voice was steady but loud from the bedroom.</p><p>Fred glanced at the ceiling, then caste a Muffliato over the surface. “He’s going to wake the kids,” he muttered.</p><p>“If you <em>ever</em> reach inside my head again,” Arthur shouted, and the Weasley children flinched in unison. But Arthur didn’t finish the sentence. He’d gone silent.</p><p>Somehow, the silence was worse.</p><p>“Dad,” Bill’s voice was quieter, now. “I was trying to—” The door snapped shut, cutting off the conversation from the group in the kitchen.</p><p>“Blimey,” Ron whispered. “On second thought, maybe you should handle this.” He pointed at George as he slumped over to the opposite end of the table. “You’re his favorite.”</p><p>George rolled his eyes. “Dad doesn’t have a favorite,” he muttered. Ron opened his mouth to protest, but George continued. “And even if he did—which he doesn’t—” George enunciated the words with a sharp look at Ron. “I just found myself on the wrong end of his wand, so it’s someone else’s turn.”</p><p>The floor roared.</p><p>“Where’s Mum?” A new shout echoed through the living room.</p><p>“Oh, thank God,” Fred said, exhaling in a whoosh.</p><p>George bolted across the room. “Charlie!” he called. “Charlie!”</p><p>Charlie’s footsteps pounded into the kitchen, and the stocky, muscled redhead threw a green suitcase to the floor before launching at George. “I’m here, buddy. How’s she doing? Where is she?” His hands found George’s shoulders.</p><p>“In their room. We just got back from Mungo’s,” Ginny said, stepping forward. “She’ll recover, but they gave her a sleeping draught along with some other potions. We’re supposed to keep her on them until the burns are gone, so—so she’ll be more comfortable.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>Charlie grimaced. “Okay,” he breathed. “Deep breaths, you lot. Bill and I can—”</p><p>George tilted his head towards the bedroom. “Um—they’re having a row.”</p><p>“Who?” Charlie asked, brow furrowing.</p><p>“Bill and Dad,” Ginny said, crossing the floor to give Charlie a hug. George stepped away.</p><p>Charlie’s jaw firmed, and he glanced over Ginny’s shoulder towards the master bedroom. “Who started it?” he asked.</p><p>“Bill Confunded Dad,” Fred said.</p><p>Charlie’s eyes slid shut in frustration, and he uttered something in another language, twisting his head towards the ceiling.</p><p>“To keep him from spending more magic on Mum,” George added, glancing at Fred.</p><p>“Right,” Charlie said. “Brilliant. Lovely.” He sighed and released Ginny. His face was a mask of grim determination as he yanked his long coat from his arms and pushed it into George’s chest. “I’ll sort it.”</p><p>“D’you need any help?” George asked quietly. Charlie shook his head, deftly rolling his sleeves to the elbow.</p><p>“This is eldest brother nonsense,” he said, flashing George an easy-going wink, but his movements were stiff on his sleeves.</p><p>George didn’t appear to buy the act.</p><p>“I might not remember it, but I can still—” George started, but Charlie shook his head.</p><p>“No, Mate, you can’t,” Charlie said, and he clapped a hand on George’s shoulder. He gave a single, resigned huff before heading into the bedroom. George swallowed, then made his way to the seat at Hermione’s side.</p><p>Moments later, Bill tripped out, swiping the wrist of his casting arm over his mouth. Sparks danced from his wand to his face, and an uncommon fury lingered in his eyes. He shoved his wand behind his ear, took a single, long suffering breath, and headed for the sideboard without saying a word to any of them.</p><p>“So that was—” Fred started, but Bill pointed, and a bolt of sparks shot from his finger and splashed over Fred, sucking the noise from his voice. Hermione’s mouth dropped open. George went rigid beside her. Fred’s brows were practically in his hairline as he removed Bill’s spell, but he didn’t try to speak again.</p><p>Bill rifled through the sideboard’s drawers, one after another, jumbling knitting needles, doilies, and glass jars of sweets. His jaw grew tighter the longer he searched, and his movements became a bit more forceful. The stacks of plates on the hutch above the piece began to rattle—faded carrots shaking under the assault.</p><p>George silently cast what appeared to be a sticking charm, and the dishes ceased in their precarious dance.</p><p>Bill wheeled from the sideboard and strode back to the kitchen.</p><p>The floo whooshed, and Angelina stepped out. “Celia and I finally got them situated,” she called. “Amos was a great help, but the man hardly remembers the sorts of things children—” she faltered as she came upon the group.</p><p>Fred held a finger to his lips and glanced at Bill. Angelina tilted her head, lifted both hands, and began to back from the room.</p><p>“I’ll just check on the Angelo,” she said.</p><p>“Oh, no need. Fleur’s up there,” Fred said, tone casual as he shot Angelina an urgent look.</p><p>“Could probably use a hand,” Angelina replied, forcing a laugh as she shook her head and bugged her eyes at Fred.</p><p>Fred grimaced. “If you say so,” he said bracingly, but his expression was mutinous.</p><p>“Sorry,” Angelina mouthed, wincing. Fred gave her a resigned nod, and she slipped away.</p><p>Meanwhile, Bill yanked open yet another cupboard. Then another. Finally, he thrust an arm into the top shelf of the third, pushing containers aside to withdraw a tall, glass bottle of Firewhiskey. Without hesitating, he smacked—</p><p>One.</p><p>Two.</p><p>Three.</p><p>Four.</p><p>Five.</p><p>Six glass tumblers onto the counter.</p><p>“Bill?” George asked finally, but Bill ignored him, flicking the screw top lid from the bottle. The amber liquid splashed across the row as he glanced at the bedroom door. Smoke filtered off the cups, swirling.</p><p>“Self-righteous bastard,” Bill muttered. “Dragon tamer, my—” He sucked in a breath, going quiet. At this, George’s eyes darkened.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>Then Bill flicked his wand. All but one of the glasses floated from the counter, settling in a circle on the table with a chorus of gentle clinks. The red ridges on his face seemed darker and more pronounced than usual.</p><p>George’s mouth was a thin line, and he stared hard at Bill. “You had it coming,” he said.</p><p>Bill whipped his finger out, and the Silencio whistled across the space. Hermione’s wand flashed before she realized what she was doing, and Bill’s spell rebounded off a crack of blue.</p><p>“Don’t,” Hermione said quietly, but not without edge.</p><p>Fred blinked at the floor, stepping wordlessly from the path between Hermione and Bill to slip into a chair.</p><p>Her heart pounded. Bill might be going through something, but he wasn’t going to caste at George. Not if she had anything to say about it. They all needed to calm down, but she wasn’t sure how to help. George sighed and scrubbed his hand over his mouth.</p><p>Bill didn’t acknowledge the exchange. Only stood there, staring into the sink like it had insulted him.</p><p>But then Bill hesitated. Slowly, he brought a seventh glass down. Filled it. Stuck it beside the lone, other tumbler on the counter.</p><p>“To family,” Bill said flatly. Then, he lifted one and took a sizeable gulp. Fred quirked his brows, leaned over the table, and began to slide drinks across the wooden surface. Ginny snagged hers first, and then George caught the next, nudging it in front of Hermione with a hesitant glance before nabbing the follow up for himself. Fred settled back into his chair, not looking at Ron.</p><p>Ron’s face contorted. “Thanks,” he said as he stood, glared at Fred, and nicked the last one from the center before dropping back into his seat with a huff.</p><p>Hermione blinked at hers. As far as she could recall, she’d never really had anything stronger than Butterbeer. Last time she’d had Firewhiskey in front of her, Moody had just died, and the thought of eating or drinking had made her feel ill.</p><p>“You don’t have to drink it,” George’s whisper was soft in her ear, and his wand worked. A small river of water twisted over the table before freezing into cubes, which dropped into her glass. “But if you do, you’ll probably want to go slow.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. She hadn’t had much interest in trying it before, truth be told. She could always vanish it, if she decided not to. The rest of them probably wouldn’t notice. They were preoccupied, looking around as though they were waiting for an anvil to tumble from the sky. The whole family was out of sorts with Molly like this.</p><p>Bill took long, deep breaths near the sink, not moving.</p><p>George lifted his and sipped from it, wincing a little as he swallowed.</p><p>“Cheers,” Fred said.</p><p>Bill wouldn’t look up at them.</p><p>Charlie slipped from the bedroom, and the door snicked shut behind him. “You mad?” he said, voice low like thunder.</p><p>“I don’t want to hear it,” Bill said. Charlie frowned and bobbed his head. His boots clicked over the floor.</p><p>If the others had been delicate about it, Charlie was a brick wall, unflinching and bold as he started in on his brother.</p><p>“Too bad,” Charlie said. Bill’s nostrils flared. “Haven’t seen you this unglued since Cairo.” He swiped the last glass from the countertop.</p><p>“Yet another time you showed up late,” Bill said.</p><p>Charlie nodded again, staring at the ceiling. “Ah, yes,” he said calmly. “Late, irresponsible Charlie.”</p><p>“Bloody annoying,” Bill said tightly.</p><p>“Mhm,” Charlie said. He knocked back the tumbler, downing it in one go.</p><p>“You just—” Bill’s voice cut out. He took Charlie’s glass and topped it off before handing it back. Charlie cocked his head to the side and took the second just as fast as the first.</p><p>Bill’s look was furious, but then he whirled to face the sink, bracing over it.</p><p>Charlie waited.</p><p>“I know, okay?” Bill said. “I’m aware. But I didn’t know what else to do.” He hunched tighter, and his voice was tired.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Charlie muttered. “Mate, literally anything else would have been—”</p><p>“Oh—because you know everything?” Bill snapped. “I’m doing my best.”</p><p>“Clearly,” Charlie said.</p><p>Bill slammed a fist into the counter. “I—” His shout was cut short by the floo’s roar.</p><p>“Is Mother home yet—Oh, I see she is—Oh thank Heavens—” A crisp, worried voice echoed from the living room.</p><p>Percy strode around the corner, robes billowing. “The Wizarding Helsinki Embassy is a mess, efficiency out the window due to some festivals. It took ages to sort the portkey.” He frowned at the group, then at Charlie and Bill. “Why are we drinking?” he asked.</p><p>Bill pulled another glass down, filled it, and handed it over. Percy grimaced and set it aside.</p><p>“Bill Confunded Dad,” Charlie said. Percy blanched.</p><p>Bill rolled his eyes and whirled back to the sink. Percy descended between the two, and hushed whispers clashed through the kitchen. Charlie pushed Percy away from Bill, but Percy’s whisper snapped into a hiss, and he shoved his way back into the huddle. Bill broke from the other two and headed for the table. Percy and Charlie followed, Percy still muttering rapidly in Charlie’s ear.</p><p>Bill stuck the bottle in the center of the table and sat beside Ron. Percy joined Ginny, who propped her cheek on his shoulder. At the gesture, Percy smiled down at her faintly and patted her head. Charlie glanced between George and Bill before going to sit beside Bill.</p><p>That was odd.</p><p>Ginny regarded the tense silence, lifted her head, and raised her glass into the air. “So cozy, all of us back together again,” she quipped, winking at Hermione.</p><p>Bill took a small drink. “Just like old times,” he said, tone flat.</p><p>No one spoke. Bill glanced up. He quirked his brow at the tight look on George’s face. “Fine. Have out with it,” he said.</p><p>“Charlie’s right,” George said. “And-and he didn’t show up late.”</p><p>Bill smirked. Charlie shot George a pained smile. “I did, Mate, but thanks.”</p><p>“Got ‘em trained real good, don’t you Charles?” Bill said wryly, lifting his glass to his mouth. “Some things never change.”</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>George ducked his head, staring hard at some unseen thing over his shoulder. He was cross. Hermione bit her lips together, then drifted her hand under the table, seeking his. But she couldn’t find it. She glanced down. Oh. He had it in his pocket.</p><p>Bill sighed. “Oh, don’t be sore,” he said, and the faded scars on his face lifted as he gave George an amused smile. “Charlie can fend for himself.”</p><p>“I’m not sore,” George said, but he sounded a little sore. George leaned back, folding his arms. Hermione bit her lip and looked from George to Bill.</p><p>Charlie braced his hands behind his head with an easy grin. “I say we bide our time, Georgie,” he said. “It’ll be easier to kill him in his sleep.”</p><p>Hermione gawked at Charlie. Charlie winked. “It’s fine,” he mouthed.</p><p>Bill nodded. “Solid plan,” he said. “But Fleur would separate your head from your neck before you got close.” He glanced up at the ceiling, where Fleur and Angelina had evidently done the smart thing and avoided this argument by way of watching the children.</p><p>Charlie winced and clicked his tongue, playing at concentration. “Isn’t she a bit young to be out past dark, Mate?” he asked, lilting as he took a jab at the couple’s seven-year age gap. Bill rolled his eyes and swiped a hand at Charlie’s head, but Charlie ducked nimbly out of the way. “Besides, I think I can handle a Veela’s fury.”</p><p>“Fleur could end you in seconds,” Bill said, monotone, not looking at Charlie.</p><p>“I work with dragons, Mate.” Charlie said, more than a little smugly.</p><p>Hermione frowned. Was Charlie intentionally trying to set Bill off?</p><p>George’s expression was guarded, and Fred watched the two, gaze calculating.</p><p>“Oh, do you really?” Bill said, voice brimming with sarcasm, and he smacked his tumbler on the table. “Say, what’s it like to transcend so far above the rest of us?”</p><p>Charlie’s grin stretched wider. “Your puny mortal mind couldn’t comprehend it.” He poked a finger into Bill’s temple, and Bill swatted his hand away. Charlie poked him again. Bill’s face twisted, and he shoved Charlie’s arm aside.</p><p>“I hope they roast you alive,” Bill said.</p><p>“I think we’re a bit old for this,” Percy said tiredly, but Charlie didn’t pay him any mind.</p><p>“Yeah? Well, I hope you get crushed under a pile of Galleons,” Charlie said, shoving Bill’s shoulder with what looked to be a significant amount of force.</p><p>“You know that Norwegian Ridgeback—the one you’re always bragging about? I hope she gets really hungry and just—” Bill snapped his teeth together, then shoved at the back of Charlie’s head. “It’d be—” Suddenly, he started laughing. Then they both were, and Bill was struggling to finish his taunt. “—be exactly what you deserve.”</p><p>Charlie roared, grappling him back. “I hope you fall into a bottomless pit!” he yelled.</p><p>Bill dropped back into his seat. “Again?”</p><p>“Yeah, didn’t quite learn your lesson the first time, I wager,” Charlie said. His voice went a bit softer. “Still biting off more than your part.”</p><p>Bill sighed, took a drink, and glanced at the bedroom door across the kitchen. “Whatever.”</p><p>At her side, George had finally untensed.</p><p>Hermione exhaled, relief flooding through her. “What happened the first time?” she asked. Perhaps that would keep the conversation friendly.</p><p>Charlie’s face nearly split in two, and he swung his ankles up on the armrest of Bill’s dining dented, oak chair. “So, get this,” he said, lifting his hands in excitement.</p><p>Bill groaned and buried his face in his arms on the table.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes rounded at Bill’s response. He seemed far younger, with Charlie around.</p><p>“Bill was supposed to wait for his supervisor, but he figured he’d get a head start. As you do, when you’re in a new city where you don’t speak the language, know the laws, or understand what you’re really meant to be working on.” He shrugged. “Bloke accidentally wandered onto private property just outside the city, in Giza, and the wards flung him into this massive pit—”</p><p>“It could’ve happened to anyone,” Bill said in a monotone voice.</p><p>“Probably not anyone,” Percy said. “I expect most people would wait for the proper guidance before heading off on their own.” He loosened the ties on his cloak.</p><p>“Shut it, Perce, get your own ghastly Bill story,” Charlie said, flashing the other a grin. Percy sighed, but Charlie continued. “—and there were anti-apparition wards up, and he couldn’t make it out, even though it was essentially just a hole in the sand—”</p><p>Bill lifted his head, and his tone was waspish. “You’re making it sound like I tripped into a ditch. It was a massive, carved-out trap.”</p><p>Charlie continued over him, grinning even wider. “—when I show up, Bill’s sitting with his head in his hands, swearing up a storm as a group of local Wizarding kids stare down at him, laughing.”</p><p>“I was new,” Bill said. “Like you’d have done any better in my shoes.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t get myself in that situation,” Charlie said. “I take the time to learn environments before jumping into things.”</p><p>“Hardly,” Percy said, adjusting his sleeve cuff.</p><p>Charlie turned and quirked a brow. “Something to say, Perce?” he asked.</p><p>“You’re the most reckless out of all of us,” Percy said. “Even them.” He nodded at Fred and George.</p><p>“I take offense to that,” Fred said.</p><p>“No, truly,” Percy said. “Fred’s calmed down since he had Angelo.”</p><p>“Have not!” Fred called, but Percy continued, unbothered.</p><p>“And George has Hermione keeping him in line.” Percy waved a hand at them as he spoke.</p><p>Fred ceased his protest to make a ridiculous whip-cracking sound.</p><p>Hermione’s face flooded. “It’s not like that,” she squeaked. George’s arm dropped around her shoulders.</p><p>“He’s teasing,” George said calmly. His tone took on a playful tinge as he continued. “Besides, you only bring the whips out for my most flagrant of law-breaking.”</p><p>“Law-breaking?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George smirked. “Y’know, like when I enchant something that isn’t strictly supposed to be enchanted.”</p><p>“Like the convertible,” Ginny said, lurching forward and grinning.</p><p>George’s smirk faded.</p><p>“This isn’t the first time the convertible has come up,” Hermione said, eyeing him. “You never did explain.”  </p><p>George ran a hand down his face and winced. “I enchanted a convertible to fly, amongst other things,” he mumbled. “And maybe-maybe didn’t tell you until it left the ground with us inside it.”</p><p>Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “You did <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Wasn’t my brightest hour,” George said. “But to be fair, I was trying quite hard to impress you.”</p><p>“How would that impress me?” Hermione asked, incredulous and loud.</p><p>Fred was hunched over, laughing quietly into his arm.</p><p>“Because I built it, Darling,” George said, turning to her with an earnest, pleading expression. “From scratch. Put all the pieces together, made it seamless, the joint between magic and machine. It wasn’t just cobbled together.” He sighed wistfully, staring into the distance. “It was something else entirely.”</p><p>“But what if a muggle got their hands on it,” Hermione said, face still contorted in disbelief.</p><p>“Goody,” George drawled. “I get to have this fight twice.” He sucked in a breath and turned to face her.</p><p>“Then it serves them right for stealing my car,” he said in a low voice.</p><p>Before she could reply, he shifted and spoke in a swotty, lighter tone. “George, you can’t be serious. If someone were to see you, you’d get in so much trouble.”</p><p>The rest of the table seemed to find this terribly amusing, except for Percy, who was shaking his head.</p><p>“That’s never stopped me before,” he said, shifting back to the other side. “Besides, I’ll keep it safe. There’s no way it’ll fall in the wrong set of hands.”</p><p>“Absolutely no way?” George said, tone swinging high again. “You can’t possibly guarantee such a thing.”</p><p>Percy raised his brows and pointed at Hermione.</p><p>Hermione’s face burned. George’s rendition of her supposed replies was uncanny—like he was plucking the words from her mind as they came to her.</p><p>She darted forward and snagged the glass before her.</p><p>“If all Magical beings relied on that logic, we’d never use magic at all,” George said, voice swinging back to the lower tone.</p><p>Ginny’s snort rang through the dining area.</p><p>George jutted his chin out and lifted his brows as he swapped back to his impersonation of her.</p><p>“There’s a difference between natural spellwork and enchanting something that appears muggle.” He grinned and tapped her nose, still speaking as her. “Honestly, of all the ghastly, thick-headed—”</p><p>Hermione lifted her drink to her lips and tipped her chin back, just like Charlie had. As she did, George stopped short.</p><p>Oh, Merlin.</p><p>It scorched, the whole way down. She smacked the glass on the table, coughing.</p><p>“Easy, Hermione,” Ginny said, eyes widening.</p><p>“Hermione?” George whispered. His performance had come to a sudden halt, and he stared at in concern.</p><p>“—ill conceived things to do,” Hermione wheezed, picking up where George had left off. She pressed her hand to her eye and reached for the words that made the most sense. “I cannot believe you thought that was a good idea.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said dryly, dropping back into his seat. “It went a bit like that.”</p><p>Ginny laughed.</p><p>“What happened to the car?” Hermione asked. George glanced at Fred.</p><p>“We keep it at the cottage,” Fred said, poorly restraining his laughter.</p><p>Hermione gasped. “You mean it’s still—”</p><p>“Right on schedule,” George said, staring straight ahead and lifting his own cup. “Can’t sell it—it’s not supposed to exist. And I’m not going to blow the ruddy thing up. Not with how much work I put in.”</p><p>“I’m so glad we get a re-do of this,” Ginny whispered, grinning at Percy, Charlie, and Ron. “You lot missed the first time around.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” Ron said, sounding bored.</p><p>“I could’ve done without, truth be told,” George said, but the remark had a playful lilt, and he nudged his hand against hers under the table. Hermione pulled away, still a bit miffed.</p><p>She lifted her chin. “Does it still fly?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Merlin’s Beard. Her throat wouldn’t stop burning. She blinked.</p><p>George sighed. “By nature, yes,” he said. Hermione gasped. George huffed. “Give me a break, Love. I’d have to take the whole thing down to bits and bolts to undo that.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed in disbelief and folded her arm. “The blatant disregard, I mean, your own father’s former department at the Ministry even—”</p><p>“Where d’you think he got the idea?” Fred called.</p><p>“That’s beside the point—” Hermione started, turning to Fred.</p><p>“You didn’t seem to mind it, last time we drove,” George said, staring into the remainder of his drink. He quirked his brows, and his tone was a touch smug.</p><p>Fred barked out a laugh.</p><p>Hermione faltered. “What?” she asked.</p><p>“You seemed rather enamored with it, actually,” George said, glancing at her in amusement. He drained his glass. A pink tinge flushed his cheeks.</p><p>Surely not.</p><p>“You’re winding me up,” Hermione said, brisk and clipped.</p><p>George leaned over the table, bracing on his elbow as he smiled at her. “See, Granger, you’ve got a bit of a thing for flying with me,” he said. His forearm stretched past the surface in front of her, and he tapped the wood grain under his hand with an index finger.  </p><p>“As if,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I hate heights.” She looked him up and down, searching for the tell that he was lying, but the only thing she found was a self-satisfied smirk.</p><p>George eased his other arm back around her shoulders, and a mirthful spark flared in his eyes. He was—he was quite close, now. Hermione’s face heated. How had he gotten his arms about her like this? And why was she so thrilled?</p><p>He was giving her that blasted grin, and the glow from his touch blossomed through her shoulders. “Brooms. Cars. Hover charms. Hippogriffs.” He paused, adding lowly. “Dragons.”</p><p>At this, Hermione forced out a scoff. There was no way she’d ever get on a dragon again.</p><p>George didn’t falter. “You’ve always turned to goo the moment we leave the ground.” His tone was self-satisfied and mind-numbingly arrogant, and there was absolutely no reason for her to want to snog him, but—</p><p>“Gross,” Ron said, taking a swig.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and leaned back. George’s arm didn’t slip from its place around her.</p><p>Well. That was alright.</p><p>She took a steadying breath, trying to regain ground. “I think you’re bluffing,” she said.</p><p>Rats, she sounded flustered.</p><p>She braced herself and tried to settle before continuing. “I mean, if that’s true, then why haven’t you taken me up since January?”</p><p>“Because if I’d explained that before late March or April, you’d have locked yourself in your room and thrown away the key,” George said, looking at her wryly.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Hermione looked at her hands. Would she have?</p><p>His smile faded. “Sorry, Granger, that was a poor joke,” he said, more softly. “But, um—I didn’t want to overwhelm you or make you feel like I expected anything like that because I didn’t.” He paused. “Still don’t. Not unless you’re keen.” He said it casually, but she knew he meant it.</p><p>“I understand,” Hermione said quietly, peeking up at him.</p><p>George shrugged. “Anyways, and since April, we’ve been a bit busy.” Some of the spark in his gaze slipped away, and he glanced down, tapping his glass on the table.</p><p>“Blimey, April?” Ron asked, incredulous. “Did it really take you that long?”</p><p>Hermione stilled. She blinked, the tips of her ears burning at the remark. It had taken her a rather long while to feel comfortable with the idea of her and George. She’d—she’d thought that was okay. George had said it was fine.</p><p>“Don’t be a nosy prat,” George said lightly, then turned to Ginny with a smile. “So, how are the Harpies looking for next month, Gin?”</p><p>“Just seems odd, given how it went the first time around,” Ron continued, muttering.</p><p>George’s expression darkened, and the remainder of his mirth faded. “Not that it’s any of your business, but you’ve got the wrong idea about the first time,” George said, not looking at him.</p><p>“Stop lying,” Ron said. “I’ve seen the bloody photos.”</p><p>George’s fist clenched on the table.</p><p>“Ron—” Ginny started hurriedly.</p><p>“You know nothing,” George said quietly. “You know absolutely nothing.” Suddenly, he stood, turning to Bill. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Let me know if Mum needs anything.”</p><p>Hermione blinked as George stalked from the table, heading up the stairs.</p><p>No one spoke. Not until Fred leaned forward and folded his hands over his drink.</p><p>“Rather not do a round two,” Fred said, snorting. “But if it comes to it—”</p><p>“Not this again,” Bill said, tipping his head back and staring dully at the ceiling.</p><p>“—not even Bill will be able to save you,” Fred finished, laughing coldly. “Not this time.”</p><p>Hermione faltered. What was that supposed to mean?</p><p>Percy sighed loudly. “Please, let’s not. Mother’s ill.”</p><p>At the reminder, everyone quieted.</p><p>But then, Ron scoffed and tipped his drink back, looking at Fred. “Come off it. It’s not like I’m going to duel him,” he muttered. “I just don’t care to be lied to.”</p><p>Enough.</p><p>Hermione stood. “Ronald,” she said. “I don’t know to which photos you’re referring, but if George says you’re misunderstanding, then you are.” Her hands were tight fists at her sides.</p><p>“There’s quite a few,” Ron said with a rueful smile. “You’re even snogging in some.” His tone sounded bored and annoyed. “I don’t even care much anymore, except that he’s still lying—”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Hermione cut in, tilting her head. The drink burned in her throat, in her chest, in her stomach. She braced her hands on the table and stared hard at Ron. “Were we still dating, when these were taken?”</p><p>“Here we go,” Bill muttered.</p><p>Ron hesitated.</p><p>“Then I fail to see how it’s any of your concern,” Hermione said. Her voice snapped with an edge, and she didn’t try to tame it. “If I snogged George, that’s between me and him.”</p><p>“Here, here!” Fred said. Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned in further, speaking in a softer tone. “Look, I’m fairly certain that George wants to work on his relationship with you, and I fully support that. But that’s not going to happen if you don’t give him a chance and quit expecting the worst from him.”</p><p>Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione kept going. “You’re one of my oldest friends,” she entreated, almost pleading with him. “And now you’re family.”</p><p>Ron balked. “He’s the one—”</p><p>“All that being said,” Hermione cut him off again, and the tip of her tongue cleaved fire over her teeth as her voice shifted into a hiss. “If you call George a liar again, I’ll rip your hand right off that clock and feed it to you.”</p><p>Ron’s nostrils flared.</p><p>Charlie whistled lowly.</p><p>“That’s a new one,” Ginny said, as though she were remarking on a colorful sunset.</p><p>“I’m certain you’re speaking figuratively, but please don’t,” Percy said mildly. “It’s an antique, and it’s been in our family for generations.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed, and she looked down at the table. “Sorry,” she said. “But he shouldn’t say that about George.” She glanced up.</p><p>Charlie’s look was warm.</p><p>“No harm done. I think we’re all a little touchy tonight, given everything,” Bill said quietly. “Myself included.”</p><p>“I’m not touchy,” Percy said. “I’m just trying to avoid catastrophe.”</p><p>Ron scoffed at Percy. “That wasn’t that bad. Not like ’02.” He’d relaxed already, seeming unphased. Hermione blinked. Ron continued, appearing unconcerned as he took a sip from his drink. “Now, ’02 was a bloody disaster.”</p><p>“Really?” Bill said, skeptical. “I’d argue that ’99 is still our peak.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, you would say that,” Fred said, snorting.</p><p>Ron rubbed his hands over his face. “Let’s not talk about ’99.”</p><p>The conversation had moved forward, and Hermione felt lost amidst the cadence of voices and dates that she couldn’t recall. “What happened in ’99?” she asked, turning between Ron and Bill.</p><p>“Bill lost a few fingers,” Ginny said.</p><p>“They put them right back on again,” Ron muttered. “S’not like it was permanent.”</p><p>“Yes, that makes it better,” Bill said, sticking Ron with a dry stare.</p><p>Fingers?</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>“Um—don’t mention that to Mum, by the way,” Bill said, glancing at her.</p><p>Percy’s face suddenly went red. “Why not?” he asked.</p><p>“Because she’d go ballistic,” Bill said, scoffing.</p><p>Percy bit his lips together.</p><p>“Perce—” Bill said tiredly. “Tell me you didn’t.”</p><p>“I mentioned in passing, a while back, I didn’t—” Percy’s voice faded. Her head felt strange, sort of buzzy. Hermione blinked hard. Slowly, she backed away from the table.</p><p>“Hermione, are you feeling alright?” Charlie asked suddenly.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “I think so,” she said. “I, um, don’t usually have Firewhiskey, so—”</p><p>Bill winced. “Sorry, forgot.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Hermione said. “I think I’m just a bit tired.”</p><p>Charlie swung his legs from Bill’s chair. “I’ll walk you up,” he said. “George would kill us if you split your head on the stairs.”</p><p>“I’m perfectly capable,” she started, but as she stepped back, her legs swayed a bit.</p><p>Charlie grabbed her arm. “Definitely,” he said. “Just a precaution.” His tone was light and friendly, but Hermione’s face burned as he helped her across the room and up the staircase. Hermione took the steps one at a time, and Charlie made no comment.</p><p>Where was she supposed to sleep?</p><p>She’d better ask George. He would know.</p><p>She worked her way up the stairs, pausing at the landings. Where would he be? There were so many rooms. Some of them had been repurposed—she knew Ginny’s old room was a nursery for the grandchildren, now.</p><p>So, not there.</p><p>Charlie seemed to gather the reason for her hesitation. “He’ll be in their old room,” he said, keeping his hand on her arm as he pulled her up another flight. They continued until they reached the door with the carved, wooden sign on it.</p><p>“<em>Gred and Forge: Keep Out</em>.”</p><p>Hermione tripped over an uneven stair, and Charlie pulled her upright, tugging her arm over his shoulder without comment. He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.</p><p>George sat on the floor, head tipped against the bed and eyes closed. As the door swung wide, he looked up at them.</p><p>“Your bride, Sir,” Charlie said, booming and jovial as he pulled her over the threshold.</p><p>George started for them. “Hermione,” he said, eyes going round. “Merlin, are you alright?”</p><p>“She’s a little wobbly, but no spills,” Charlie said, grinning as he handed her off.</p><p>If only she could crawl under the house and die.</p><p>George’s arm was steady around her, but the concern on his face made her wince. “Bugger,” he said, studying her. “I forgot about the Firewhiskey. Probably shouldn’t have left you down there alone—I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s alright; I’m fine,” she said, hiding her face in her hands.</p><p>“You missed a good row,” Charlie whispered. “Ron called you a liar again, and then this little miscreant rioted.”</p><p>George’s hand paused on its path up and down her arm.</p><p>Oh, please no.</p><p>“Threatened to—oh, what was it—”</p><p>“Charlie, please,” Hermione said, but Charlie kept going.</p><p>“—Tear his hand off the clock and stuff it down his throat if he said it again,” Charlie crowed. “Good fun.”</p><p>“He’s making it sound so much worse than it was,” Hermione said, twisting to glare at Charlie. The room spun a little.</p><p>Charlie laughed. “Not to worry, it’s mostly patched over, but you may want to have a word with him after things settle,” he said, glancing at George.</p><p>“Okay,” George said. He glanced down at Hermione, and his expression was warm and soft.</p><p>“Good man,” Charlie said, shoving at George’s arm. His voice went low and conspiratorial. “Between the two of us, he deserved it, but I’m supposed to remain neutral in these affairs.”</p><p>“I’m sure,” George said, still watching her. “Thanks, Mate.”</p><p>Charlie nodded and bounded from the room.</p><p>“I’d kiss you, if you weren’t plastered,” George said, breaking into a grin.</p><p>Hermione groaned buried her face in her hands. “I’m not plastered, Merlin.” George breathed out a laugh and squeezed her a bit.</p><p>“I know, I’m only joking,” George replied. “But you are a little woozy, so why don’t I—” he grunted as he hoisted her up, scooping an arm under her knees and shoulders. “—help you over here—” he said, carrying her to the bed he’d been leaning against. “—and fetch you something to clear your head.” He settled her onto the quilt and strode from the room.</p><p>Hermione gritted her teeth, willing the strange, burning feeling to fade from her throat and stomach. What had she been thinking? Normally, she paced herself through a single Butterbeer, and she’d just impulsively downed a whole glass something far stronger like it was nothing.</p><p>She was still berating herself when George returned, vial of dark, blue liquid in hand. He hurried over and slipped a hand under her head. “Bounce-back Brew,” he said. “Won’t fix it, but it’ll make you feel more normal at least.”</p><p>Hermione took the glass and drank it down. It was mostly tasteless, save for a strange, metallic hint near the end. “Thanks,” she said weakly. George vanished the empty vial. The swimming and burning sensations faded, and she sat up the rest of the way, then stood.</p><p>No spinning.</p><p>She exhaled. “That’s better,” she said, blinking.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said faintly. He watched her carefully, though, like she might slip over at any moment. Hermione bit her lips together and walked to the window.</p><p>She couldn’t very well go back downstairs, and she wasn’t sure what to say.</p><p>“Is everyone staying here tonight, then?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded. “I reckon so. It’s the safest place, currently, and I don’t think anyone wants to leave until Mum’s… better.”</p><p>She frowned. “How will we all fit?” she asked.</p><p>George paced to her side and ticked the people off on his fingers. “Ron will probably take the couch. Bill and Fleur will take the attic, Charlie and Percy will take Percy’s old room, and Fred and Angie usually take the room Bill and Charlie used to share. Ginny and Harry sometimes split the nursery down the middle and sleep there, but since Harry’s got so much security on Grimmauld, he may take Teddy and Gin back to his place. I’m not certain. There are more fighters here, in case of an emergency, but he’s got his own wards and things at Grimmauld—” George rambled, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.</p><p>He hadn’t answered her real question.</p><p>“So where do I sleep?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George shrugged and frowned, playing at nonchalance. “Oh, you’ve always slept on the living room floor, actually.”</p><p>Hermione gently smacked at his shoulder.</p><p>“Usually, you’re with me,” George said, more serious this time. “But, um—” His brow furrowed and he stared out the window. The orchard trees swayed in the night breeze. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do tonight.” He stared at the opposite wall. “I was thinking I can move one of the beds in to stay with Charlie and Perce, or—”</p><p>“That’s hardly necessary,” Hermione said. “I’ll just take your old bed, and you can take Fred’s.”</p><p>George was quiet a moment.</p><p>“If that’s okay?” Hermione added softly.</p><p>George nodded. “Yeah, if you’re sure?” he asked.</p><p>“Please, it’s hardly the first time we’ve slept in the same room,” Hermione said, pushing away from the window frame. George’s face was pink.</p><p>“Well, that one’s mine,” he said, clearing his throat and glancing at the bed he’d put her on.</p><p>Hermione grinned. “I gathered that much,” she said. The blanket on George’s was a solid purple. Fred’s, meanwhile, was green and orange checkered.</p><p>She flopped back on the purple quilt.</p><p>The ceiling over the spot was covered in writing. Numbers, brewing equations, spell words, jokes, random bits of thought. The oldest ink peeked in a faded black from beneath the newer bits, which looked to have been inscribed in a glowing gold.</p><p>“You write on the walls?” she asked, studying it. She clapped her palm over her mouth. Some of it was in her handwriting.</p><p>“Sometimes, yeah,” George said, snorting as he looked up.</p><p>“<em>Names</em>,” caught her eye, and she peered at the list of bullet points under it. <em>“Remus.” “Percival.” “Luna.” “Minerva.” </em>The list went on, almost all names of their friends and family, with a few she didn’t recognize. “<em>Harry-Chosen-One-Potter Boy-Who-Lived</em>” was scratched out near the top. What was that about?</p><p>“Used to more when I was younger, but sometimes we add to it when we stay here,” George continued.</p><p>“How did we get the writing all the way up there?” she asked.</p><p>“Hover charm,” George said. She glanced at him. He was biting back a grin, staring with marked determination at the ceiling.</p><p>“Very cheeky, Weasley,” she said.</p><p>George’s eyes twinkled. “Only for you,” he said, glancing down with a wink. Hermione laughed, and a pleasant tingle danced over her ears and across her cheeks. His gaze lingered a moment, taking her in.</p><p>Then, he puffed out a short breath and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, you should get some sleep,” George said, smiling warmly at her before crossing back to the window.</p><p>Hermione kicked under the covers.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>It smelled like him. How was that possible? After years, the blankets smelled like nutmeg and cinnamon and—</p><p>She took a deep breath, and her whole body warmed from crown to foot.</p><p>“Goodnight, Hermione,” George said quietly. Hermione blinked up at him. He flicked off the light, and the space was lit only by the faint glow of the scrawl on the ceiling. Across the room, the other bed creaked.</p><p>“Wait,” she said. Suddenly, she found herself crawling out, then grunting as she grabbed hold of the frame.</p><p>“What’re you doing, Granger?” George’s voice was faint and bemused.</p><p>It came away from the wall with a squeak, and she dragged it across the floor, until it was almost just beside his. Then she crawled back in, pulling the covers up to her chin.</p><p>George blinked at her from his pillow. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered.</p><p>Hermione grinned. He gave her a small smile.</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked quietly.</p><p>“Yes, Love?” he replied, watching her with an eagerness.</p><p>“I-I think you and Ron would benefit, from talking with a professional,” she whispered.</p><p>George exhaled. His expression shifted, taking on a bit of resignation. “Yeah,” he said. “I agree, but I don’t know that he’d be willing to go.”</p><p>“If he was, though?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“I’d give it a go,” George said. He paused. “Is this something you want?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and nodded.</p><p>“Then I’ll do my best,” he whispered. His gaze flickered over her, and slowly, a faint rose color filtered over his face. Suddenly, he turned, facing the ceiling. He cleared his throat.</p><p>“Night,” George said.</p><p>Hermione stretched her hand out, until she found his in the dark.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 8 a.m.</p><p>When she woke the next morning, George lay on the other bed, but his arm was sprawled out over the small gap, and his hand was tangled with hers in the blankets. He was awake, watching her quietly with a faint smile.</p><p>“Hi,” he whispered.</p><p>His hair was a mess of copper going every which way, and his brown eyes were warm.</p><p>She broke into giggles.</p><p>He drew his brows together, smiling. “Something particularly funny?” he asked.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said. “You just—” She couldn’t find a way to articulate it the bubbly feeling in her chest, or the reason it had for being there.</p><p>George snorted. “Right.” He propped himself up on an elbow. He still wore the jumper from the day before. Had he fallen asleep in his day clothes?</p><p>“So, today, I thought we could—” He scratched the side of his nose, starting in on suggestions for a rough itinerary, as though he’d woken and had this conversation with her a thousand times before.</p><p>He probably had.</p><p>“Hermione?” George paused. “Are you with me, Darling?” He tilted his head, searching her face.</p><p>Heat flooded her ears.</p><p>“Pardon?” she asked.</p><p>George squeezed her hand. He had yet to let go, and the warm pulse strobed between their fingers. “I was just saying that I’d like to stop by the flat this morning to check in and maybe grab a few things, and then I thought we could help out here for a while before we go to your parents’ place.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “What time will the volunteer team leave?” she asked.</p><p>“Around dark,” George said. “When I stopped by yesterday, I spoke with them, and they said they’d be happy to have us for the evening, but I think they’re a bit stressed.” George stared at the ceiling in concentration. “I tried to reassure them that this isn’t going to be like last time, but they changed the subject. I don’t think that’s something they care to hear from me.” he said.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “I should’ve gone with,” she said.</p><p>George sighed and tilted his face back to look at her, a bit wryly. “I tried to wake you, but you weren’t having it.” He snorted. “I figured you could probably use the sleep after my third try.”</p><p>Hermione hid her face in the pillow. “Oh.”</p><p>“So, how about it?” George said, tone brightening as he propped his head on his hand. “Shop, then here, then there?”</p><p>“I suppose,” Hermione said. “There’s a lot to do.”</p><p>A lot of people, a lot of things to keep an eye on.</p><p>A lot of bad that could happen.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. His thumb travelled over her hand. “We’ll sort it.” He squeezed her hand, and Hermione smiled their entwined fingers, fascinated. The purple quilt pooled under their hands.</p><p>Neither of them rose.</p><p>He cleared his throat.</p><p>“Any chance I’ll get another good morning kiss, today?” he asked, tone nonchalant as he glanced around the room.</p><p>Hermione pretended to puzzle over it. “Alright Weasley,” she said, teasing. “But just one.” She smiled and tugged his hand. George grinned and scrambled over, flopping on top of the quilt at the edge of her mattress. His shoulder bumped hers. It was a bit clumsy, as he hadn’t let go of her hand. But she didn’t mind.</p><p>She didn’t mind at all.</p><p>Hermione scooted over to allow him more room, and he laughed, shifting closer. His eyes were bright as stars. “Right,” he said, grinning wildly as he leaned down.</p><p>He exhaled through his nose as he pushed a light kiss to her lips.</p><p>The magic felt like butterflies.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut.</p><p>He tilted his head, kissing the corner of her mouth, now. “This-this still counts as one,” he mumbled.</p><p>“That makes sense,” Hermione said, nodding a little as she breathed out a laugh. George travelled over her cheek, trailing sparks with each touch of his mouth.</p><p>“Still the same one,” he said, voice tinged with mirth. He lifted his thumb to her chin and tipped her head to adjust the angle. Then, he began to apply the same treatment to the other side of her face.</p><p>Hermione slipped a hand into his hair. “Sound logic,” she said, playing at seriousness. George grinned and made a keen sounding hum. His nose brushed her cheek, just below her eye.</p><p>“I think so. Glad you agree,” he said. George’s hand fell to her shoulder, and he gave her a gentle squeeze before finally returning to her mouth, pressing a bit closer. Hermione sighed. Magic thrummed under her sternum, warm and wonderful, spinning in pace with his touch. At the foot of the bed, she could feel his feet twisting a little, fidgeting as he laid the kiss on her. Hermione peeked down, then up at him in amusement. George’s eyes were still closed, and his brow furrowed a bit as he pressed the kiss into her, tilting his head.</p><p>Something about it was endearing and delightful, all at once, and Hermione couldn’t help but breathe out a quiet giggle.</p><p>George pulled away, tipping his chin down and to the side as he steadied his breath. “Merlin, you’re wonderful,” he muttered. Then, he wavered for a moment, as though fighting himself before he darted back up and kissed her again.</p><p>The light swirled brighter in her ribs, and she closed her eyes.</p><p>“I think that’s two,” she said, grinning against his mouth.</p><p>“Oh, sue me,” he mumbled, lifting his hand to her face as he went for a third.</p><p>“We’ll allow it,” she whispered. George broke into a smile, and his thumb stroked over her cheek as he brushed his mouth along hers.</p><p>After a few moments, he pulled away, and the pink tinge on his face sent a jolt of happiness through her chest.</p><p>“You’re a little twitchy this morning,” she said, looking pointedly at his striped socks. George laughed.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, exhaling through his nose as his smile took on a wry quality. “Never had that quirk before you.” He lifted his brows. “First time it happened, I didn’t pay it much mind.” He snorted. “But then it kept happening, often when you were around.” He shrugged, fixing his eyes on his socks. “It’s just a fidget I get when I’m rather happy, particularly with you.”  </p><p>Her insides lit like a firecracker at his words, and she laughed.</p><p>He shook his head ruefully and glanced up at her. “When you sorted it out, you teased me mercilessly.”</p><p>“What did I say?” she asked, grinning.</p><p>“Well—” George said, leaning in, taking up her hand again.</p><p>A wild clanging echoed from the hall. “Up and at ‘em, Mates!” Charlie’s shout rang loudly. “We’ve got to clear the shed out.”</p><p>“Oh, bugger,” George whispered, halting over her. “That’ll take ages.”</p><p>“We decent?” Charlie yelled.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she called hurriedly.</p><p>
  <em>Honestly.</em>
</p><p>But then she realized why the question had been asked as the door banged open, and Charlie swung through the frame. His gaze lit on George and Hermione, and he cracked into a broad grin.</p><p>“Aw, that’s disgusting,” he drawled.</p><p>George dragged his free hand over his face. “Great. Leave,” he said.</p><p>“What’s disgusting?” Fred called. The other redhead popped into view behind Charlie’s shoulder. His eyes widened. “Nice, Granger!” he shouted, exuberant.</p><p>“Go away,” George groaned, flopping onto his back at her side.</p><p>“Is everything alright?” Harry’s voice filtered from further up down the staircase.</p><p>“It’s brilliant,” Fred said, smirking. “Innit, Georgie?”</p><p>“Oi!” George shouted. He snapped, summoning a dented beater’s bat from the corner. It smacked into George’s hand, and he chucked it. Hard. Right as it landed, Harry strode into view. The bat banged against the wall, just beside Harry’s head, and he jumped.</p><p>“Merlin, George,” Harry said. He frowned at the bat, then looked up. He paused. “Oh.” Harry coughed, spun abruptly on his heel, and swung the door shut.</p><p>“We’ll be making breakfast soon,” Harry called. “Come down when you’re ready.”</p><p>Hermione’s face had never been so warm.</p><p>“They’re going to help with the shed, though. Aren’t they?” Percy’s annoyed tone echoed over the shushing noises on the other side of the wood.</p><p>“We’ll do the shed later,” Harry’s amused voice faded as laughter sang through the twisted staircase, and the footsteps slowly tromped away.</p><p>“When we get downstairs, I’ll hold Fred down, and you can hex his eyebrows off,” George said. His tone was a bit hesitant, and he glanced over, checking her expression.</p><p>“Angelina would be furious,” Hermione said. George snorted.</p><p>“You kidding? She’d help,” he said. He swung his feet off the end of the bed, stood, and held out a hand. She grasped it, and he pulled her upright.</p><p>“Breakfast first, or should we hurry by the flat, then come back for food?” he asked.</p><p>“I’d rather stop by the flat first,” she said. “It gives them time to get the immaturity out of their system before we have to deal with it.”</p><p>George sighed. “There’s not enough time in the world for that end, Granger.”</p><p>With that quip, he shoved his bed back to its original spot. Together, they gathered their wands, and George offered his arm.</p><p>They popped into the living room, pulled on their shoes, and hopped into the floo.</p><p>“We’re stopping by the flat,” George shouted. “We’ll be back in twenty!”</p><p>The powder hit the grate before any of the others could make a single wisecrack.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 8:25 a.m.</p><p>Hermione stepped from the hearth.</p><p>A ringing emanated from the floorboards, and George frowned.</p><p>“Is everything alright?” Hermione asked. It was rather loud, considering the insulation between their living space and the shop.</p><p>“That’s the mail order alarm,” he muttered. “Probably left it alone too long.” He dusted ash from his shoulder. “It’s a decent system, but it can’t produce and ship anything terribly complicated. So, it gets backed up from time to time, if enough orders for some of our trickier products come in.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Or sometimes it gets temperamental and can’t keep up with automated shipments for no reason at all.” He strode towards the office. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort it.” He flicked his wand, and a Muffliato splashed over the floor. The ringing faded a bit.</p><p>He sighed. “Should probably grab a change of clothes first,” he said. “And you should too. Take anything you think you’ll want in the next day or so.” He hesitated. “Actually, anything that you’d be afraid to not have access to, in case of an emergency.”</p><p>Hermione watched him. He stared at the clutter that had been left on the coffee table—some papers, a water glass, a few bobby pins. It was like the masquerade had never happened, almost. Time felt frozen at the Burrow, and now that they were here, it hit her like a lightning bolt.</p><p>They had one day left on the fine.</p><p>He’d said in case of an emergency. Hermione hesitated, staring at him.</p><p>An emergency like losing the flat?</p><p>George rubbed the back of his neck. “Just a precaution,” he said.</p><p>“They can’t evict right away, if we don’t make the deadline?” Hermione asked.</p><p>He faltered. “I meant more like if another attack happened, but, that’s something to think about.” George looked queasy. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “To answer your question—not easily,” he said, a bit strained. “We’ve paid the rent already. Just not the fine. It’ll take a bit for them to process that paperwork, if, um—”</p><p>He couldn’t bring himself to say it, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze.</p><p>“Right,” Hermione said. “Well, that Gringotts owl might still turn up.”</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. “It could. Lee and Fred are going to try to meet with them again today.”</p><p>He didn’t sound particularly hopeful.</p><p>Hermione nodded as she headed for the bedroom to pack a bag.</p><p>Clothes and toiletries first. Pajamas. A hunter-green jumper and a blue, denim jacket. Books. Journal. <em>Magical Tradition</em>. Notes. Daydream Charm. She swept it all in, layering George’s jumper collection between the more fragile items.</p><p>She was good at packing bags. The trick to a good extension charm was to push it only as far as you needed. No more. It helped keep the enchantment’s strength, and it was less likely to fade with use. Conservation of energy. Conservation of magic.</p><p>She’d done it before, and she could do it again.</p><p>George had looked broken in the hallway.</p><p>The quills rattled in their wooden case, and Hermione swallowed back the lump in her throat as she stuffed them on top.</p><p>Conservation of George—now that was a different matter.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 9:05 a.m.</p><p>They’d taken a bit longer than intended gathering things, and they’d been gone from the Burrow nearly thirty minutes by the time they headed down the spiral staircase to the shop. The alarm was far louder down here.</p><p>“Plug your ears, Love,” George shouted, then shoved the door open. Hermione clamped her hands to the sides of her head, hurrying after him. The workshop buzzed in the dark, and George hurriedly caste a sequence of charms.</p><p>The alarm cut, and the room lit.</p><p>“What in Helga’s Green Garden,” he muttered, striding to the long worksurface on the opposite wall. A singular envelop lay there, and the light over the corkboard strobed red. “Only one? Usually it takes dozens.”</p><p>He tore the envelop open. “Charm’s probably getting old,” he muttered. “Just like everything else in this blasted—” He pulled the parchment from the envelop, trailing off as he unfolded it. Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>George faltered, and stumbled back into the table with a clunk.</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Godric’s Ghost,” he said, voice hollow. “That git.” His face was white.</p><p>“What?” Hermione hurried forward, leaning over his shoulder.</p><p>“<em>Don’t be mad</em>.” Harry’s scrawl marched over the top of the page.</p><p>Underneath, there were rows and rows of orders. For countless Snackboxes and Star Kits and Sticky Shoes and Glow Ink. For Trains and Sugar Quills and Trick Wands and loads of sweets. Knitting Kits. Blaze Boxes. Extendable Ears. Shield Hats. And exactly <em>one</em> Decoy Detonator. She stared, shocked.</p><p>The math began to spin in her head as she frantically added the amounts in the right-hand column.</p><p>“I threw a bat at him this morning,” George said hoarsely, blinking at the parchment.</p><p>At the total near the bottom.</p><p>The cost of manufacturing, materials, and production usually left them with about ten to fifteen percent profit margin, and Harry had known. He’d seen the record book on the counter.</p><p>He’d calculated it—down to the last Sickle.</p><p>Hermione sobbed.</p><p>Harry James Potter had placed a ten thousand Galleon order.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 9:13 a.m.</p><p>The floo’s green flame roared in their ears, and George didn’t bother to kick his boots off as he stumbled into the Burrow. “They’re back,” Charlie called, not looking up from the paper as he laid on the sofa.</p><p>“Harry,” George shouted. The parchment was clenched in his fist as he tore around the corner, and Hermione darted after him.</p><p>Fred balked as they entered, stopping short in his conversation with Angelina at the far end of the table. “Alright, George?” he asked, staring at George’s wild expression.</p><p>“That was longer than you said it would be,” Percy said. He snapped his scuffed pocket watch shut and frowned at Hermione, then George. “I was about to leave to check on you.” Then, he lifted a thick book from the table and returned to reading.</p><p>Harry looked up from the counter, where he’d been calmly applying butter to a slice of toast. “We’re out of blackberry jam,” he said regretfully. “Charlie ate the rest.”</p><p>George lifted the parchment, breathing hard.</p><p>Harry didn’t flinch. “Told you I’d sort the toys,” he said mildly. The toast crunched as he took a bite.</p><p>“Bloody Hell, for the whole of Britain?” George choked.</p><p>“I figure what the children’s home can’t use, the kids at Hogwarts might,” Harry said. “Come watch the frying pan.” He chewed unconcernedly, leaning against the countertop.</p><p>“Harry?” Fred asked as he stood, brow furrowed. George gawked at Harry as Fred pulled the parchment from his hand.</p><p>“You’re unbelievable,” George said weakly. “We said no to a thousand Galleons, so you did this?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Harry said, shuffling to the pan on the stovetop when it became apparent that George’s feet were stuck to the floor. He stirred the eggs without further remark.</p><p>“Is this a joke?” Fred asked quietly, glancing up from the order form.</p><p>“No,” Harry said.</p><p>“Harry, you can’t possibly—” George started.</p><p>“It barely made a dent,” Harry drawled. “Now either help with breakfast or sit down and shut up.”</p><p>“Good Godric,” Charlie said, peeking over Fred’s shoulder. “Why do any of us work for a living?”</p><p>“We can’t possibly repay you for this, Mate,” George said, sounding torn. His face was pinched as he approached Harry.</p><p>Harry paused and glanced at him. “Say we call it even on the ear, then,” he said, nodding at George’s scar.</p><p>“Deal,” Fred said instantly, tossing the parchment onto the table.</p><p>George snorted, cocking a brow at Fred. “Not your ear, Mate,” he said.</p><p>“Nah, we both know it hurt me more,” Fred said as he waved George off. He bounced a little, suddenly giddy. “Right. I’ll owl Lee and Verity. We’ll need to ramp up production to meet this order. Blimey.” Fred was sunshine on his way out of the kitchen.</p><p>“Harry Potter,” Angelina said softly.</p><p>“Don’t be weird about it,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione crossed the floor, brushing past George.</p><p>“Mione,” Harry said, poking the spatula at the eggs. “Tell them they’re being weird.”</p><p>She slipped alongside of him, taking a spot in front of the pan. “Definitely,” Hermione said crisply. “As far as I’m concerned, you still owe at least sixty-thousand. An even ten for each year I saved your life.”</p><p>Harry smirked. “Fair.”</p><p>They looked at each other.</p><p>The shared understanding filtered between them, unspoken.</p><p>She swallowed the lump in her throat. Harry pretended not to notice and pushed the spatula into her hand.</p><p>“I’m going to hug you,” George said faintly.</p><p>“If you must,” Harry said, sighing.</p><p>George lunged and hoisted Harry off the ground. “You’re a right git,” he yelled. Harry laughed and shoved out of George’s grasp. “I’ll invent you anything you’d like,” George continued, tone eager. “Name it.”</p><p>“I’ll have to think on that one,” Harry said.  He leaned against the counter and summoned a glass container of orange juice from the fridge. George nudged the door shut after the carafe sailed free.</p><p>“Ron was right, by the way,” Harry said. “Shacklebolt’s asked me to take the department until Sturgis is well. It’s to be announced in today’s evening edition of <em>The Prophet</em>.”</p><p>“How are you feeling about that?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Like my name’s been plucked from a goblet I didn’t stick it in,” Harry said flatly.</p><p>Hermione winced.</p><p>“Every year, I get a bit more tired of the whole Auror business. I’d sort of like to retire. Maybe teach or something.” His tone softened, going wistful.</p><p>“You could do that,” Hermione said. “You’d be brilliant.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, but I’m needed elsewhere,” Harry said. He sounded resigned. The weight behind his words was a familiar one. George and Hermione looked at each other.</p><p>“We’re here with you,” Hermione said. “We’re not giving up. We’ll figure out who’s behind all this and put a stop to it,” she said. Harry dropped his gaze and nodded.</p><p>“What Granger said. And after all this,” George said softly. Then, he ducked his head and gave Harry a rueful smile. “If you ever fancy being framed for something ghastly, just to get you out of all of it—give us a call.”</p><p>Harry snorted and retreated from the kitchen to the dining table.  </p><p>Angelina’s voice was a quiet murmur.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Harry said. “It was sitting there, collecting dust. It would be doing me a favor if you never worried about it again. Okay?”</p><p>Hermione glanced out the window. Outside, Ginny, Bill, and Fleur jumped, racing around with Teddy, Angelo, and Victoire. Ron stood near the thicket, watching the sky with a frown. Victoire shrieked, and Fleur braced her hands on her knees, nodding eagerly. The back door swung open, and Angelina dashed out, scooping Angelo from the ground with a whoop.</p><p>“Anyways, that’s why we’ve got to clean out the shed,” Harry said quietly. “There are some investigations I don’t want to run out of the office.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“You think it’s that bad?” George asked.</p><p>“I don’t fancy the task force Vane’s assembling. Rather not have things for them to poke around in,” Harry said. He drummed his fingers on the table and loosened the button on his grey sleeve. Hermione turned the eggs onto a plate and went to crack another several in. “I’d rather overprepare for the worst and come away fine than underprepare and—” he went quiet, glancing at the master bedroom.</p><p>The door was still shut.</p><p>Harry’s neck flexed as he tightened his jaw.</p><p>“Probably smart,” Charlie said, dropping into the worn, green stool seat beside Harry’s mismatched dining chair. He lifted the parchment from the shop and scanned it. “You need a hit wizard, you let me know, Mate.”</p><p>“Seconded,” George said, pointing at Harry.</p><p>Hermione stilled. “Does that mean what I think it means?” she asked faintly.</p><p>“Oh, not exactly,” Harry said, flashing her a tired smile. “It’s not like a muggle hitman. They’re not aiming to kill, usually. We hire hit wizards to bring in Death Eaters from time to time. They can get access to spaces that known aurors have more trouble infiltrating.” He folded his hands on the table. “Technically, you were working under a hit wizard contract on the Knockturn Run.”</p><p>Hermione contorted her brow.</p><p>An acrid smell filtered under her nose. She whirled.</p><p>The eggs stuck to the pan’s bottom.</p><p>Rats.</p><p>Hermione cleared her throat and faced the pan. “George, you’d better help, or this breakfast won't be very edible.”</p><p>“Can’t have that,” George said, and he crossed the floor. But he didn’t nudge her aside. He hesitated, watching her. Then he took a breath and shifted, stepping just behind her.</p><p>George’s arm closed around Hermione’s. It was sort of like how she’d held his casting hand a few nights before. Only this time, he was guiding the spatula, not a wand.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, bemused.</p><p>“Helping,” George answered nonchalantly. “This alright?” He shifted his hand over hers, and the line of their arm connected, all the way up to the shoulder.</p><p>Hermione blinked. But then she nodded.</p><p>“Excellent,” George said, clearing his throat. He snapped softly over her other shoulder, and a few spice cannisters tumbled through the air, coming to rest on the workspace.</p><p>His chest brushed the back of her shoulders, just out of reach. Across the room, Charlie and Harry were chatting up a storm about dragon migration, but she couldn’t follow.</p><p>She was finding it rather difficult to focus, all the sudden.</p><p>“The trick to good eggs,” George started, speaking softly, just beside her neck. “Is to—”</p><p>“Are you making a pass, Weasley?” she whispered, meaning to tease him.</p><p>“Yes,” George said, quietly but in a matter-of-fact tone. Hermione’s eyes rounded, and George continued, unbothered. “Now, the trick to good eggs isn’t in the salt, like a lot of people think.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Hermione said, stepping backwards. He leaned in and closed the distance. A vibrant glow thrummed through her shoulder blades.</p><p>“Like most food, it’s in the company,” he murmured. His free hand grazed her other elbow. “Best eggs I ever had were full of shell.”</p><p>“When was that?” Hermione asked, snorting.</p><p>“You were there, Granger,” he said. “About three months ago.” His tone was low and amused as he pressed a kiss to her right ear.</p><p>Hermione turned to look at him. George watched the stovetop as he guided her hand, a lop-sided smile on his face.</p><p>“You mean the night of the rent hike?” she asked.</p><p>“That’s hardly the most prominent event of that night,” he muttered. “In fact, I ought to pen Vane a thank-you note for what his nonsense inspired you to do.”</p><p>“Make terrible eggs?” she asked, incredulous.</p><p>“You doted on me, all night,” he said, smiling. “Gave me compliments. Laughed at my jokes. Put on music and danced. We talked.” He cleared his throat. “But it wasn’t just that. It-it was the first time in ages that you’d acted like you belonged in the flat, rather than tiptoeing around like you were intruding.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“And the best part was how surprised and delighted you seemed, throughout the whole thing,” he said, a warm, distant look in his eyes. “Every time you made me smile, your eyes lit up, and Godric—” He breathed out a laugh. “Nearly undid me, that.”</p><p>His left hand shifted, brushing a curl behind her shoulder.</p><p>His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “You were so lovely, that towards the end, for a moment, I forgot about everything else.” Hermione turned the rest of the way and hugged him for a moment before returning her attention to the stovetop.</p><p>“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered. “There aren’t many memories that I can share with you like that.”</p><p>George bit his lips together and studied her. “They'll return. But in the meantime, best make some more, then,” he said, light and playful as he wrapped his left arm around the front of her shoulders, across her clavicles. He gave her a tight hug before dropping the arm to reach for some pepper.</p><p>Elation flooded her insides, and Hermione grinned.</p><p>It took a while to sort breakfast. George didn’t let go of her once the whole time, even though it was certainly less efficient, but they laughed their way through it, one step at a time. Together, they prepared multiple batches of eggs and bacon, then charmed the plates and serving dishes over to the table before finally heading over themselves.</p><p>Charlie rifled through his suitcase. “I have just the thing for this,” he said. A crackle popped across the room. For the first time that Hermione could recall, the antique record player which sat atop a stack of books in the corner came to life. Charlie grinned, and he stuck a vinyl down.</p><p>“I brought the happy stuff,” Charlie said. “Thought we’d need it, with everything.” He spun the cardboard sleeve in his hands, looking a bit grim. “World’s a load of rot, but music’s louder.”</p><p>Hermione brightened at the royal blue border on the cover. Four men smiled down at the camera, unmoving.</p><p>“You listen to muggle music too?” Hermione asked, excited.</p><p>Charlie turned back to her and tipped his head to the side as he frowned. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, recognition dawning. “You don’t remember.” He lowered the needle. “See, we used to listen to loads of things, back when Bill and I were small.” His voice went a bit quieter. “That was before Uncles passed, though. The others don’t remember it as well.”</p><p>The static popped.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said softly.</p><p>“I remember some,” Percy said, sounding a tad grumpy as he glanced up from his book.</p><p>“Not as much as Bill and I do,” Charlie replied. Percy huffed and flipped the page with perhaps more force than was necessary.</p><p>
  <em>“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better.”</em>
</p><p>Harry started to sing, nicking a plate from George, and they all laughed.</p><p>“We didn’t have the good stuff around for quite a while. Reckon it hurt her too much to hear it,” Charlie said, glancing at the master bedroom.</p><p>Hermione twisted the hem of her jacket sleeve, unsure of what to say.</p><p>She’d had no idea.</p><p>“But I suppose that’s changed, somewhat,” Charlie said, tone swinging bright again as he spoke over Harry’s racket. “From the way Bill tells it, a certain, plucky muggleborne dragged it back into the family.” He grinned at her.</p><p>
  <em>“Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better.”</em>
</p><p>At this, George nudged her arm.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “She didn’t mind?” she asked.</p><p>
  <em>“Hey Jude, don’t be afraid. You were made to go out and get her.”</em>
</p><p>“You’d have to ask her, I reckon, but I’ve caught her smiling more than a few times to the songs you choose,” George said. “Particularly the Abba ones.”</p><p>Charlie bounded to the back door and swung it open. “Oi!” he shouted. “Food’s done!”</p><p>
  <em>“The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better.” </em>
</p><p>The group tumbled in, boisterous and loud. Fred thundered down the stairs, ink streaking his jaw. “You’re in my seat, Miss,” he said, fixing Angelina with a stern look. Angie kicked her foot at him, laughing as Angelo reached up for him. Fred pulled him into his arms. “Alright, AJ, eggs or toast first?”</p><p>Bill crossed to the master bedroom and rapped lightly on the door. “Dad?” he asked. “We’ve got breakfast.”</p><p>“Not now.” Mr. Weasley’s reply was quiet and tense.</p><p>The boisterous energy slipped away.</p><p>“You’ve got to eat, Dad,” Bill said, sounding strained.</p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>“Is he okay?” Ginny whispered, glancing at Teddy before shooting Bill a concerned look.</p><p>“Only one way to find out,” Bill said. He worked his jaw, glancing from the bedroom door to the group.</p><p>“She’s still on a sleeping draught,” Charlie said. “It won’t bother her.”</p><p>Bill straightened his shoulders.</p><p>But he didn’t barge in.</p><p>No.</p><p>Instead, he strode to the record player.</p><p>Lifted the needle. Swapped the vinyl with the second one in the sleeve. He glanced back.</p><p>Charlie nodded. “Doesn’t matter what’s happening out there,” he said, glancing at the windows. “What’s the Prewett way?”</p><p>The question hit the room like lightning, and Fred, Percy, and George all seemed a bit startled at the words.</p><p>Bill’s look turned to steel. “We don’t back down,” he said, quiet but firm. He lowered the needle and paced to the middle of the table, across from Charlie.</p><p>Piano rang out.</p><p>Percy sprang to his feet. “No—I remember this one! We used to do this one with Uncles!” he shouted.</p><p>“Right you are, Perce!” Charlie yelled. He flicked his wand, and the volume cranked loud. Far, far louder than that battered, cracked turn table should’ve been able to play.</p><p>Then, Bill, Charlie, and Percy slammed their hands onto the tabletop and yelled the lyrics—with a few, notable changes that rang out over the speakers.</p><p>
  <em>“<strong>Arthur </strong>has a <strong>Burrow </strong>in the <strong>sunny place</strong>. Molly is the singer in a band.”</em>
</p><p>Bill bobbed his head to the beat, pulling clean plates from the stack and handing them to Charlie to fill.</p><p>
  <em>“<strong>Arthur </strong>says to Molly, ‘Girl, I like your face’ and Molly says this as she takes him by the hand—”</em>
</p><p>Charlie gave the filled dishes to Percy, who distributed them over the table. As they went, they bounced back and forth to the beat. Fred watched for a moment before picking it up. As he did, Bill faltered a little, looking at him strangely. Then George.</p><p>But then Bill shook himself free, and he kept singing.</p><p>
  <em>“Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, life goes on, bra. La-la, how life goes on.”</em>
</p><p>At the last bit, Fred twisted in a quick spin. The next time the lyric repeated, Charlie did it with him, then tugged George out of his chair. Not to be outdone, Ginny leapt to her feet, and finally Ron grudgingly stood.</p><p>After that, it turned to a game, seeing who could rile the children up the most.</p><p>Teddy shouted in laughter, and his hair went bright pink for a moment.</p><p>
  <em>“<strong>Arthur</strong> takes a<strong> thestral</strong> to the jeweler’s store. Buys a twenty carat golden ring.”</em>
</p><p>When the plates were full, the Weasley children stared at each other, then the bedroom door. The volume built ever higher.</p><p>A gauntlet.</p><p>
  <em>“Takes it back to Molly waiting at the door, and as he gives it to her she begins to sing.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione held her breath, watching the door.</p><p>Please, Mr. Weasley.</p><p>Surely, he’d realize his children needed to see him. If only for a few moments.</p><p>
  <em>“Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, life goes on, bra. La-la, how life goes on.”</em>
</p><p>George spun with the rest of them, then whipped his casting hand on beat. An orb of bluebell fire surged to life in his fingers, and he bounced it off his wrist to Fred.</p><p>The flame zipped around the table.</p><p>As they sang, they spared glances at the bedroom, each one more iron than the last, as though by carrying on they could make it well. Or at least ease it, for a while.</p><p>Bill and Charlie had a raw edge in their eyes as they sang now, but they kept going. Angelina, Harry, Hermione, and Fleur watched with a quiet appreciation at the great unburial of tradition as men they’d never met seemed to echo through the room, two decades after they’d gone.</p><p>This was harmony, seven voices blending amidst the world’s racket to make courageous music.</p><p>A new melody of mending.</p><p>The bedroom door creaked open, and Hermione turned in her seat to look.</p><p>Bill flung his hand behind him, cranking the volume down, and the group went silent.</p><p>Arthur stumbled out, blinking hard. He’d changed, at least, and now wore a familiar knitted vest over an oxford and some faded, corduroy trousers. But the shirt was untucked and lopsidedly buttoned. His face was pale and lined with exhaustion.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath.</p><p>“S’bit loud,” Mr. Weasley mumbled, shuffling toward the pantry.</p><p>“We’ve got food,” Bill called. He stared at his father with no small amount of desperation.</p><p>Mr. Weasley paused, and his gaze was tired as his eyes skimmed over his eldest son.</p><p>“If you’d like it,” Bill added, more quietly.</p><p>Arthur’s expression didn’t shift. He stood, shoulders hunched, watching Bill.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Bill said.</p><p>Harry clanked his fork noisily over his plate, and Hermione took the cue, loudly cutting her toast for no reason than to draw away from the awkwardness of the moment. Fleur’s hand drifted up, slipping into Bill’s.</p><p>Mr. Weasley looked at the floor, exhaling a little through his nose. He lifted a hand and tipped the palm towards himself, beckoning with a tired wave.</p><p>Bill hurried over.</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s mouth was a thin line when he met Bill’s eyes. Then he looked down and sighed.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Arthur mumbled. “I know.” He reached up, resting his hand on the side of Bill’s face for a second before dropping it to pat his shoulder a few times.</p><p>Bill nodded. “Okay,” he said.</p><p>Then, Mr. Weasley’s hand fell.</p><p>Bill swallowed. He backed away slowly before returning to the table.</p><p>The record played softly in the background, and silverware rattled over the dishes, like percussion for the faint hum of conversation that bubbled in pockets along the table.</p><p>Mr. Weasley took a deep breath, staring at his hands. He didn’t seem to hear the music. After a few moments, he turned and resumed his journey to the pantry.</p><p>George watched at her side, his expression tense but unreadable as Arthur disappeared. Then he turned, spearing his fork into his food. She laid a hand on his arm, and George spared her a warm look. Charlie was quiet, watching the table. Fred had taken up the task of feeding Angelo without getting it everywhere, and Percy had lifted his book once again.</p><p>But Hermione Jean? She watched that pantry.</p><p>After a moment, Mr. Weasley emerged, lifting a potion rack onto the counter. He blinked slowly and steadied himself with a hand on the cabinet.</p><p>Was he looking for something for Mrs. Weasley or himself?</p><p>Mr. Weasley seemed a little overwhelmed, hand faltering over the vials.</p><p>Hermione bolted to a stand. “Can I help you with anything, Dad?”</p><p>The dining area went silent as the steady harmony of silverware clinking came to an abrupt halt.</p><p>“No, Dear, that’s alright.” Mr. Weasley said, distracted as he searched through the potions. He seemed to find what he was searching for, nicking a red one from the Pepper-Up row, and returning to the bedroom.</p><p>He’d hardly disappeared through the door when he walked right back through it, steam pouring from his ears. He paused in the frame and stared at her. “Pardon, did you just call me Dad?” he asked, softly and with a little bit of confusion.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>Then, Mr. Weasley smiled for the first time in days.</p><p>It was faint and tired looking, but a genuine smile.</p><p>
  <em>“Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, life goes on, bra. La-la, how life goes on.”</em>
</p><p>As Mr. Weasley returned to the bedroom, he hummed along to the record.</p><p>This time, he left the door open.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Castles in the Air</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What do you want, George?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>First off: My deepest apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I got very carried away, and ended up writing over 30,000 words, which took ages longer to edit than I planned. </p><p>Second: Thank you so much for your kindness and encouragement, especially over my break! &lt;3 It was much appreciated. Thank you so much for reading, and for being wonderful. &lt;3 &lt;3 You all are lovely.</p><p>Third: This is one of those weeks where I didn't get much sleep (I had a lot of fun, though!!!), so I'm going to be posting the playlist and responding to last chapter's comments a bit late. &lt;3 I hope that's okay!! &lt;3</p><p>PLAYLIST: [To be edited]<br/>For now, I highly recommend "Vhs" by WYS. Also, this is a fun video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzfKkH6Juk0&amp;ab_channel=ASMRrooms. (I listened to it a lot while editing this week, and it's very cozy.) </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this storyworld or to these characters.</p><p>I hope you all had a lovely, wonderful week. </p><p>Grab your snack (I recommend chocolate chip biscuits this week), your drink (pumpkin juice or butterbeer, if you have it!), and your coziest duvet. Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Thirty-Four: “Castles in the Air”</h2><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>January 12, 1999, 1:45 p.m.</p><p>“So what’s this for?” Fred asked, eyeing the frothing pint. George shrugged and nudged the Butterbeer towards his brother before propping his crutch on the booth siding. Fred made to rise and help him, but George held up a hand, hobbling perfectly well on his own as he slid into the bench across from him.</p><p>George wiped his sleeve over his mouth and took up his own pint. “No reason,” he said lightly, bringing the drink to his mouth.</p><p>The Three Broomsticks bustled with mid-day activity. Hogsmeade denizens rushed in and out around the rough stack of logs near the fireplace. Some picked up late lunch orders while others settled around the bartop, where Rosmerta barked out names as she slid drinks across the worn, wooden surface. George hadn’t let his eyes stray once from the counter, plucking his and Fred’s right after they were called.</p><p>He really ought to speak to some of the other shopkeepers about security wards. Maybe some sort of device to keep waiting beverages safe. Perhaps Aberforth would help with it.</p><p>“You show up without warning in the middle of our workday to drag me out to a pub.” Fred’s tone was dry and he tapped a dragon leather shoe on the worn, red carpet beneath their table. “Where you tell me to sit, and then you buy me a drink, which, while appreciated, is highly irregular behavior from you.”</p><p>George shrugged and scrubbed his index finger over the dented table edge. “I’ve bought you pints before,” he said. It wasn’t that irregular. Sure, they usually handled their own bills these days, but it was all coming from the same place, wasn’t it?</p><p>“Yes, but not normally at this hour on a Tuesday. I’m usually the irresponsible one,” Fred said. “We planning on pulling a switch?”</p><p>George snorted.</p><p>“It’s just a pint,” he said. “Can’t I buy my brother a pint without it being an ordeal?”</p><p>Fred lifted his arm and dropped it over the bench back. “Not with that giddy look on your face, no,” he said.</p><p>George balked. “I don’t look giddy,” he said, perhaps a bit too quickly.</p><p>Fred’s brow lifted to his shaggy hairline. “Sure, Mate,” he said. “How’s Granger, by the way?”</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George’s cheeks went molten before he could stop it.</p><p>“Interesting,” Fred drawled.</p><p>“I’m just in a good mood, alright?” George said.</p><p>“Clearly,” Fred said lightly.</p><p>The Butterbeer settled warm in his stomach, and George smiled into the cup.</p><p>It was excellent Butterbeer. Warm. Sweet. Made him feel lit from head to foot. The froth gathered near the top like clouds.</p><p>“All I’m asking is if this has something to do with our favorite, ickle prefect,” Fred continued.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>No, the feeling in his chest was Butterbeer. That’s what it was.</p><p>Not, um—</p><p>Not the late hour he’d left Granger’s the night before. Not the way she’d laughed, so, so hard at his jokes. Not the way she seemed delighted to look after him a bit. Not the memory of how she’d held his face earlier that week, reading softly.</p><p>George kept his eyes trained on the thick layer of creamy foam. “No, Mate,” he said, but his voice cracked over the lie in a way it hadn’t in years.</p><p>Fred said nothing. When George finally brought his gaze to Fred’s, his brother was watching him with a knowing smirk.</p><p>George kicked him under the table.</p><p>#</p><p>January 13, 1999, 7:00 a.m.</p><p>The heavy, tin sign bit into his fingers, and George hoisted it onto the endcap display, hooking it into place. The green text read “<em>Bounce to the Moon</em>!” Underneath, he’d removed the shelves and arranged a deep, purple bucket of Weasleys’ Bigger Bouncing Baubles. The large pale rotated, suspended on a hover charm held in place by a set of runes lining the floor.</p><p>Now he only had to secure it—couldn’t have it tipping over from foot traffic.</p><p>George lifted his wand to do just that when the door jangled.</p><p>“We’re closed,” he called, shifting uneasily on his crutch. He could’ve sworn he hadn’t unlocked yet.</p><p>But it was only a plucky witch with golden-brown curls, looking rather frazzled as she yanked a wool coat over her Hogwarts jumper. “Only me!” was the hasty answer. George grinned as she hurried around the corner, shoving her key in her pocket.</p><p>He’d never seen her use it before. Normally, she floo-ed.</p><p>“Ickle Prefect’s going to be late,” he said, glancing at the clock. “Never thought I’d see the day when Hermione Granger skived off in a joke shop.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. The tip of her nose was red from cold and wind, and George wordlessly handed over the mug he’d made himself. She took it in two hands and practically inhaled it before offering it back.</p><p>“I have an hour before classes,” she said.</p><p>George leaned back against the solid part of the display. “Better not risk it,” he taunted. “I’d hate to have to take points.”</p><p>She snorted. “Please. You’re no closer to winning that bet than you were in September,” she said.</p><p>“From what you know,” George said, flashing her a wicked grin.</p><p>She paused, and her look was calculating before her gaze flickered over to the new display. “No, if you’d made progress, you’d surely be crowing about it.”</p><p>“Five points from Gryffindor for cheek,” George said. He turned to the display and proceeded with casting the charmwork to stabilize the bucket. “There something you need, Granger?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“No, I was just checking in,” she said.</p><p>George finished the charm and gave the bucket a little spin. He glanced to see her reaction.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>She was focused on her shoulder bag, re-arranging books inside. “Making sure everything is alright.” Her voice sounded a bit odd—almost nervous.</p><p>“I’m managing,” George said, peering at her, but a thick veil of curls had fallen over her face. “Are you?”</p><p>Hermione exhaled. “Not well,” she groaned and began to pace. “Today’s going to be a nightmare. I’m behind on Herbology homework, I still need to narrow down my list of potential Mastery advisors to contact, I haven’t had a chance to review lesson plans with Professor Babbling or Professor Branstone, and there’s no classroom for Edwin Bailey’s visiting lecture and I promised Minerva I would sort it, and—”</p><p>George reached over the display to the small plate he’d brought from the kitchenette and handed over the slice of toast with honey drizzled on top. Hermione took a sizeable bite, chattering as she chewed and paced.</p><p>“And that’s just at school—I still need to make progress towards our next trip, and I haven’t been able to get through all the materials I checked out for—” she glanced at his leg.</p><p>“For what?” George asked.</p><p>“Well, I’m obviously going to fix it,” she said, taking another bite. Toasted breadcrumbs spilled over her coat.</p><p>“Fix what?” George asked. He flicked his wand, and the crumbs vanished.</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes and gestured with the toast at his leg.</p><p>George’s insides warmed, and he gave her a soft smile. “That’s nice of you, but you’ve got a lot to worry about, and besides, Bill doesn’t think—”</p><p>She swallowed her bite and cut him off with a dismissive wave. “I’m Hermione Granger. I read books, and I fix things. It’s what I do, George.” She stuck the toast in her mouth and began to coax her mass of wet curls into a plait.</p><p>“Far be it from me to tell Hermione Granger she can’t,” he said, amused and more than a bit admiring. “But if it ends up being too much, don’t worry over it.”</p><p>Granger tied the plait with a ribbon, bit down on the toast, and pulled it away from her mouth.</p><p>“That’s another thing,” she said around the food. “—Merlin, this is good—” she glanced at the drizzled honey with appreciation. George grinned. “I was wondering if we could use your brewing stations for it, since you’ve got a proper set up.”</p><p>“Whatever you’d like,” George said. Hermione bobbed her head.</p><p>“Did you want any of this?” she asked, lifting the small fragment of crust.</p><p>George shook his head.</p><p>“Excellent,” Hermione said, downing the final bit. “I’ll drop by later with the materials I’ve gathered, and we can get started.” Granger glanced at the clock, nicked the mug, and took another draught before pressing it into his hands.</p><p>He’d gotten a proper breakfast into her, despite the odds. Satisfaction flared deep in his stomach.</p><p>“Thanks for the tea and toast,” she said, adjusting her shoulder bag. Then, she threw an arm around his shoulder in a clumsy side hug before dashing towards the door. “Love you!”</p><p>The bell’s jangle echoed with the words, and George blinked, stepping back. His elbow knocked the bucket over the charm’s stabilized boundary.</p><p>Bouncing Baubles flew everywhere, rocketing off the walls.</p><p>The rubbery orbs flashed, changing colors with every impact.</p><p>She’d meant it in a friendly way.</p><p>But his insides soared, clear through the roof.</p><p>#</p><p>January 13, 1999, 6:00 p.m.</p><p>The heap of books dropped with a boom, rocking the table. “I’ve marked a good number of passages on curses with similar effects, so look through those first. I’ll need a better idea of your symptoms, though, before we can compile a list of potential ingredients to counteract them,” Granger said in a weary voice. She pinched the bridge of her nose and stumbled over to the sofa, where she dropped, facedown.</p><p>George blinked at the table, then at Granger. She pulled the quilt he’d draped over the back over her head.</p><p>“Alright, Granger?” he asked, easing his way over the floor. The crutch slipped a bit on the rug’s edge.</p><p>“I was right,” she muttered, tipping her head to the side with a sigh. George rested the crutch against the bureau and tripped to the sofa’s left arm, where he sat gingerly on the edge.</p><p>“Oh?” George asked. He tried to shift closer, but a sharp twinge coursed up his ankle, into his shin. He braced his hand on his knee and gripped it to try and keep the feeling from crawling higher.  </p><p>“Today was a nightmare. I taught for the first time,” she said, burrowed deep in the blanket. George’s knuckles went white on his leg as the twinge intensified into a burn. “I’ve got an Ancient Runes section on Tuesday and Thursday, and they’re also having me help with a first-year D.A.D.A. section on Fridays.”</p><p>George faltered. “Why’ve they got you teaching D.A.D.A.? I thought you wanted to focus on Runes for your—” The blanket tightened around her shoulders, and he quieted.</p><p>Wind howled against the outside of the flat, and Hermione scooted upright, keeping the quilt bunched around her. She’d folded her legs under her, hiding away like she did when she was upset.</p><p>Finally, she continued in a small voice. “Truthfully, I wasn’t excited about it at first,” Granger said, veiled in quilt. “I’d rather have the time to focus on things for my Mastery application. But when Minerva asked—” She paused. “I couldn’t say no. It’s only one day out of the week, and Professor Branstone is still handling most of the instruction and grading for the section I’m assisting with. My part is meant to be more practical application, I suppose?” She twisted her plait, hand poking out of the quilt as she rambled. “So, it’s really not the same workload as the Ancient Runes section, and if my experience is helpful in preparing younger students to defend themselves, then I don’t mind.”</p><p>Did McGonagall not realize the amount of work on Granger’s shoulders?</p><p>George let out a long breath, watching the purple quilt edge with a guarded look. “I understand, but you’ve got to say no sometimes,” he said. “It’s okay to focus on your goals.”</p><p>The blanket bobbed as Hermione shrugged. “The ones I’m failing in?”</p><p>George’s face contorted. “What are you on about?” he asked.</p><p>“Who’s going to take a Mastery student that can’t teach?” she said softly.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“Surely it wasn’t that bad?” he asked.</p><p>“I’m boring,” she said. “A few Slytherins fell asleep, my lesson plan didn’t take half as long as I thought it would, and when I asked them to write down any questions, some of them put this—”</p><p>She dug in her pocket, quilt falling from her head as a tight expression came over her. She thrust the parchments into his hands.</p><p>He flipped through them, his mouth a grim line.</p><p>
  <em>“Why do the other sections get a proper professor, and we’re stuck with you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What’re the chances of you shutting up?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t have any questions, as you didn’t really teach us anything of note.”</em>
</p><p>But as he read, the tension slipped away. This wasn’t so bad. Not at all a failure. She’d be able to sort it—she was Hermione Granger. And he’d help.</p><p>She peered up at him, and her eyes were so owlishly wide and concerned that he snorted.</p><p>“You’re laughing at me!” she cried, mouth dropping open in shock. George winced.</p><p>“No—” he started, but Hermione was already reeling back, hurt look on her face. “No, Granger, hold on now.” He tried to reach for her, but his bad ankle caught, and the burning flared through him.</p><p>George gritted his teeth.</p><p>“I know you don’t value classes, but this is important to me,” she said.</p><p>“Could I get a trial before verdict?” he said, lifting his brows. Hermione quieted. George took a breath and braced on his knees as he fumbled to drag his bad leg out from where it had tangled behind the other. Then, he lowered himself onto the cushion at his side.</p><p>He exhaled and stared at the ceiling as he finally relaxed and the burning eased a bit.</p><p>That was better.</p><p>“Right,” he said. “The—”</p><p>“Are you alright?” Hermione sounded hesitant. “We should probably work on the potion, this isn’t that—”</p><p>George tipped his face to the side. “I’m same as always, and that can wait because we’re talking about you,” he said, giving her a mirthful wink. “Now,” he declared, lifting the parchment slips again and pointing at her. “First of all, you’re not boring, and you’re not a failure, and you know that deep down, so come off it.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes, but George kept going. “Second: The thing about mischievous gits is that they value a good laugh above common sense.”</p><p>“I’m aware,” Hermione said, pinning him with a swotty look.</p><p>George grinned and tossed the second slip of parchment on the table. “This git’s had their laugh, and I doubt they’d have been so smarmy if you made them put their name on it.” He cocked a brow. “Classic mistake. You can’t do anonymous questions unless you’re prepared for a bit of a hazing—especially with third years.”</p><p>Hermione frowned. “I don’t think I’m asking too much when I expect human decency,” she said.</p><p>“From adults, no,” George said dryly. “But these are children. Love ‘em to death, but they’re right nasty gremlins sometimes.”</p><p>The corner of Granger’s mouth quirked up, and George continued, encouraged. “If they keep at it, make them translate their jokes into the closest runic translation that they can find,” he said. “That way, they’ve got to learn something.” George eyed the paper wryly, remembering a few too many nights with cramped hands in his third and fourth year.</p><p>Hermione scoffed. “Coming from personal experience?” she asked.</p><p>“How d’you reckon I learned all the runes we use in the shop?” he asked.</p><p>“That’s atrocious,” she said. George winked.</p><p>“The other two are more up your arsenal, I think,” he said, laughing as he held up the last one. “I can practically hear this in your voice, Granger.”</p><p>“I would never,” she hissed, standing to pace around the table. “I never once—”</p><p>George folded his arms and scooted to the middle cushion, propping his good foot on the coffee table. “I seem to recall hearing about a few choice words between you and Umbridge,” he said. Before he could situate the other foot, Hermione was looping back around, lifting it and tucking a pillow underneath. The little touch sent a pleasant jolt of warmth through his leg, vanishing the last remnants of the burning, and George cleared his throat. “Something about there being no need to think in her class?” He crossed his good ankle under the bad one and grinned.</p><p>“She doesn’t count,” Hermione said, nostrils flaring. She straightened and lifted her hand. The faint lines that read <em>“I will not speak out of turn” </em>were barely visible, only appearing when she twisted her fist and the marks caught the light.</p><p>George’s stomach went uncomfortably hot as all the hours crammed into stiff desks with the toad smiling down on them came back to him.</p><p>Hermione’s tone was stiff. “And if they think I’m anything like her, I’ll quit tomorrow.”</p><p>George leaned in, catching her gaze. “You’re nothing like Umbridge,” he said. “All I’m saying is that these ones—” he nodded at the parchment scraps. “—sound like they may actually care about learning things, and that’s something you share in common.” He folded his hands. “They were a bit tactless, and this other one’s wrong to doubt you, but there’s a chance they’ll come around yet.”</p><p>Hermione studied the red and gold print on her flannel’s sleeve. “Yes, well, anyone who wasn’t asleep or asking mortifying questions about Harry on their parchment slips seemed rather disappointed that I wasn’t Professor Babbling,” she said. “And I don’t blame them.” She dropped onto the cushion to his left and stared at the ceiling.</p><p>“They wouldn’t have let you teach if you weren’t capable,” George said. “You know how McGonagall is.”</p><p>Hermione sighed. “I didn’t feel like it today,” she said. “I was a mess.”</p><p>“You’re more than qualified,” George said, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand. “They’re lucky to have you. Top of your class, some of the best O.W.L. scores in school. Apart from the war, you’ve a spotless attendance record—”</p><p>“Not anymore,” Hermione said ruefully, glancing at him.</p><p>“What?” George asked, hand faltering.</p><p>“I’ve had to skip a few days to mind you, you git,” she said, shoving at his shoulder.</p><p>George’s face heated. “Oh,” he said.</p><p>Hermione didn’t seem put out, though. She smiled warmly at him, and he lost his train of thought.</p><p>“Forgot about that,” he said weakly.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes crinkled. “More than once,” she said, the words crisp and with a playful note of reproval. “What with the Dragon Pox and the scavenger hunt you put us on.”</p><p>Scavenger hunt. That was one way of putting it. He snorted.</p><p>“Oi,” George said. “You’ve always known I’m a terrible influence. You’re the one who decided to have anything to do with me.” Snow blasted against the ancient windows in his flat’s siding. George turned to check the rattling glass, and when he turned back, Hermione had shifted closer, her arm pressed right against his.</p><p>Smiling at him.</p><p>Odd.</p><p>His stomach did a funny little flip, and he blinked at the rush of sparks.</p><p>Hermione seemed unphased.</p><p>“Anyways, so <em>nearly</em> spotless attendance record,” he continued, attempting to pick up where he’d left off. “They should be thrilled to have you.”</p><p>“Students don’t care about that,” Hermione muttered. “They care about how you interact in the classroom, and I’m rubbish at it.” She winced. “I thought there would maybe be a few students like me in the class, and—”</p><p>George barked out a laugh.</p><p>“Oh, stop it, I feel terrible enough as is,” she said, covering her face. “I kept asking questions over the things they were supposed to have covered, and none of them had answers, and I got more and more flustered, and then I was all panicked, just waiting for the end of it so I could be put out of my misery.”</p><p>“I doubt most of them noticed,” George said quietly. “They’re all worried about Hogsmeade trips and Quidditch games and whether they’ll be getting a howler about their last detention.”</p><p>“They did,” Granger whispered.</p><p>She was being too hard on herself. She only needed to loosen up, and she’d be a natural.</p><p>“Let’s see it, then,” George said, gesturing towards the hearth.</p><p>Hermione froze. “What do you mean?” she asked.</p><p>George shrugged. “Let’s see how you taught today, and we’ll sort it so you feel better for next time.” He beckoned for her to stand again.</p><p>Hermione cringed. “I can’t do that. You’ll laugh at me,” she said.</p><p>“I laugh at everybody,” George said. “Come on, Granger. Just pretend I’m younger me or something.” He propped his chin on his fist and gave her a winning Weasley smile.</p><p>Hermione’s face flamed. “That’s even worse,” she said. “You were so much more intimidating back then.”</p><p>George threw his head back and laughed. “I was not,” he said. “You were the one charging into fights and taking on entire Quidditch squads.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, but you were popular,” she said, emphasizing the last word.</p><p>“Your nickname is quite literally ‘The Golden Girl,’” he said, blinking at her. “I win. Now show me this ghastly teaching manner.”</p><p>Granger huffed and crossed in front of the fireplace. She paused. “What am I supposed to teach?” she asked. “I don’t have my lesson plan in front of me or anything.”</p><p>George shrugged and folded his hands. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said.</p><p>Hermione flicked her gaze to the ceiling and sarcastically widened her eyes. “Oh, where to start,” she said dryly.</p><p>“Swot.” George grabbed a spare sheet of parchment from the coffee table, crumpled it up, and threw it at her.</p><p>Hermione began to pace, and her voice took on a stilted tone. “So, today, we are going to discuss the reading,” she said.</p><p>George grimaced. Hermione faltered.</p><p>“What?” she asked.</p><p>“Yeah, I didn’t do the reading,” he said, grinning. Hermione’s mouth opened. Shut. “Not even a bit of it, I’m afraid. Can you catch me up?” He smiled petulantly.</p><p>He kept needling her, throwing curve balls, offering suggestions when she got stuck. They came up with a few games she could play with the class—activities that would encourage students to come prepared.</p><p>After a while, Hermione had a list of ideas, and her stiff pace had loosened into a more natural stroll.</p><p>“Alright,” George said, clapping. “One more go, and then I force some dinner into you.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve got it from here,” she said.</p><p>But he was having fun.</p><p>“No, no—” he said, sternly shaking his head. “I need to see that you can apply what we’ve worked on.” He tapped his forehead. “I’m still rather empty, and I’d like at least one new lesson before we’re through. You’re a teacher, Granger. <em>Teach</em>.”</p><p>Hermione straightened. She arched her right brow at him, unamused. “Alright,” she said, and there was a challenge in her voice that made him pause. She turned on her heel and raised her right brow. “I’ll teach you how to talk to women.”</p><p>George snorted. “I know how to chat to women, Granger,” he said dryly.</p><p>“Not well,” she said, crisp and challenging as her trainers padded back and forth over the rug.</p><p>The cheeky little—</p><p>She was right, but she needn’t know that.</p><p>“Oh please,” George said. “All I’ve got to do is show them this—” He pointed at the ugly scar on his head. “—then follow up with a good line.” He propped his hands behind his head and grinned.</p><p>She smirked, and her gaze was cool and calculating as it worked over him.</p><p>“You’re only proving my point.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “There’s no such thing as a good line,” she said. She crossed to his side and sat primly on the edge of the sofa cushion. “You’d know that if you knew how to talk to women.” Her arms folded, and her plait tumbled over her shoulder.</p><p>George toyed with the dangerous impulse flittering through his mind, fighting the urge to take it out. Tinker. See what might happen.</p><p>“You only think that because you haven’t heard one yet,” he said, quirking his brows.</p><p>She huffed a bit. “I’ve been asked out,” Hermione said flatly.</p><p>“By who? Victor, Cormac, and—” George paused at his brother’s name. He wouldn’t bring Ron into this. “Well—not the smoothest blokes, anyway.”</p><p>Granger opened her mouth to reply, but George crooked his finger and gave her an exaggerated wink. “Come here, Dear, I’ll show you how it’s done.”</p><p>The ridiculous ploy worked, and Granger’s cool façade cracked like a walnut.</p><p>Hermione colored violently. “Honestly,” she sputtered, laughing.</p><p>Riling her up was too easy.</p><p>And maybe a bit too much fun.</p><p>Their eyes met, and George found himself elbow deep in the machinations of a conversation he didn’t recall permitting himself to engage in.</p><p>Maybe it was too dangerous, given his feelings, but she was laughing. Certain exceptions could be made for that purpose.</p><p>But then she leaned in, and George’s mind blanked. “Alright, let’s see it then,” she said swottily. “Because I think you’re all talk.”</p><p>The nerve.</p><p>George cocked his head to the side and propped a knuckle under her chin, making a show of assessing her. “No, actually,” he drawled. “I don’t think you could handle it.” He smirked and dropped his hand.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>He clicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth and shrugged. “Maybe when you’re older, kid,” he said. Then, he dropped the joke and settled his hands on his knees with a grin. “Anyways, why don’t I start on dinner, and you give yourself a bit of a break?”</p><p>Hermione made an indignant scoffing sound. “George Fabian Weasley, I ought to hex the—”</p><p>Fine, then.</p><p>She stilled as he leaned in slowly, not stopping until his mouth brushed her ear.</p><p>Oh, he’d tinkered too deep—lost a screw somewhere, alright.</p><p>“Hermione Jean,” he whispered, grinning. “You’re the most distracting woman I’ve ever met.” He let his voice sweep to a soft, low rumble. “Run away with me.”</p><p>She went very still, and for a moment, George worried that he’d teased too far.</p><p>But then Hermione squeaked out a disbelieving laugh and smacked at his chest. George bolted back, grinning.</p><p>“Now will you eat?” he asked.</p><p>“I can’t believe you,” she said, sounding half-amused, half-put out as she pressed her hands to her face. “You’re the most ridiculous—”</p><p>“I’ll make you spagbol,” he offered, lilting.</p><p>Hermione sat upright. “With the good sauce?”</p><p>George rolled his eyes and nodded. “No, I was going to top it with rubbish.” He scoffed. “Yes, the good sauce.”</p><p>“Then that will suffice, I think,” she said primly, lifting the worn copy of <em>Little Women </em>from the table. “I’ll review your notes while you work on that.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said. He stood and dropped a gentle hand to the top of her head, and Hermione hummed happily. George tilted his head, bemused at the sound before pulling away.</p><p>#</p><p>He’d been working on their dinner for fifteen minutes or so, and it was coming together slowly. The whole process of cooking was hampered by the need to use the crutch. But he wouldn’t hear of Hermione helping, despite her asking numerous times. She looked far too comfortable on his sofa, laying on her stomach with the paperback propped before her chin.</p><p>She’d been right. It was a good reading couch.</p><p>He was tapping the excess sauce from the spatula, stealing yet another glance in Granger’s direction when she snorted, shaking her head.</p><p>“What?” George asked.</p><p>“<em>Beth’s a goody two-shoes</em>,” Hermione read aloud from the margin. George shrugged.</p><p>“Well, she is,” he said. He swiped a finger along the spatula, then brought it to his mouth.</p><p>More salt. He sprinkled it in.</p><p>“And you think you’ve got Laurie figured out, haven’t you?” Hermione said, glancing over the next page.</p><p>“Well, he’s a bit obvious,” George said dryly. He caste a hover charm onto the spoon and stuck it in the air, then reached for a towel. “Not as obvious as that Brooke fellow, though.”</p><p>Hermione seemed to find this quite funny.</p><p>“What?” he asked, going pink. “I mean, is there not something with Jo and Laurie? He’s—he’s liked her all this time, hasn’t he?” Hermione laughed again. George doubled down, pointing emphatically at the book. “He literally says she’s his favorite, just there, when they’re on that picnic.” Heat crept over his ears at her skeptical smirk. He dropped his hand. “And she seems to sort of like him back, maybe.” He said this last part softly, not uncertain as to why his heart had leapt so violently, pressing flush against his throat.</p><p>Hermione made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.</p><p>Had he misread the book?</p><p>She was busy, scratching a note into the margin.</p><p>George frowned and hoisted the pot to the sink. “They danced at that party, and they’re always joking around, eating out of the same dishes, playing games, and she takes care of him when he’s—”</p><p>“They’re friends, George!” Hermione said, laughing as she turned the page. “I won’t deny that Laurie has some feelings, but that doesn’t mean they’re a good idea.”</p><p>The comment slammed into him like a brick wall.</p><p>Of course.</p><p>George whirled to the stove. The conversation had taken a strange, unexpected turn, and the pounding in his ears was hard to hear over.</p><p>It felt a bit like it was him getting laughed aside, rather than Laurie.</p><p>His ribs squeezed slowly inwards as his face heated.</p><p>That was ridiculous.</p><p>And irrelevant. He already knew where Granger stood.</p><p>They were friends. He might feel…certain things, but she—she didn’t feel the same, and he’d made peace with it.</p><p>Hadn’t he?</p><p>He had. Of course he had.</p><p>A heaviness dragged at the middle of his ribs.</p><p>“And besides,” Hermione said in a light, distracted tone. “Sometimes, it’s—it’s not who you expect.”</p><p>George didn’t say anything as he drained the spaghetti. He was too concentrated on forcing the heat in his face to recede.</p><p>A few moments passed.</p><p>“Which sister do you think you’re most like?” Hermione asked, glancing up again.</p><p>“Beth,” George said dryly.</p><p>Hermione broke into laughter.</p><p>“You know me,” he said, tone wry as he avoided her gaze. “A proper square. Hate to cause a stir.”</p><p>“Right,” Hermione said. “No, really. Spill.”</p><p>“What do you think?” he asked. The noodles sloshed into the sauce-pan, and he shuffled the mixture together.</p><p>A splash of reserved water. Almost done.</p><p>She hadn’t answered yet. George leaned on the crutch and glanced back.</p><p>Granger’s brow was wrinkled in thought.</p><p>“Well, maybe a bit of Jo and Amy,” she said, finally. “They’re the loudest with their creativity. Although, you do have some Beth traits.”</p><p>“Amy?” George asked, lifting his brows. “We might’ve done some terrible things to Perce, but nothing that merited drowning us.”</p><p>Hermione laughed. “Some of your brothers may disagree,” she said. “Besides, Amy pursues what she wants, and so do you and Fred.”</p><p>George nodded. In almost every case, he and Fred jumped headlong into things, not faltering over the details like detentions and howlers or expectations and headlines.</p><p>And now, they had two shopfronts to show for it.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze was warm and bright.</p><p>He supposed she was right—mostly.</p><p>“You’re not wrong,” he said lightly. “But I still would’ve paused over destroying a year’s worth of work.”</p><p>“You say that now, but I’ve heard stories,” she said, grinning.</p><p>George narrowed his eyes at her, playing at offense. “Lies, no doubt. Additionally, that’s three of four, which is basically not answering the question at all.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, studying him. But instead of narrowing it down, she continued to list even more characters. “And, obviously, you and Fred especially have some in common with Laurie. But I actually think where you differ from Fred, you’ve got a good deal in common with Brooke.” She flipped the page.</p><p>He flicked his wand, and the food lifted onto two, clean plates. “Don’t see how I’m like Brooke,” he grumbled. “He’s downright annoying. I bet he thinks himself quite clever with that knight story, but he’s clearly making a pass.”</p><p>“Well, you haven’t seen much of it yet, but he’s actually got a sportive side. And he’s perceptive,” Hermione said, studying the margin. “And gentle, and he likes reading out loud.”</p><p>George’s face colored violently, just after he’d gotten the flush to fade.</p><p>“Most people like reading aloud,” he said carefully, watching her.</p><p>Was he so obvious as that other bloke when they read? Surely not.</p><p>“Not anymore,” Hermione said. She didn’t seem bothered. Like she had only pointed out something obvious—like the greenness of grass or the blueness of sky. George’s anxiety calmed.</p><p>“And you’ve also a few things in common with this other fellow you haven’t read about yet, especially if you account for the cultural gaps between our world and theirs,” she continued.</p><p>“Oh?” George asked, interest peaked. “What’s that bloke like?”</p><p>“He’s nice,” Hermione said simply, scratching another note down. “Playful. Good with kids.”</p><p>George waved a hand. “They’re all good with kids,” he said.</p><p>She breathed out a laugh then chewed the end of her quill. The golden ink flowed in the barrel. She paused and glanced up at him. “My turn,” she said. “Which sister am I?”</p><p>“Jo,” George said, unhesitating. “She’s the reader.”</p><p>“They all read,” Hermione said, quirking a brow.</p><p>“Not like Jo,” George replied. He paused. “Why, do you fancy yourself someone else?”</p><p>Hermione sighed. “I’m not sure. I used to think Jo,” she said. “I do love books, after all. And I’m determined like she is. But—outside of danger, I’ve always ended up playing more of the Meg amongst my Hogwarts friends.”</p><p>“You’re not that stuffy,” George said. The drawer rolled open, and cutlery clinked as he nicked a few forks. Hermione snorted.</p><p>“Meg lightens up,” she said. “But you’re right, I don’t fit squarely with her box, either. I think we’re all a mix, depending on which angle you look at it from, and that’s what makes them all so real.” She picked at her food. “Depending on the people around me, I could act like any one of them, I think.”</p><p>“Very clever, but you’re dodging the question again,” George said wryly. “Not to worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this.” He nodded, as though taking up a serious task. “What about my family? Which sister are you with us?” As he spoke, he charmed their plates to float to the coffee table. The dishes clicked onto the wood, and he shouldered the wooden stick under his arm before following their path to the sofa.</p><p>“With your family?” Hermione asked softly. A distant look filtered into her eyes. “I thought it’d be obvious.”</p><p>George settled at her side, dropping his crutch to the ground and taking his dish from the table. She still hadn’t meted out a reply. He nudged her gently, waiting.</p><p>Hermione blinked at him. “Well, I’m Laurie,” she said. She dug her fork into the food, not meeting his eyes. “Watching from over the hedge.”</p><p>George’s fork paused in mid-air as her words hit him.</p><p>“Obviously, there are differences. The text has to be read within its historical context, after all. And the Burrow’s a good deal louder than Orchard House, and it’s got a bit more mischief, and more people, but I always liked that—” Here, Granger trailed off, ears going pink.</p><p>George set his dish on the table. “Hermione,” he said, gazing at her with no small amount of urgency. “You are always welcome at the Burrow. Always.”</p><p>Granger peeked at him, and her eyes crinkled. “You’ve said that before,” she said.</p><p>“Because it’s the truth,” George said, tossing his fork into his food. He braced a hand on his knee. Hermione didn’t answer—going quiet as she sometimes did when he announced her to be equally a part of the Weasley kin. George huffed in frustration.</p><p>“Oh, get over here,” he muttered, and then, without thinking much of it, he wrapped his arm around her and dragged her in. “It can’t be helped. You’re one of us, Hermione. Always have been.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged, and George tucked his chin over her head.</p><p>“You don’t need to watch from over a hedge,” he whispered. “Come back to family dinner with me. If—if you’d like, that is. The Burrow misses you.”</p><p>Hermione took a deep breath. At first, there was no answer. Only silence as she thought.</p><p>But he didn’t needle her. Didn’t crack a joke. Not about this. Instead, George did something he’d become quite practiced at.</p><p>He waited.</p><p>If Hermione wasn’t ready to return to the Burrow, he wouldn’t push her on it.</p><p>But if she was—</p><p>“Okay,” she said.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>“Really?” he asked, a little breathless.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and nodded. “I owe your Mum a proper thank you note for Christmas, and I saw most of them when we were looking for you anyway,” she said, sighing. “I think I’ll feel a bit awkward, but Harry’s been asking every week, and I think if I put it off any longer, he’ll kidnap me.”</p><p>Elation blossomed in George’s chest. Hermione Jean, finally back home. He tried to play it off, but his grin slipped out as he lifted his dish, and when he met Hermione’s eyes, she was smiling ruefully at him.</p><p>“Is this important to you?” she asked.</p><p>“For purely selfish reasons,” he quipped, winking. “Mum makes better food when you’re there.”</p><p>Hermione laughed softly, then poked her fork around at her dinner.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“But what if it’s different,” she whispered.</p><p>“Then we’ll make it a good different,” George said. “Different isn’t always bad.”</p><p>“If anyone’s upset at me for breaking up with Ron—”</p><p>“I’d set off a whole bloody Blaze Box at the table before I let that happen,” he said, lifting his brows. “Blast the roast up past Ginny’s room, into my old one, and clear through the attic.” He whistled out an imitation of a Weasley Wizbang as he twisted his finger the air, then made an exploding gesture with his hand.</p><p>Hermione snorted. “Your Mum would kill you,” she said.</p><p>“She’d have to catch me first, and I’m quite spry,” George said, waving her off.</p><p>After some time, they returned to eating, and Hermione lifted the book again, flipping to the last chapter he’d had time to complete before finally succumbing to the faint pressure behind his eyes the night previous.</p><p>She paged through, skimming the margins as she went. He hadn’t left many notes. The characters had been talking about “castles in the air” as some sort of symbol for their future hopes and aspirations—as though they’d work and work, and then wake up with a key one day and waltz into their ambitions all at once. Laurie wanted to be musician, Meg wanted to be rich, Jo wanted to be a famous writer, and Amy wanted to be a renowned painter.</p><p>The conversation had read a bit like his and Fred’s earliest chats about the shop—informed more by vision than understanding. He’d smiled a little at it, but Meg, Jo, Laurie, and Amy hadn’t been the ones to make him pause. To make him return. Re-read.</p><p>To make him bring the quill down with an unsteady hand.</p><p>To make him set the book aside and stare at the ceiling until he slipped off. George had only underlined a small bit. The only bit that had felt like a proper castle, to him.</p><p><em>“I only wish we may all keep well and be together</em>,” little Beth had said, and George had thought of the grey caste on Freddie’s skin, months ago. The long stretches of miles between Percy, Charlie, Ron, and the Burrow. The way that Granger’s time in Hogsmeade would draw to a close all too soon, and that he hadn’t the foggiest of where she would go after.</p><p>But that would almost certainly be the end of their notes and visits. The end of tea and the peculiar, little smile on her face when she sat at his side. The end of the way he almost but not quite held her the way he wanted to—which was still a great deal better than nothing at all.</p><p>And Beth had hitched a little hook, right into his chest. Found a way to describe what seemed like an impossible dream.</p><p>Balustrades, towers, stone climbing in the air. Lofty barricades hoisted above the clouds, where deep in the keep, a painful tune whistled—<em>If you change your mind, I’m the first in line.</em></p><p>An impossible place where they might find each other and be with the whole family.</p><p>Happy.</p><p>But Hermione saw none of this. Only raised her brows at the faint, inky smudge beneath the words “<em>all keep well and be together</em>,” and smiled at him.</p><p>“Beth,” she mouthed.</p><p>#</p><p>January 14, 1999, 6:00 a.m.</p><p>George stumbled from his bed, standing to pad over to the loo. It was early, and the crutch slipped easily under his arm. He dragged his feet over the cold floor, and they caught on something.</p><p>Placed just under the bedframe.</p><p>Two, soft, blue slippers.</p><p>He certainly hadn’t put them there.</p><p>George looked at them a long moment before sliding his feet in and letting his eyes close.</p><p>He hadn’t the foggiest when she’d snuck in and left them there, but he hadn’t noticed them on his way to bed the night before. He’d been knackered, though, after pouring over her notes on all those curses.</p><p>The slippers felt like walking on clouds.</p><p>Wasn’t even his ruddy birthday, and she’d—</p><p>George blinked at the cold water dripping off his face. At the look of himself in the mirror.</p><p>He was smiling.</p><p>Hadn’t even realized it.</p><p>#</p><p>January 14, 1999, 10:00 a.m.</p><p>The bulky paper smacked and thudded hard on the shop window, and the glass shuddered.</p><p>“Oi!” George shouted, glaring at the purple-robed fellow striding down the lane.</p><p>“We’re almost through, George,” Harry said, sighing over a reem of parchment on the cherry-red counter. “If you could focus for just a few more minutes—”</p><p>“Pardon, but they’re trying to break my windows!” George’s voice climbed as he shouted the last three words at the delivery man’s receding figure. “No respect!”</p><p>Harry scoffed over the paperwork. “Because that’s always bothered you,” the auror said, and he quirked a brow at the gold display on the far wall. “<em>Befuddle your parents with these tricks!</em>”</p><p>Harry crossed to the door, cracked it open, and pulled the bound paper from the snow. The door jangled as it shut, and the closed sign in the window tottered.</p><p>Harry unfurled the paper—<em>The Resonant</em>. George wasn’t subscribed to it, but someone’s idea of a funny joke had been adding him onto the list. “You’re not on the front page this time,” he muttered. “That’s something.” He flipped a page. Another. “Ah. ‘<em>Trouble in Paradise</em>.’” He flipped the parchment, showing George dozing outside of Granger’s flat the night he’d waited for her and snorted. “Anything I should know?”</p><p>“Needed a nap,” George said tightly. “And that’s rubbish, as always.” Harry nodded. George flicked his wand, and a fist-sized ball sailed from the Bauble display. He tossed it at the far wall, then caught it as it sprang back. When it smacked into his palm, the toy changed color from a faint green to a bright purple. The magic-laced material added significantly more zip to the projectile than he’d put into the throw. “Get on with it, Harry.”</p><p>He’d already given Harry the newest memories surrounding the events in the woods, and he’d thought that would be all, but Harry had follow-up questions. Paperwork.</p><p>And George was a little bit tired of talking about that night.</p><p>“Okay,” Harry said, crossing back to his files. “Before you apparated to her flat, did you hear any conversation about Hermione?”</p><p>George tossed the ball again. “No,” he said tightly. “Wasn’t quite lucid, Mate.”</p><p>“And to confirm—the curse used, it was distinct from Crucio?” Harry prompted.</p><p>George tossed the ball. “Yes,” he said flatly. “Thought that was rather obvious.”</p><p>Harry sighed and made another mark. “Sort of, but Flint’s casting was mostly nonverbal until the end, and by then the sound was a bit—” Harry winced. “—um, hard to make out, with everything, so I wanted to make sure.”</p><p>“I heard it. It was a variation on Stringos Verbero,” George said. “Not an unforgiveable.” The ball ponged against the wall. Green.</p><p>It smacked his hand.</p><p>Purple.</p><p>“Yeah, Sturgis said it looked new,” Harry muttered. Oh wonderful. Sturgis had seen as well.</p><p>Brilliant.</p><p>Green.</p><p>“Not quite new,” George said.</p><p>Purple.</p><p>“Oh?” Harry asked.</p><p>Green.</p><p>Purple.</p><p>Green.</p><p>“Seen it before,” George said.</p><p>Purple.</p><p>“When?” Harry asked.</p><p>George reeled his arm back and pelted the ball. It slammed back with a frightening speed, not even visible, but Harry snagged it out of the air before it could reach the windows in a graceful swipe.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“The Ministry,” George said. “Umbridge.”</p><p>Harry tucked the ball into his pocket and scrawled down a few notes. “When?” he asked, and his voice had gone funny.</p><p>“You pocketing that?” George asked, snorting.</p><p>“Yes.” Harry’s tone echoed cooly through the shop. “Now, when?”</p><p>George rankled. They’d meant what they’d told him after the shop opened. Harry needn’t pay. And George didn’t mind when Harry helped himself. In fact, he’d like him to do it more often.</p><p>But it was clear Harry had grabbed it to remove the distraction.</p><p>George huffed. “You know when,” he said.</p><p>“The date, George,” Harry said, and the other boy’s shoulders went tight. “If you can recall.”</p><p>As though he could forget it.</p><p>“October second, 1997,” George said tersely.</p><p>Harry sighed, and his quill scratched on the parchment. “Couldn’t have been around long before that, or we’d have seen more of it in the battles,” Harry muttered. “Seems she managed to pass the information along before disappearing.”</p><p>“Flint wasn’t even at Hogwarts when Umbridge was there,” George said. He shoved his hands in his pockets.</p><p>“Could’ve made some contact during the war,” Harry said. “He doesn’t have a dark mark, but it’s likely he worked with them, and this connection supports that theory.” He glanced at George. “It’ll hold up stronger in the Wizengamot if you give the memory of the Ministry incident.”</p><p>And show them all the bit with his Patronus? Fat chance.</p><p>He’d given the memories of the Veritaserum interrogation under promise of discretion, and Harry had happened to see them despite not being on George’s approved list. The last thing he needed was another headline, or the wrong set of eyes landing on it.</p><p>George shook his head. “The Wizengamot has enough,” he said roughly.</p><p>Harry tilted his head, and his expression shifted into something George couldn’t quite read.</p><p>So instead, George flicked his wand, and the sign on the door flipped to declare the shop open. “We through, then?”</p><p>Harry nodded. “Almost.” He slipped a faded parchment over the counter.</p><p>George blinked at it.</p><p>Then snatched it up. The spell travelled over his lips, and ink blossomed across the parchment.</p><p>He could’ve been fifteen again, the way elation zipped through him at the map’s greeting. He unfolded it hurriedly over the counter.</p><p>“I was hoping you might watch Teddy again this weekend,” Harry said lightly.</p><p>“Whatever you want, Mate,” George said, searching for a particular name. There, in the Greenhouses. He grinned. She stood beside Ginny and Luna, near the wall.</p><p>Had she finished her Herbology homework, then?</p><p>“What are you gawking at?” Harry asked. George snapped the map shut.</p><p>“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can.”</p><p>Harry pinned him with a skeptical look, and the quiet radiated between them, thick and uncomfortable. Harry seemed unbothered, but the back of George’s neck prickled.</p><p>George scratched at his nose. “What’s Flint’s defense?” he asked, finally glancing at Harry.</p><p>Harry shuffled his parchments into the folder and lifted a shrewd brow. “Hasn’t woken up yet,” he said.</p><p>“It’s been a week,” George said slowly.</p><p>Harry didn’t meet his eyes as he shrank the folders and placed them in a weathered, brown leather shoulder bag. “They did a number on him,” he said.</p><p>“She said there was lightning,” George said carefully, prodding for elaboration.</p><p>Harry coughed. “Yeah.” He crossed to the sweets aisle. George hobbled after him, expecting elaboration, but Harry only plucked an edible dark mark package from the shelf. His grin snapped with mirth as he tore the wrapping open, popped one into his mouth, and swallowed it down. George snorted as Harry helped himself to another.</p><p>“You know, Mione likes citrus flavored sweets,” Harry said, lifting the candy. It was a sudden change of subject, and George blinked. “But she’s really partial to chocolate.”</p><p>George furrowed his brow. “What’re you—”</p><p>“Valentine’s day is in a month, you know,” Harry said. “I’ll be sending Gin roses, a Dirigible plum sapling to Luna, and daisies to Mione.”</p><p>“Nothing for me?” George asked dryly.</p><p>“Mione’s favorite might be tulips, though,” Harry continued casually, gazing over the shelf.</p><p>“No, that’s not right,” George said, without thinking. Hermione’s favorite was Lavender. At George’s comment, Harry spun back to face him, brows lifted.</p><p>“Really?” he asked, and his voice sounded odd—almost amused.</p><p>“I—I don’t know,” George said. “She’s never said anything about tulips before.” He frowned and busied himself with straightening the cartons of Fizzing Whizzbees and Giggle Grams. “Gin might like something a bit more nontraditional than roses.”</p><p>Harry’s expression was calm and confident. “Oh, I know. That’s not the only thing I’m getting her,” he said. His grin went lopsided, and he pulled a dark, velvet box from his pocket. George froze. But then Harry cracked it open and lifted a miniature, golden snitch from inside. “Got this made special,” he said. The wings stretched, fluttering just like its realer counterpart. The article was attached to a delicate, gleaming chain.</p><p>George cocked a brow. “Gin doesn’t play seeker anymore,” he said.</p><p>“No, but I think she’ll like being chased,” Harry said, staring at the gold piece with an air of distracted concentration. He shook the snitch, and it rattled. George tilted his head.</p><p>Harry eyes twinkled, and he slid his left hand under the snitch. At the touch, the top opened. “Won’t show her what’s inside for a long while,” he said lightly, and for the first time, a touch of nervousness entered his tone. “But I thought you might like to know.”</p><p>It was a ring.</p><p>George stilled. “Harry—”</p><p>“I thought it might be fun to give it to her as a necklace, then wait.” Harry swallowed and caste a silencing charm on the ring before resealing the snitch. This time, it didn’t rattle when he shook it. “I—I know I’ve got Teddy, and we’re both young. It won’t be for a while.”</p><p>Finally, Harry looked up, gauging George’s reaction.</p><p>George crushed him in a hug.</p><p>#</p><p>January 15, 1999, 2:00 a.m.</p><p>A loud roar echoed, and George blinked hard, twisting in his sheets. The flat was dark, save for the flickering, green glow in the hearth, and his pocket watch lay stationary on his rickety bedside table. George pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, groaning.</p><p>“Fred, it can wait till morning,” he mumbled.</p><p>“George?” Hermione’s shaken voice called through the floo.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>George bolted upright. “Granger!?” he called. Had someone broken into her flat? Was she hurt? “Come through!” He flung himself from the bed, tripping over the floor.</p><p>Ghostly fire tore up his leg, but that didn’t matter. Not right now.</p><p>Hermione tumbled from the hearth, dressing gown held tight around her frame. George grabbed at her shoulders, wildly searching her.</p><p>“Did something happen?” he asked, breathing hard.</p><p>Hermione faltered. Her face was red, damp curls stuck to her brow. She seemed unable to speak, just looking him over again and again.</p><p>“Nothing, I just—” she stopped. “You’re alright?”</p><p>She sounded breathless, and she kept glancing over him with a deep line between her brows.</p><p>Something about the look was odd. Off-putting.</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I be?” George asked faintly, tilting his head.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Um—I don’t know.” She averted her gaze, staring over the darkened flat. “I shouldn’t have woken you.” Her voice went quiet on the last part—barely audible.</p><p>“It’s okay,” George said, furrowing his brow.</p><p>Hermione shook her head.</p><p>Why was she being so cagey?</p><p>“Granger,” George said. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Hermione’s gaze flicked to the floor. “Nothing,” she whispered. She smiled a bit. “Sorry for waking you. Get some sleep.”</p><p>“Hermione?” George asked.</p><p>But she only shook her head a bit, giving him that same, dismissive smile before turning away.</p><p>And with that, Granger stepped backwards, reaching into the bowl on the mantle. She tossed a small handful of powder in and disappeared.</p><p>George frowned.</p><p>#</p><p>January 15, 1999, 4:00 p.m.</p><p>George stared hard at the letter, tea forgotten on the table. The parchment fluttered in his hand.</p><p>
  <em>Dear George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was reviewing some papers—I have them delivered in bulk from Britain from time to time, just to keep up, and I saw something concerning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It appears the public is under the impression that you are pursuing Miss Granger? There was even a bit about a child? As your older brother, I know I needn’t remind you of the complications a rumor like this might bring the family. I’m positive that these are nothing but lies, but I’d urge you to practice more caution in how you conduct your friendships. Perhaps try to provide the press with fewer opportunities to misinterpret.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mother wrote to inform me of your disappearance. I would’ve come, of course, but by the time I’d received word, you’d already been found. The visit home would’ve been nice, but it’s probably best that I keep my distance, considering.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ve been meaning to ask—have you or the others let slip my condition to anyone outside the family? I’ve received a few peculiar, international owls. Unsigned, and with some unpleasant business in them. They usually say, ‘We know’ or something to that effect. They haven’t come right out and said it, but I suspect they are referring to my illness, as there is hardly anything else worthy of public interest about me, other than my tenure as Head Boy. At first, I wondered if they may be trying to extort me in exchange for silence, but they haven’t asked for so much as a knut.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If it goes public, then I’ll have to make peace with that. I’d hoped to avoid that unpleasantry, but it seems rather inevitable, now. They could be aimlessly messing about in the hopes of intimidating me, given our family’s reputation. Strange, but I hope that’s the case.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m well. Helsinki is loud, but I don’t mind that. There’s much to do here, and that suits me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tell Ginny I send my love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Percy</em>
</p><p>George dropped the note. Took a long breath, then began to scratch out his reply. Irritation and anxiety crowded his chest, leaving little room for his breath as he jammed the quill into the page.</p><p>
  <em>“Perce,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You gormless git. Of course I’m not having a baby with Granger. Good Merlin, can you imagine? As for how I conduct my friendships, I’d appreciate if you minded your own.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No matter about not visiting. Nothing new, right? We would’ve loved to have you, but Helsinki would surely miss your esteemed presence.</em>
</p><p>He paused. Sucked in a breath. Vanished the last three sentences and tried again.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t worry over the visit. Whenever you can make time, we’ll be here. I’m alright, by the way. </em>
</p><p>Here, the anxiety crept high, over his throat.</p><p>
  <em>I’ve not said a word about your state, and neither has anyone else for my knowledge. Please be careful. If you receive more owls like that, do us a favor and send them Harry’s way. You may be a clumsy oaf, but you did fight in a notable battle, and you’ve likely made a few enemies on account of that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Loathsome that you are, I miss you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Send your own love to Ginny. I’m not your messenger.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Warmly,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>#</p><p>January 16, 1999, 10:00 a.m.</p><p>The Cognitas charm suspended materials through the room, and Ginny poked a parchment aside bearing a sizeable diagram aside. “I don’t see why you’re so bothered over it,” she said. “He’s a visiting professor, not the queen of England.”</p><p>George snorted.</p><p>“It should be nice, though. The Great Hall isn’t an option, outdoors would require obscene amounts of warming charms, the Room of Requirement’s still got curse damage, and most of the classrooms are too small or cluttered with supplies to really suit the event,” Granger muttered.</p><p>Open volumes, parchment, and biscuits swirled through the flat in a steady orbit around Hermione. As the current brought the peanut butter biscuits past her, she nicked one from the air.</p><p>George watched from the kitchen table, where an empty caldron rested before a thick stack of Potioneering guides. He ought to be reviewing the properties of Murtlap Essence, but the constellation across the floor was far more interesting.</p><p>“And you’ve no hallucinations, correct?” Hermione asked suddenly, checking the book before her.</p><p>George nodded. “It’s mostly just the pain in my leg,” he said. “Like a pulled muscle or broken bone, only magic.”</p><p>Granger scrawled a note into her purple, leather journal. “Good. That keeps things simple.”</p><p>“‘Keeps things simple,’” Ginny said, rolling her eyes at George from her seat across the table. “I love how she acts as though she’s not attempting to develop something groundbreaking.”</p><p>George’s gaze didn’t leave Granger. “Yes,” he said. “Terribly irritating, how she disrespects the impossible.”</p><p>The compliment landed well.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him, amusement flashing over her features before she returned to her notes.</p><p>Ginny, meanwhile, made a silent gagging motion. George grimaced and swatted his hand in her direction. She pulled back, flicking her gaze to Granger and then looking pointedly at him.</p><p>“Stop,” George mouthed.</p><p>Gin had been goading him about Granger non-stop all morning, every time Hermione’s back was turned. He was about ready to stuff a Fainting Fancy down his throat just to put an end to it. Ginny sighed and took a bite of her biscuit.</p><p>“Everything is impossible until someone does it,” Luna offered, floating by on her own counter-current, upside down. Apparently, Granger had taught her the charm, and Luna put it to her own uses.</p><p>“Right you are, Moonchild,” George said, winking and pointing animatedly at her.</p><p>Luna’s smile brightened, and she flipped right side up. Her pale blonde hair flopped over her face with the somersault. “My Mum called me that,” she said. A quiet fell over the room, but Luna continued, unhindered. “We all pick our own names in my family. That’s why I chose Luna when I turned ten.”</p><p>“Why did your Mum choose Pandora?” Ginny asked.</p><p>Luna’s smile didn’t slip. “She was very curious, and suspected it might be the death of her,” she said.</p><p>“Cheery,” George said, watching the blonde girl carefully. His memories of the woman were faint. Around the time he and Fred had gone to Hogwarts, there’d been an owl from home. A terrible accident, and one that came to mind when he and Fred tinkered with more volatile substances for the shop.</p><p>Luna shrugged. “Sometimes, I wonder if the moon will be the death of me,” she said. “What about you all?”</p><p>Ginny took a dry bite of her biscuit. “Probably mouthing off,” she said.</p><p>“Anything but drowning,” Hermione muttered, scribbling away.</p><p>George raised his brows, glancing around. “This is a horrible conversation,” he said. “But if I could choose a way to go—terribly old, disgustingly wealthy, and thoroughly loved.”</p><p>“Boo,” Ginny drawled, tossing a biscuit piece at his head. “We’re only talking about exciting deaths. Think of another.”</p><p>“Pardon,” George said. He caught the biscuit chunk and hurled it back at her. “But it’s my death fantasy, and I can make it what I like.”</p><p>“George will probably go from mischief,” Hermione said, glancing back at him with a dry smile. “Or bloody heroics.” Her smile faded, and she tapped the volume before her, sending it spinning into the current with the rest. “Would you call the pain dull or sharp?”</p><p>George scratched the back of his neck. “Depends. It gets sharper with the more weight I put on it,” he said. “Sort of like a cold, fiery feeling.”</p><p>Hermione nodded and tugged another volume from the stream. “Fluxweed and Horklump Juice might be worth looking into as well,” she murmured.</p><p>George added them to the growing list on the parchment. “I can help you find a lecture room, if you like,” he said, returning to sunnier topics.</p><p>“Perhaps,” Hermione replied, distracted. “We might try using a cushioning charm on your shoe, until this is finished.”</p><p>George blinked. He should’ve thought of that.</p><p>He leaned down, tracing his wand over his left foot. The magic shimmered as it settled into place.  He gripped the table edge, and it creaked while he pulled himself upright, placing all of his weight on his right side.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>Slowly, he shifted.</p><p>It twinged, then began to burn, but it took a bit more force to provoke the reaction. Curious, he lowered the rest of his weight onto it, then grunted as the fire tore up to his hip.</p><p>Well, that was rubbish.</p><p>Granger whirled. “What’re you doing?” she snapped.</p><p>She was in an odd mood. Had been all morning, a bit waspish, hovering over him and picking fights whenever he tried to get up from the table.</p><p>“Trying your idea?” George said, staring at her with incredulity. “It’s helpful, but—” he gritted his teeth and dropped back into the chair. “—I still can’t walk normally.”</p><p>Hermione strode from her place near the window, steps rapid and shoulders set. Her eyes flashed as she reached down. “You’re supposed to keep it elevated,” she said, jaw tightening. She glared at the floor as she lifted George’s foot back onto its cushion with a bit less gentleness than usual.</p><p>“Careful—” George said, sucking in a breath. It didn’t hurt, but he’d instinctually clenched up at the rigid, deliberate motion.  </p><p>Hermione stilled, then backed away. “Oh,” she whispered, and her eyes rounded. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”</p><p>“It’s—it’s fine, you just startled me,” he said hurriedly. Now, however, something eerily close to guilt flickered in her eyes, and George’s stomach sank. “No, really. It’s okay.” Granger didn’t say anything else. She only twisted her hands together, then dusted them on her denims before pacing away.</p><p>Ginny watched the exchange, shoveling biscuits into her mouth one after the other.</p><p>Granger glanced over, the line between her brows deep as ever. She kept looking at him like that.</p><p>He didn’t particularly fancy it.</p><p>“Oi,” he said. “Quit it with the—” He waved his hand vaguely in her direction. Granger spun away. “The treating me like I’m extraordinarily fragile. I’m not.”</p><p>Luna laughed softly. “We’re all fragile,” she said.</p><p>Hermione glanced over, still with that same look.</p><p>George sighed, exasperated as he stared straight into Hermione’s eyes flatly. “Yes, Lovegood. But what I meant is that I’m no more fragile than everyone else,” he said.</p><p>“Well, that’s categorically untrue,” Hermione said, tilting her chin. The books began to spin at a faster clip. “At present, you are a bit more fragile than the other people gathered.”</p><p>George snapped the biscuit in his hand in half. “Nice bedside manner you got there,” he said. “Very charming.” He folded his arms.</p><p>“I don’t mean that you’re weak, George,” Hermione said, sounding put out. “Just that you should be taking it easy, or at least—”</p><p>The floo roared, and Harry stepped through, a squirming Teddy in tow.</p><p>“Pack it in, Harry,” George flung a hand towards the duo. “I’m far too helpless to watch an infant.”</p><p>Harry blinked and glanced at Ginny. “Do I want to know?” he asked.</p><p>Ginny shook her head and bounded over, scooping Teddy out of Harry’s grasp. “Don’t listen to Uncle George,” she cooed, lifting him high over her head. Teddy’s legs kicked, and his face lit with a gummy smile.</p><p>The direction on Hermione’s Cognitas adjusted, and Ginny’s form parted the rapid stream of books like water over a rock. Harry zipped up his leather jacket and dumped the large, blue bag at George’s seat.</p><p>“Lunch at noon,” he said, pulling a small, wooden shape from the side pocket. “Dinner at four. Bed before eight.” Harry placed the object on the floor beside George’s bed, then murmured, flicking his wand. A bassinet cracked into view. George smiled. It was the same one Mum had used for Gin and Ron. The dark wood stain flecked away at the curved, rocking base. “Oh, and he’ll need to have a kip or two, but I’ve got the schedule details on a parchment in his bag.”</p><p>“Allergies?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“None that I know of, still,” Harry said.</p><p>“Bedtime routine?” Granger said, not looking up from her notes.</p><p>“On the sheet. Hasn’t changed, though,” Harry said, pacing between the bag and the fridge. Blue and orange puree-filled mason jars clinked into each other as Harry slotted them into place on the top shelf.</p><p>“Dragon pox?” George lilted.</p><p>Harry shot him a grin. “Negative.” He shoved several bottles, followed by a shiny, purple box with “<em>Mungo’s Baby Formula</em>” stamped on the side next to the mason jars.</p><p>The amount of preparation the bloke had done, just for a simple night out with Gin wasn’t lost on George.</p><p>Finally, Harry closed the fridge door with his foot and bounded over to Ginny, who was preoccupied with spinning Teddy in circles, back and forth over her head as he shrieked and laughed. “We go fast,” she said, shouting the last word with a grin.</p><p>“Rile him up a bit more, would you?” George asked. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll vomit all over me.”</p><p>Harry intercepted the two, drew Teddy out of Ginny’s grasp, and ducked beneath her extended arms. “Hi,” he said, a bit softly.</p><p>Luna plucked Teddy from Harry’s grip as she circled overhead.</p><p>Harry’s hands circled Ginny’s waist. “So,” he said, a bit more eagerly.</p><p>George coughed.</p><p>Ginny shot a minor stinging jinx around Harry’s back and George yelped at is smacked across his ear. He clutched the skin, glowering at Gin.</p><p>As Luna drifted by, she lowered Teddy onto George’s lap.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” Harry reeled Ginny closer and continued, unphased. “You, me,” He tugged her in the rest of the way, grinning against her ear. “No screaming infants.”</p><p>It was disgusting, but also sweet. “Look away, Teddy, your parents are being indecent,” George muttered, covering Teddy’s eyes with a hand.</p><p>Harry stepped back and twisted back to face him, blinking. “Um—” He glanced between Teddy and Ginny, suddenly looking a bit nervous.</p><p>Oh, bugger. George hadn’t thought about that. He’d just assumed.</p><p>“What time will you be back?” Hermione called. Harry’s face visibly relaxed at the distraction.</p><p>Ginny looked delighted, beaming at George and Teddy as though they’d invented a new racing broom. “Midnight,” she said, bouncing on her toes as she took Harry’s hand.</p><p>Harry snorted, watching Ginny. “Eleven, more like.”</p><p>Ginny elbowed him.</p><p>“Okay, midnight, then,” Harry said brightly.</p><p>“That’s a touch past Hogsmeade visit curfew, innit?” George asked lightly.</p><p>“You’re one to talk,” Ginny said, giving him a mischievous grin.</p><p>Luna whispered a Finite, lowering slowly to the floor. “I’ll walk back with you,” she said. Ginny nodded, waiting for Luna to pull on her coat.</p><p>“Thanks for watching him,” Harry said, grinning at Teddy.</p><p>“Take your time,” George offered. “We’re brewing today, and I expect Aberforth and Bill or Fred will be in and out.”</p><p>Harry nodded. He paused and glanced at Hermione. “Don’t let him levitate Teddy,” he said. George scoffed, incredulous. “You can, but—” Granger nodded a bit, shooting Harry an understanding look.</p><p>“You wound me, Potter!” George called.</p><p>Harry, Ginny, and Luna left in a blustery gust that rocked cold wind through the flat. George winced and flicked his wand at the fireplace, lighting it.</p><p>George returned to the Potioneering guidebook. He only made it a measly two minutes before he spat out the follow up to their previous conversation.</p><p>“It was six on one, in case you forgot,” he said. “I can defend myself just fine.” Teddy munched happily on a teething ring.</p><p>The books halted in midair, and Granger turned to face him.</p><p>George tightened his jaw and flicked his gaze down to the manual. He flipped a few pages aimlessly, just to have something to do.</p><p>“That’s not what this is about,” Hermione said softly. She walked between the volumes and knelt beside his chair.</p><p>George tapped the page. “Interesting,” he said. “An average adult wizard can consume no more than two liters of ground Mandrake root per sitting, or they risk death by liquification.” He gritted his teeth and lifted the quill. “That seems important to remember.” Granger said nothing as he put a small mark next to the passage. “What is it about, then?” he said, finally.</p><p>Teddy dropped his toy, and Hermione lifted it from the floor. “Scourgify,” she whispered, then handed it back. “I don’t want you to hurt it worse,” she said.</p><p>“Is that all?” George asked, watching the book.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said. “But—” she stopped.</p><p>George nodded, his mouth a thin line. There was more, but she wasn’t telling him.</p><p>“George,” she whispered. He wrenched his gaze from the book and looked at her. Her deep brown eyes searched over his face. “I’m only trying to help.”</p><p>“Have at it,” he said grimly. “But the way you’ve been—I mean—” He stared hard at her. “You said—you said you wouldn’t look at me differently.”</p><p>“I don’t—” She blinked and glanced at her hands, faltering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“You’re not a good liar, Granger,” George said, sighing. “It feels a bit like you may’ve forgotten—I kept a shop open in Diagon Alley during some of the worst bits of the war. I was a member of the Order, I’ve fought more than a few death eaters, and I make a <em>mean</em> pumpkin pasty.”</p><p>Hermione snorted at the last part.</p><p>He added, more gently, “While I may not move with as much grace as usual, I’m not going to capsize from walking across the kitchen floor.”  </p><p>Hermione met his gaze. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I—” She grimaced. “I know all that. It’s—It’s not you. It’s only me being, um, silly.” She studied her hands, smiling tiredly as she quirked her brows. “Worrying, like I do. I get the same way over Harry and the others. Used to drive them mad.” She swallowed. “Sorry.”</p><p>George watched her quietly, taking in what she’d said and mulling it over. “S’alright,” he mumbled. “But I’d like to be able to go to the loo without getting told off.”</p><p>Hermione’s face flushed a deep red, and George snorted. “Yes, fine,” she said.</p><p>He tapped the bridge of her nose in the usual spot, right where his finger fit perfectly against the curve. “We have a bargain, then.” With that, he turned back to flip through the Potioneering Guide.</p><p> Suddenly, Hermione shifted, slowly leaned in over Teddy. Her hand brushed over his right ear, sending a warm ripple of sparks over his skin.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>George’s breath hitched, heart pounding. She was close, inches from his face, and only a bit to the side. “Granger?” he asked faintly.</p><p>“Reparifors,” Granger whispered. A trail of white light wafted from her wand, stroking over his ear. The prickle from Ginny’s jinx faded.</p><p>Behind her, the books began to move again. Slowly swooping through the flat, turning around them in circles.</p><p>Like clouds.</p><p>#</p><p>January 17, 1999, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>George propped his hands on his head and stared at Granger’s ceiling. “It truly doesn’t matter,” he called.</p><p>“Honestly,” Granger shouted back. “If I show up to see your Mum for the first time in ages, looking a mess, it’ll seem as if I don’t care.”</p><p>“Or that you’re overworked and need tending to, which isn’t entirely wrong,” he called.</p><p>A frustrated huff echoed down the hall. “It won’t cooperate!” she shouted.</p><p>Crookshanks crept closer, batting at his drumming fingers on the sofa cushion. George cocked a brow at kneazle. “Watch it, Mate,” he rumbled. Then, he tipped his chin towards the hallway. “Do it in a plait. That always looks nice.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“I don’t want to do it in a plait!” she shouted.</p><p>George exhaled slowly. Crooks’s back legs rose, and the cat waggled a bit. George stared at the beast with a flat look before rapping his hand on his chest. “Fine.”</p><p>“Oof—bugger.” The breath left him in a whoosh as Crooks leapt squarely onto his sternum with a sizeable weight. “Why not?” he called.</p><p>Granger rounded the corner, pulling the curls near her face back.</p><p>Dear Merlin.</p><p>She had on the red dress from the wedding. She’d changed it a bit—took away the ruffles around the waist and shoulders, and she’d pairing it with some sort of dark, knit leggings, this time. But he’d recognize it anywhere.</p><p>As he watched, she slipped one of the bobby pins from between her lips and secured the strand behind her head. “Because,” she said, slightly muffled. “This is, you know, different.”</p><p>Different?</p><p>George blinked as she swung a cropped, dark, grey jumper over the top, and the hem fell near her elbows. Then, Granger pinned a strand on the other side of her face back, just how she had when they’d danced, and George’s mouth went stone dry.</p><p>Heat prickled over the back of his neck, crawling close to his ears.</p><p>Hermione twisted, pulling the last bobby pin from her lips. She faltered as she took in his expression. “I’ll change,” she said quickly, spinning towards the corridor.</p><p>“No,” George said, far too hurriedly, voice brimming with urgency. “Don’t.”</p><p>She paused. “It’s not awkward looking?” she asked, wincing. “I tried to transfigure it to suit the occasion, but clothes have never been my forte.”</p><p>George rubbed his hands—when had they gotten so sweaty, Merlin—over his brown, tweed trousers and tried for normalcy. “Looks fine to me,” he said. Just then, Crookshanks fully extended his claws, and the little buggers pierced right through his cream-colored jumper, digging into his chest. “Hahh—” He flinched and choked a bit, then scrunched back, staring down at the cat in alarm. “Alright, alright—she—she looks more than fine. Brilliant. Lovely. She looks lovely.” Crooks’s tale swiped furiously back and forth.</p><p>“Crooks,” Hermione snapped. “No claws on his jumper; you know better.” She rushed forward and proceeded to extricate the cat from his front. “If you want him to like you, Crooky, you’ve got to be nicer.” Her voice echoed down the hall. George winced and caste a quick mending charm over the snags. He was vanishing the last of the orange cat hair from the stitchwork when Hermione returned, sans kneazle.</p><p>“Sorry,” she muttered, and her face was rather pink.</p><p>“No harm done,” George said. “I knew the risks when I invited him up.” He cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at her as he fidgeted. “He never seems to treat you like a pincushion, though.”</p><p>She laughed. “He does, actually,” she said, grinning. “He does with everyone he really likes, so it doesn’t startle me anymore. I hardly feel it.” Hermione handed over his crutch and helped him to his feet.</p><p>Sparks.</p><p>“Here,” she said, lifting his corduroy jacket from the table.</p><p>George lifted his brows and tugged it on. “Ready, then?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>“I’ve got the fireworks, just in case,” he said, offering a lopsided smile as he pulled a whizbang from the inside pocket of his jacket.</p><p>She sucked in a deep breath, then nodded. Together, they crossed to the fireplace and stepped in. “George’s,” Hermione called.</p><p>A green flash.</p><p>Hermione stepped a bit closer as George fumbled over his flat’s mantle. He tossed the powder down. “93 Diagon,” he shouted.</p><p>Flame.</p><p>A dark, silent shop, filled with the smell of cinnamon and gunpowder. Faintly, he could hear the Pygmy Puffs purring in the corner. He leaned on the crutch and ducked his head under the mantle, groping for Fred’s floo bowl. Where was it?</p><p>Git must’ve moved it.</p><p>He leaned a bit farther, and his balance wavered. Hermione caught his elbow.</p><p>There.</p><p>He reached in, grabbed a handful, and ducked back under the mantle. Hermione’s hand was warm, and his magic pulsed under the thick cableknit on his arm. George glanced at her as a sudden wave of anxiety crashed over him.</p><p>Why was he so bloody nervous?</p><p>“I’m ready,” she said, staring straight forward.</p><p>“Right,” he managed.</p><p>Flung the powder down.</p><p>“The Burrow.”</p><p>#</p><p>George blinked at Hermione, jitters running through him from head to foot. She stared back. “You’ve got—” she whispered, reaching up to his face. “—some soot, just there.” Her thumb brushed sparks over his cheek.</p><p>“Mhm,” George replied unsteadily, throat bobbing. His voice sounded a little higher than usual.</p><p>The living room was quiet before them, but voices filtered through from the kitchen.</p><p>“I’m telling you, you should’ve seen him,” Fred’s voice rang out. “Haven’t seen Georgie so happy since—”</p><p>George’s eyes rounded.</p><p>“Mum!” George shouted, cutting Fred’s sentence in two as he whirled to face the Burrow. “We’re home!”</p><p>A clang. Hermione dropped his arm and stepped back.</p><p>George offered her a reassuring grin. “I’ve brought you a surprise!” he called.</p><p>“Didn’t you tell her?” Hermione whispered, eyes widening.</p><p>George shrugged and whispered back. “Told Harry, so she probably knows.”</p><p>Granger’s eyes closed. “That’s assuming Harry thought to say something,” she said, groaning. Rapid footsteps echoed, and his mum appeared from around the corner.</p><p>A happy shriek.</p><p>George grinned. Molly’s pink, knitted housecoat sleeve fluttered as she pressed her hand to her mouth. “Hermione, Dear!” Mrs. Weasley cried.</p><p>“Hermione?” A shocked shout echoed from the kitchen, followed by a loud clatter, and the sound of multiple persons dashing.</p><p>Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley’s face scrunched up in an odd, watery smile as she looked at Hermione, then George, then back at Hermione. “Welcome home, darling,” she said, and then she enveloped Granger in a hug.</p><p>Hermione went a bit rigid, and she peered at George with wide eyes over Molly’s shoulders. “I-I didn’t mean to surprise you, I thought George would’ve—”</p><p>“Oh, no matter, no matter,” Mrs. Weasley cried, voice thick with what sounded like a sob. And then, like magic, Hermione relaxed.</p><p>After a few moments, Molly pulled back and took Hermione’s face in her hands. “I’m just so very glad you’re here.” She nodded firmly at Granger, then at George.</p><p>“Couldn’t tell,” George quipped. He winked at Granger as the vortex that was his mother yanked him in. “Careful, Mum,” he added softly, wincing as she knocked him a little off-balance.</p><p>“Sorry,” Molly said, sniffing as she clutched the back of his head. He was bent nearly in half over her, but despite the gap in height, Mrs. Weasley’s strength was formidable. Good Godric, she was going to squish all the air from his lungs if she carried on. “How’ve you been managing? Feeling any better? Are you eating? Keeping—”</p><p>“Fine, yes, and yes,” George said with a bit of a wheeze. Over Molly’s shoulder, Hermione was biting back a grin, and George narrowed his eyes at her as his mum continued to fuss. Molly gave him a final squeeze, then stepped back, studying him.</p><p>“This is very handsome,” she said approvingly, running a hand over the arm of his jacket. “Quite grown up. I haven’t seen Fred in anything like it—?” She turned back to Fred, who stood near the edge of the room beside Bill and Fleur.</p><p>Fred grinned, but looked a bit hesitant, glancing over his shoulder and back towards the kitchen. He tipped his head meaningfully, but George avoided his gaze.</p><p>He could do without an interrogation just now.</p><p>George flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, Hermione got it for me—a while back,” he said.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley’s eyes widened a fraction, and she glanced at Granger, who had busied herself with removing her black, leather boots beside the hearth. “It’s very nice,” Molly said, a bit more loudly. “Clearly, Hermione has good taste.”</p><p>“Clearly,” Fred repeated with a lilt, bugging his eyes out as a smirk twitched over his lips. But then, he widened his eyes at George again, nodding more adamantly towards the kitchen. George cleared his throat and looked back at his mum.</p><p>“Very nice,” Mrs. Weasley said, sounding a bit distracted as she studied George. Her hand reached towards his hair.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“Could use a trim, though.”</p><p>George groaned.</p><p>“None of that attitude,” Molly said, wagging her finger at him. “Now, your brothers insist on growing it out in a silly manner, but if you give me a few minutes, I can—”</p><p>“No thanks, Mum,” George said lightly, ducking out of reach. Besides, it wasn’t even that long. It had started to fall into his eyes a bit, but it wasn’t nearly as shaggy as he’d had it sixth year.</p><p>The front door creaked open. “We couldn’t find it in the broom cupboard,” Harry called. “But I don’t understand where—hey Mione—else it would be?”</p><p>“Nevermind that, Harry, look who’s come for dinner!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. Harry glanced at the two of them, nodded, then turned back to Molly.</p><p>“He’s a bit small to use one, yet, but I thought it’d be nice.” His voice trailed off. “I had one when I was his age, and it’s never too early to get him started.”</p><p>Another creak, and Arthur’s voice poured through the room. “We’ll be proud of you with or without a trophy, Dear,” he said good naturedly. “Won’t we, Teddy-boy?” Mr. Weasley had Teddy propped in his left arm as he spoke with Angelina.</p><p>“Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley called. “Look—look who’s here.” She sounded a bit breathless.</p><p>Mr. Weasley glanced from Teddy, whom he had been beaming at quite amiably, to his wife. His gaze settled on George and Hermione.</p><p>“Oh!” He jumped a bit. “Well.” Mr. Weasley’s eyes lit with a familiar twinkle. “What a wonderful surprise.”</p><p>George hesitated, bracing for damage control and silently willing his father not to say anything too suspect.</p><p>But Arthur only smiled warmly and crossed to Hermione. “Lovely to have you back, Dear,” he said, throwing his free arm around her shoulders and giving her a brief hug. He turned to George. “That a muggle contraption?” he said, staring at the crutch.</p><p>George let out a breath of relief and handed it over wordlessly. Arthur carried it to the armchair, examining the parts with a rapturous expression on his face as Teddy babbled on his knee.</p><p>“Let that alone, Arthur, Hermione’s here—” Molly bustled after him, scolding. The peanut gallery, now expanded by Angelina and Harry, watched, grinning.</p><p>Granger was slowly turning red as a tomato, looking between Molly, Arthur, and George as though she wasn’t quite sure what to do.</p><p>George hesitated. “Oi, Granger,” he said quietly. “Give us a hand, would you?” He reached out, beckoning her over. Granger fled in his direction, seeming eager for the diversion. George braced his hand on her shoulder and toed off his right loafer, then, gingerly, his left. He leaned in a moment and draped his arm over her shoulder, playing at needing an extra bit of support as he whispered near her ear, “You’re doing great. They’ll settle in a minute or two; don’t worry.”</p><p>When he pulled back, Granger gave him a grateful smile. She ducked down, picked up his shoes, and placed them beside her own.</p><p>They looked rather nice, there. Side by side.</p><p>“We’ll need three extra places, then,” Molly said, lifting Teddy from Arthur and heading to the kitchen. “And I should double the potatoes.”</p><p>“We wearing formal jackets to dinner now?” Fred asked dryly. He tugged on Angelina’s arm. “Hey—Granger bought George that outfit. Why don’t you get dashing things for me to wear?”</p><p>“Because your wardrobe is twice the size of mine already,” Angelina said, narrowing her eyes at him.</p><p>“I’ve offered to amend this,” Fred said. He folded his arms.</p><p>“I don’t need more clothes,” Angelina said. She patted him on the arm. “And nor do you.”</p><p>“Respectfully, I disagree,” Fred said.</p><p>As the two bickered, Hermione slipped under George’s arm, and he blinked in surprise as she began to help him toward couch. His left foot dangled over the floor, and he had to lean a bit hard on Granger’s shoulder to compensate. But she didn’t falter.</p><p>Fred glanced at George yet again, and his look was even more urgent.</p><p>What did the git want?</p><p>The back door swung wide. “Not in the shed, either.” A new voice boomed, and Hermione froze.</p><p>No.</p><p>Fred dragged his hands over his face.</p><p>Ron strode around the corner. He was preoccupied, facing the opposite direction as he peeled a massive fur coat from his shoulders and tossed it over the table. Ron’s hair had been cropped close, but he had a thick beard over his jaw, which he was scratching absentmindedly. “Could always buy a new one, but—”</p><p>And then he turned.</p><p>Ron’s voice died in his throat. A raw, hurt look came over him.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>Then, Ron’s face twisted in anger.</p><p>Fred leapt into action. In the span of a moment, he was at George’s other side, slipping under his arm, making it look like a group effort. “George, you clumsy git,” Fred said, as though nothing uncomfortable were happening. He glanced over at Ron and said more loudly. “Did you look with your eyes, Ron? Even in the back shelving?”</p><p>It was like watching Harry plummet over the Quidditch Pitch, years ago. Disaster, unfolding, right before him.</p><p>Why this Sunday? Why out of every Sunday dinner, had Ron come to visit this week? Hermione had been so brave, working up the courage to come back, and now—</p><p>“Did you two come together?” Ron asked, staring hard at Granger.</p><p>A stunned, horrified look dawned over Harry’s face, and he whirled to Ron, then back to Hermione.</p><p>Granger lifted her chin and replied in a calm, even tone. “Yes, Ronald, we’re friends.” George nodded, watching her.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron’s face contort. “Right,” he snapped.</p><p>Anger prickled under George’s breastbone. “Got a problem?” he said, almost growling as he drew his arms away from Fred and Granger. Ron could be angry with him, but he wasn’t going to make Granger feel bad. Not for coming home. He stuck his foot firmly onto the ground. Fire roared up his leg, but George tightened his jaw and stood through it.</p><p>Ron’s voice was a frigid, brick wall, slamming through the space. “What’re you even doing here?”</p><p>How <em>dare</em> he.</p><p>George didn’t recall reaching into his back pocket, but somehow, his wand was in his hand, and he was biting back at his brother, loud and furious. “She’s every right to—”</p><p>Ron sneered and laughed coldly. “No, not her. You.”</p><p>“Pardon?” Fred said tightly.</p><p>“Boys,” Mr. Weasley said, and his voice was stern.</p><p>Ron’s eyes narrowed on George. “You haven’t come to these in ages, from what I’ve heard.” He crossed the floor, broad and unphased as he came to stand in front of George. “But here you are, the one week I’m home.” He breathed out a short puff of air. “Funny.”</p><p>George opened his mouth, but Ron kept going, speaking rapidly. “This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?” His smile was void of warmth. “Oh, you must be chuffed. One big, funny joke for your entertainment.”</p><p>Less than a foot stood between them.</p><p>“Sod off,” George said lowly. “That’s not what this is—”</p><p>And then Ron’s hands came up, and he shoved against George’s shoulders. Not enough to push him over. But a prod.</p><p>“Boys!” Mr. Weasley repeated, more clipped this time.</p><p>“Yeah?” Ron’s voice grew louder. “Then why else would you bring her?”</p><p>George sucked in a breath, glancing over.</p><p>Granger looked like she’d been hit with a Bombarda.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>In the span of an instant, the memories strobed through him, coated with a thick film of anger.</p><p>Purple jumper, folded on the table.</p><p>Hermione crying in his kitchen. <em>“And now I’m here alone.”</em></p><p>Folded over herself on her flat’s floor.</p><p>
  <em>“Come on, Granger, it’s Christmas.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t.”</em>
</p><p>Months of assuring her that she belonged. That she was welcome, unconditionally.</p><p>And now he could see the doubt flickering in Granger’s eyes.</p><p>George snapped. “Because she’s family!” he shouted, and then he grappled Ron right back, hands landing on Ron’s arms as his brother shoved against him. The fire in his leg tore deeper into his muscles, searing, but George could hardly feel it through the anger.</p><p>“That’s enough!” Hermione cried. “Stop it!” She darted around, ducking in front of George and driving the two apart.</p><p>Ron’s mouth opened and his hand—his casting hand—flung out, and time seemed to unravel as something otherworldly threw George forward, between Ron and Granger.</p><p>“Don’t!” Vaguely, he recognized the sound of his own desperate shout, the sharp hiss of his wand slashing. George’s non-verbal, ice-blue Protego cracked across Ron’s body, and his younger brother flew back into the long, wooden table.</p><p>He’d taught Ron to read, just there.</p><p>Like a chime, he could hear Ron’s sniffling over the <em>d</em>’s and <em>b</em>’s, which he couldn’t keep straight after Fred had taught him the opposite sound for each shape.</p><p>George hadn’t been an older brother, until Ron came along.</p><p>Ron blinked. Lifted his hand—his empty, <em>empty</em>—casting hand to his face, where a small, red welt was forming under his eye. A sort of surprised hurt flickered in his expression, momentarily.</p><p>What had he done?</p><p>Ron’s face cleared, going oddly blank. And then his hand wasn’t empty anymore as instincts unfurled.</p><p>“Boys!” Arthur’s Sonorous was deafening, but it didn’t make a lick of difference. By the time Bill reached him, Ron had already layered three spells into George in rapid succession.</p><p>The first knocked his chin back and filled his mouth with copper, the second hit like a brick to the ribs and flung his wand from his hand, and the third ripped his feet out from under him, cruel and unforgiving against the curse damage.</p><p>Stun.</p><p>Disarm.</p><p>Incapacitate.</p><p>An auror fighting strategy—one of the many Moody had drilled he and Fred on, and Ron’s use of it was honed by months of training and time in the field.</p><p>George could do nothing as gravity flipped.</p><p>At the horrid yank, the fire scrambled, searing deep into his bones, and George cried out. He hunched up, towards the ceiling, trying to free his feet—but, oh—oh it burned—</p><p>“You’re hurting him!” Hermione screamed.</p><p>The wandless magic refused his command, and George’s fingers slipped uselessly over his socks. He struggled to get a breath in through the fog of pain.</p><p>Blinding, blue light cracked through the room.</p><p>Then, a piercing whistle—Molly Weasley’s wandless Finite.</p><p>Her classic, last resort for whenever the lot of them got too wild.</p><p>The magic cut, and George plummeted to the ground. But the landing was softer than it should have been. It knocked the wind from him, but nothing cracked.</p><p>He wheezed into the floorboards.</p><p>“He caste at me first! I neutralized the threat!” Ron was clutching his nose and shouting across the room, which was spinning a bit. Bill’s figure doubled and swayed, standing between Ron and Fred, holding each of them at bay.</p><p>And Harry—Harry had both arms wrapped around Hermione, dragging her backwards.</p><p>He couldn’t breathe. The burning was unbearable.</p><p>He closed his eyes to stop the uneasy motion of the room around him.</p><p>“He caste a shield charm, you pillock!” Fred’s roar pounded back.</p><p>“Get off, Fred!” Bill shouted.</p><p>“At me, on an offensive strike!” Ron yelled over him.</p><p>If he could just catch his bloody breath.</p><p>“So you Levicorpused him? He’s still recovering!” Fred shouted.</p><p>“From wha—”</p><p>“<strong>Silencio</strong>!”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley’s voice boomed like thunder, and the room fell quiet.</p><p>“That’s quite enough,” Molly whispered. The spell cracked out, and voices, lower now, blended together near the dining table. Tight, furious muttering that George couldn’t follow—not with the ringing in his ears.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“George?” Mr. Weasley asked softly.</p><p>George fisted his hand against the cold floorboards and tried to swallow back the hot, bitter liquid in his mouth. The searing rent up and down his leg, panic flush under his sternum.</p><p>Hasty steps.</p><p>Someone knelt at his arm.</p><p>“George—” Hermione breathed.</p><p> “S—S’fine” he managed, trying to breathe through it. But he was going too fast. Too fast.</p><p>Suddenly, soft, hurried hands worked over the side of his face in a smattering of sparks.</p><p>The spinning slowed.</p><p>“Ronald—” Mrs. Weasley’s voice dropped again into an inaudible, low murmur across the room.</p><p>Meanwhile, Hermione’s hands didn’t falter from his face, his shoulders, and his arm as she searched over him.</p><p>For a few moments, there was only the faint feeling of glow, seeping through his shoulder blades, skating along his back, down to his leg, where the blaze was ebbing steadily with each passing moment that Granger held on.</p><p>One breath.</p><p>Two.</p><p>Slowly, George twisted his head and drew his elbows under him.</p><p>“Careful,” Hermione murmured.</p><p>“M’fine,” George said, gritting his teeth. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow and braced to shove himself upright.</p><p>Anger and disappointment broiled hot in his center—shifting waves of guilt and fury.</p><p>Half of him wanted to hex the git into oblivion.</p><p>The other half felt like George might’ve deserved what he’d been handed, just now, even if Ron didn’t know exactly why. Especially as Hermione’s hand brushed over the back of his head and he remembered precisely how many times he’d almost kissed her in the last month.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, fawn all over him,” Ron muttered. “He’s the one who started it.”</p><p>“He’s my best friend, Ronald,” Hermione snapped.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“You move on quick.” At Ron’s words, Granger’s hand stuttered on George’s shoulder.</p><p>His stomach lurched. Of all the nasty things to—</p><p>He drove his elbow against the floor and twisted onto his back, wheezing and blinking hard at the ceiling. “Shut your—”</p><p>“Ronald Weasley,” Molly gasped. “That’s enough of that.”</p><p>“I—I didn’t mean that you and Harry weren’t as well, I mean, you’re—you’re all my—” She was stammering, thrown off. George’s insides clenched at the hurt panic in Granger’s voice.</p><p>“It’s okay, Mione,” Harry cut in, gentle and quiet. George shoved himself up on his elbows, and almost as if by instinct, Hermione reached to help, drawing an arm around the back of his shoulders.</p><p>Oh, bugger, that was the last thing Ron needed to see just now. Gently, George pulled away.</p><p>“No, I know what you meant,” Ron said coldly.</p><p>A light cough echoed from the armchair, and Arthur shifted. The crutch lay forgotten on the floor. “I think,” Mr. Weasley said, mild and measured. “Some of us might benefit from a walk to cool off.”</p><p>“No thanks, Dad,” Ron said, tight and clipped. He tore his coat from the table and strode from the floor, stepping nimbly over George’s prone legs with brisk, heavy footfalls. The porcelain bowl rattled on the mantle. “I’ll be at the Leaky.”</p><p>“Ron—” Mrs. Weasley tried.</p><p>Ron turned to face her, and his jaw tightened. “I can’t, Mum.”</p><p>Molly bit her lips together, and her face radiated disappointment.</p><p>Ron flinched, then flung the powder into the grate.</p><p>“Diagon Alley!” Ron shouted.</p><p>Much like the evening, Ron went up in flame.</p><p>“That went well,” Mr. Weasley said.</p><p>“Are we done with the excitement?” Fleur emerged from the kitchen, wand working over Teddy’s head in the familiar pattern of a muffliato spell.</p><p>Harry let out a long breath and hurried over, taking his son.</p><p>Bill’s deep, tired sigh echoed. The buckles on his dragon leather jacket jangled as he summoned it from across the room. “I’ll go,” he said. He stopped to the side and pressed a kiss onto Fleur’s lips before striding after Ron, calling out for Diagon and flooing away.</p><p>In the stillness, a single, sharp sniff came from above George’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Granger,” he mumbled. “Don’t mind him.”</p><p>She didn’t answer.</p><p>How had things gone so terribly wrong?</p><p>“George Fabian Weasley.” Mrs. Weasley’s voice was shrewd and quiet, all at once. “What have I told you about rough housing indoors?”</p><p>His mum launched into the dressing-down of a lifetime over the Protego move, which she’d seen from the kitchen, complete with jaunty, pointed fingers and more than a few references to Percy’s admirable qualities.</p><p>It was the most merciful thing she could’ve done—filling the room with ridiculous white noise and framing the conflict as one of many absurd, brotherly spats. George watched, numbly nodding along, stealing glances at Granger, who had shrunk to the side and seemed quite fixated on her jumper sleeve. He met his mum’s eyes and tipped his head towards Hermione.</p><p>Molly drew in a deep breath. “And of course I don’t blame you, Dear,” she said, switching to a gentler tone as she smiled at Hermione. “You know how terribly out of hand this lot can get. Ronald was completely out of line in the way he spoke to you.”</p><p>Hermione drew in a sharp breath. “I shouldn’t of—” she paused, staring at her hands. “I didn’t mean to—”</p><p>“It’s my fault,” Harry said abruptly. “I knew you both would be here, but I didn’t think anything of it. When I spoke with him last month, it seemed like you two had sorted things.”</p><p>George exhaled heavily. That was typical of Harry. He’d always fumbled it, when Ron and Hermione fought.</p><p>“I mean, he laughed to me about that article in <em>The Prophet</em> from a few weeks back. I didn’t realize he and George, um—” Harry trailed off.</p><p>“Have decades of pent-up aggression to unleash?” Fred quipped. “Not to worry. George and I have always gotten into it with Ronnie-kins. We give him a hard time, but we’ll make nice eventually, provided he doesn’t muck it up.” He smiled, but George knew better. Fred’s eyes had a furious glint in them, and if Bill hadn’t been there—</p><p>A horrible thought occurred to him, and not for the first time, either. “You don’t think Ron gets <em>The Resonant</em>, where he’s stationed?”</p><p>Harry shook his head. “He refuses to read it since they harassed him for a statement on Hermione last fall,” he said. “And he’s only been back to visit once before now. There wouldn’t be much opportunity for him to happen upon it.”</p><p>George’s mind whirred. What had the headlines been this week? Would Ron see anything, in Diagon Alley?</p><p>“<em>Trouble in Paradise</em>.”</p><p>He bit his lips together. It had been hidden deep in the paper. Not something Ron was likely to happen upon, unless he looked through it.</p><p>Suddenly, he was grateful for his brother’s penchant for holding grudges. So long as no one brought it up while Ron was out in Diagon—</p><p>He swallowed. Hopefully, Bill would keep those people at bay.</p><p>Harry was still speaking, having moved on to a different topic.</p><p>It seemed as though everyone was doing their best to assure Hermione that her presence had not wrought this disaster, but the witch had yet to look up from the floor.</p><p>George shoved himself the rest of the way upright and leaned back against the coffee table.</p><p>“Hermione, that dress is beautiful,” Fleur said softly. “I think I remember it, no?” The blonde woman flitted across the room and settled beside Hermione on the floor, just beside George.</p><p>Granger shrugged.</p><p>Fleur offered Hermione a playful smile. “This is nothing. The Delacours have leveled houses with their screams.”</p><p>Granger buried her face in her hands.</p><p>And then she sobbed. “I’m so sorry,” she cried.</p><p>George squeezed his eyes shut. He’d put her through this. Asked her to come, more than once, and now she’d feel more out of place than before.</p><p>Soft footsteps echoed on the floor. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Dearie,” Mr. Weasley said. “You should’ve seen how Gideon and Fabian got into it with my brothers, years ago.”</p><p>“Arthur—” Mrs. Weasley sounded a bit strained, but Arthur kept talking, pacing to the large, antique jewelry chest on the shelf above the mantle. He tugged open the vine patterned front panel by the brass handle and the top drawer scraped as he slid it out.</p><p>“Family’s a little messy,” Arthur said easily. “Especially this one.” Something clinked in the drawer, and Arthur drew it into his hand.</p><p>“I remember feeling like I might not belong, after some of those disagreements,” he said. “After all, I was never the fiery sort, and the Prewetts, well—” he snorted. “They make Fred and George look tame, by comparison.”</p><p>“I should check the roast,” Mrs. Weasley said, voice hitching a bit as she shoved her sleeve to her mouth and hurried from the room. Arthur glanced in her direction, a line between his brows. He sighed.</p><p>Fleur nodded at Arthur, then followed after Molly.</p><p>Mr. Weasley seemed torn for a moment, but then he shuffled to George and Hermione. “But, I was wrong, see,” he said earnestly. “We all belonged on that blasted clock.”</p><p>Granger didn’t answer, didn’t look up.</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s face twisted a bit, and his knees popped as he crouched before Granger. She lowered her hands slightly, peeking at him.</p><p>Arthur laid out a tarnished spoon. An oddly familiar face stared back at them from the bowl. It—it looked like Fred, only with pierced ears and a tangled beard. Another spoon. Like a mirror, almost an exact replica of George, but the slight differences were there. A scar along the cheek and jaw.</p><p>The Prewett brothers winked and grinned, their portraits black and white, rather than in color.</p><p>Like—like they should’ve been.</p><p>And then Mr. Weasley laid a third one down, and George went cold.</p><p>This time, it really was Fred—the image faded and ghost-like. Black and white. But also frozen in place—unmoving. His face and shoulders were exactly how they’d been the night of the battle at Hogwarts, down to the ragged, checkered jacket. A jagged crack ran through the metal.</p><p>George blinked at the spoon, then at the clock—where Fred’s spoon was still clicked into place on “<em>Home</em>.” His image there matched his appearance now perfectly.</p><p>His stomach twisted.</p><p>“This family’s seen its share of heartache, Dear,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. “It won’t buckle under this.”</p><p>Hermione’s gaze was fixed on Fred’s broken spoon.</p><p>There was a clatter.</p><p>Across the room, Angelina had hurled herself into Fred, who watched the floor between Granger and George with a queasy expression as he wound his arms tightly around her. Harry, meanwhile, stared at the spoon, then Fred, aghast.</p><p>Mr. Weasley hesitated, then nicked the spoons back into his hand. “I’ve watched that clock for over thirty years. Prewett heirloom, you see. Good bit of magic.” Arthur fumbled with his jacket pocket, voice growing distracted. “Only been wrong once,” he said. “And I intend to fix it, seeing as it’s the Weasley Clock, now.”</p><p>He pulled something from his jacket, a flash of gleaming silver. “I’d like to show you something,” he said.</p><p>And then, Mr. Weasley withdrew a set of new, gleaming spoons and placed them on floor before Granger in three, gentle clinks.</p><p>Harry’s face.</p><p>Teddy’s face.</p><p>And Hermione’s.</p><p>“I’m working on the charm. The clock’s always minded the spoons, so I’ve never added any by hand. Slow going, but I think I’ve just about got it,” he said quietly. “I’ve already asked Harry. But if it’s alright, Molly and I would like to look after you—the same as we do for all the others.”</p><p>Hermione looked wildly between the clock, George, the gleaming silver, and finally, Arthur’s face.</p><p>She flung her arms around Mr. Weasley and cried.</p><p>#</p><p>January 18, 1999, 6:00 p.m.</p><p>The large photo of Ron knocking back a shot in a dark pub had been hard to miss—splashed across the front page of <em>The Prophet</em>. Hermione blinked at it on George’s left, looking stricken.</p><p>George couldn’t breathe.</p><p>
  <em>“Ron Weasley, War Hero, Breaks Silence on Broken Heart.”</em>
</p><p>The pull quote was worse than the headline: <em>“No surprise she’s moved on quick.”</em></p><p>
  <em>‘Ronald Weasley has finally been spotted—broken hearted, no less. The war hero confided with denizens of a local establish last night on a variety of painful memories—his time fighting death eaters with Harry Potter, his family’s terrible poverty, and most of all, his rocky relationship with Hermione Granger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Our reporters were present when Weasley shed new light on what once appeared a happy, albeit brief romance: ‘Always taking everyone else’s side, even when we were kids. Could never do anything right,’ Weasley said. ‘Thought it all meant something, when we finally got together, but she changed her mind all the sudden. I mean, she does whatever she likes, right? No matter. Always has. No surprise she’s moved on quick. Got her runes and her new friends. Whole new life. Bloody good for her.’</em>
</p><p>The article went on, lamenting his brother’s wounded feelings and pride and casting more than a bit of blame on Hermione. George couldn’t read a bit more. He slammed the paper back into the cart.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, turning to the witch beside him. “He’s—”</p><p>Granger’s eyes had an edge in them, and she spun on her heel, striding away. “We should hurry,” she snapped. “They’ll close soon.”</p><p>George’s crutch swung rapidly as he fought through the passerbys to reach her arm. “Granger—” he tried again.</p><p>“I’m quite alright,” Hermione said, shoving through the crowd as they headed towards Dabbling’s Apothecary and Potions. She flipped through her journal, whipping the pages so hard that one tore. “Now, Bill recommended we purchase extra Aloe Extract, as it’ll counteract the negative reactions from the fireseeds.”</p><p>It’d been Aberforth’s idea—fighting fire with fire—driving the curse’s cold flame out with a controlled, warm one. Brilliant, but George was more concerned about the tight cord of tension in Hermione’s neck and jaw.</p><p>“Hermione, please,” he said softly.</p><p>Granger yanked the Apothecary shop door open. “If Ron wants to be a git, then he can be a git,” she said. “I’ve more important things to worry about.”</p><p>She straightened her shoulders and strode inside.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>Hermione was cool and calm, sliding glass bottles off racks and onto the counter. The door jangled, and a new figure swooped in.</p><p>Aberforth, with Winky on his shoulders. He spared George a bored glance before heading to Hermione. “Thought I saw you,” he said roughly, plucking the fireseeds from her hand. “Leave these. I’ve something better.”</p><p>Hermione raised a brow. Aberforth stooped in, whispering. Granger’s eyes widened. Winky cracked across the shop, landing at George’s feet.</p><p>“Oi!” Mr. Dabbling shouted. “No house elves inside.”</p><p>Hermione froze. Turned slowly on her heel towards the till.</p><p>“Seeing as she’s not a house elf,” she hissed. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”</p><p>Dabbling balked. “Yes it is,” he said. “Seen it with my own eyes, right there.” He folded his arms. “Can slip right past the wards—thieving little—”</p><p>Hermione launched around the counter, finger extended. “First of all—” Hermione snapped, advancing on the man.  Magic cracked out from her skin, her wired hair, and the bottles on the counter spun out, shattering over the floor in explosions of purple, green, and red. George lurched to help her, but his feet stuck to the floor. At his side, Winky shook her head.</p><p>Hermione was inches from Dabbling, yelling, mid-sentence, when Aberforth rounded and pulled her away. She flailed. “Let me go!” she shouted.</p><p>As Aberforth tugged her back, Dabbling’s wand slashed, and the jinx clapped loudly over Hermione’s face.</p><p>George’s vision went white, and his magic scorched, but his body wouldn’t bloody move, and Winky refused let up on whatever she’d used to freeze him in place.</p><p>Hermione blinked as Aberforth set her gently on her feet. Then, the bearded old man turned back to Dabbling with a cool countenance.</p><p>“Dabbling,” he said, tone flat.</p><p>Then he clocked the other man, clear across the face.</p><p>Dabbling yelped and fell into the till.</p><p>“You’re done,” Aberforth said gruffly. “Be out by start of the month.”</p><p>Dabbling choked, clutching his nose. “You can’t do that,” he shouted. “You haven’t the right.”</p><p>Aberforth towered over the counter, and the room seemed to dim.</p><p>George realized he’d never truly seen Aberforth angry until this moment.</p><p>Hermione stepped back, rubbing her cheek.</p><p>“I own this lot,” Aberforth said cooly. Dabbling’s eyes rounded. “In fact, I own most of the village, so you can think twice about trying to relocate anywhere nearby. Your elf policy’s a violation of the lease, and you were barely tolerable before this.”</p><p>George gawked.</p><p>The Hog’s Head was never busy. Apparently, Aberforth didn’t need it to be busy. He appeared unbothered as he stepped away from the till and popped his neck. With the movement, a white zip spun to Hermione’s face, where it cleared away the red mark.</p><p>An odd way to perform wandless magic, but Aberforth was an odd bloke.</p><p>“We’ll go to Mulpepper’s,” the older man muttered, striding away.</p><p>Hermione followed, glancing wide-eyed at George.</p><p>“Shut your mouth, boy,” Aberforth growled as he passed.</p><p>#</p><p>January 19, 1999, 3:30 p.m.</p><p>Healer Marcus leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “What do you want, George?” he asked.</p><p>George drummed his fingers on the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, refusing to meet the healer’s gaze.</p><p>“It’s a question,” Healer Marcus said. “No more, no less.”</p><p>George snorted. Things were rarely so simple in these sessions.</p><p>“What do you want?” Healer Marcus repeated.</p><p>George swiveled his head. “Why do you ask?” he replied.</p><p>Marcus sighed and made a note.</p><p>“Come on,” George said, exhaling sharply as he glared at the ceiling. “That’s not important enough to write down, why’ve you got to—”</p><p>“I was putting down a reminder to do my shopping,” Marcus said dryly.</p><p>“You mean you don’t just sit there in between appointments, waiting on my return?” George said, tone flat.</p><p>Marcus snorted. “Got to fill the time somehow.”</p><p>But then he laid the quill aside. “Do you have an answer for me?”</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“I want Ron to stop being a git,” George said tightly, shrugging as he frowned at the shelves lining the wall. Marcus had little plants tucked between books and bits and pieces. He recognized a few. Dittany. Asphodel. Star Grass.</p><p>“Well, that’s outside of your control. We can only decide our behavior, not the behavior of others,” Marcus said. He folded his hands. “What else?”</p><p>“I want the same things everyone wants,” George said, shrugging. “No story there.”</p><p>Marcus took a long breath. “Okay,” he said lightly.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“So, what were your highs and lows this week?” he asked.</p><p>George relaxed into the familiar pattern. They touched on the question most sessions. “Um, the biggest low would be probably fighting with Ron, like we just talked about. Also, dealing with my leg.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Highs would be—” He paused, thinking over the week. “Got a drink with Fred, just before last week’s session—forgot to mention it. It was nice. Um—Let’s see…Hermione stopped by for breakfast, and that was—”</p><p><em>“Love you!” </em>George paused as her voice rang through his mind.</p><p>Marcus tilted his head. “Was?” he prompted.</p><p>George cleared his throat and bobbed his head. “Really great,” he said. “And, um, she got me some slippers, too, snuck them into my flat, actually.” He grinned and tugged a hand through his hair. “And, oh—blimey, I also found out one of my siblings will be getting engaged, eventually, and so I was pretty excited for them.” He folded his arms and nodded again.</p><p>Marcus smiled. “Anything else?” he asked.</p><p>George stared at the plants.</p><p>“I alluded to it earlier, but my dad’s tinkered out a way to add Harry, Teddy, and Hermione to the clock. She was quite excited about that, actually. It sort of saved the evening, after everything.” As he remembered it, a small smile slipped over his lips.</p><p>“That’s remarkable,” Marcus said. “And this is the one that’s got your whole family on it?”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>Marcus made a note. “How did she respond?” he asked.</p><p>George’s smile shifted into a grin. “She cried, but in a good way,” he said. “It was sort of a big deal. She—she hadn’t been home in ages. Hadn’t been to a family dinner since everything last fall. And when Dad showed her the clock pieces, she was, um—” His voice went soft. “—really happy.”</p><p>Marcus smiled. “And how did you feel, at her response?”</p><p>George rolled his eyes. “Gutted.” He snorted. “Come on, Mate, you know.”</p><p>Marcus lifted his brows. “Do I?” he asked. “Elaborate.”</p><p>“I—I was thrilled, obviously,” George said, shrugging. “She’s family. She’s—” He swallowed. “She belongs on that clock.” He looked at Marcus, who was taking a casual sip of his tea. Too casual. He’d gotten a bit better at reading the other man’s tells. “Have out with it.”</p><p>Marcus smiled and tucked the mug onto the sideboard near his elbow. “I think it’s fair to say that Miss Granger’s a regular presence in your weekly highs,” he said.</p><p>George sighed and folded his arms.</p><p>Not this again. He’d thought Marcus understood, when they’d spoken about it last month.</p><p>“I mean, I could count them out for you, go through my notes, but I don’t think gathering evidence is necessary,” Marcus said lightly. “Would you agree?”</p><p>George gave him a flat look. “Yes.” He waited, bracing himself for the follow-up that would drop momentarily.</p><p>Marcus nodded and adjusted his cup’s handle.</p><p>“Get on with it,” George said, tired.</p><p>Marcus turned to face him. “Are you still set on not telling her your feelings?” he asked.</p><p>There it was.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said. “We’ve chatted about this. I drew a boundary. I made a choice, and no one seems to understand that.” Frustration nipped through his tone. “I have a right to decide whether I’d like to pursue things, just like she does. And I’m not going to.”</p><p>“Why?” Marcus prompted.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>Usually, Marcus didn’t press the issue this hard.</p><p>George drummed his fingers on his forearm. “If she found out, if something went wrong—” He shook his head. “She just returned to the Burrow. I don’t want her feeling like I didn’t mean everything I’ve said about her being family. I don’t want her to feel like there’s a condition attached to that, because there’s not.”</p><p>“But if she’s on the clock—” Marcus started.</p><p>George rubbed his hands over his face and talked over him. “I’d be a git to try to swoop in and—” He winced. “I mean, she’s in a rather vulnerable position, right now. She broke up with Ron only months ago. She’s dealing with a rough situation with her parents. The papers are after her constantly. She’s trying to sort what she’s going to do with her life. She’s working towards some rather important goals, and—” George shook his head, grinning at the ceiling. “And she just got through a horrible war.”</p><p>“So did you,” Marcus said.</p><p>George shook his head. “It’s not comparable, Mate,” he said. “The war I experienced and the war she did are two different monsters. They-they did horrible things to her.” His hands clenched into fists. “People weren’t fighting to take my magic away.” He spat the words.</p><p>“Mm,” Marcus said, folding his arms.</p><p>George stilled. He’d forgotten Healer Marcus was muggleborne.</p><p>“It’s your choice, George,” Marcus said. “I remember your reasons. I only asked again because it seemed relevant, given what you’ve told me.”</p><p>George stared at his hands. “Besides,” he said softly. “If she felt the same, she could tell me. And she hasn’t, and that’s fine, because I know. I’ve known for ages. It’s not going to happen.” But the weight in his chest was heavy, yanking downwards. “And I’m not about to push my feelings on her—make her feel like our friendship has conditions.”</p><p>“Could she tell you, George?” Marcus asked.</p><p>George faltered. “Yeah, of course.”</p><p>Marcus quirked his brows. “If I were Miss Granger, I might feel a bit hesitant for the very reasons you gave when explaining your own choice.”</p><p>George’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand,” he said.</p><p>Marcus sighed. “If her place in your family came into question in the past, if she felt insecurity about that—confessing feelings to her ex-boyfriend’s older brother could very easily backfire.” He set the quill on the sideboard and leaned back in his chair. “And as you said, she’s going through a lot.”</p><p>“But—” George shook his head. Marcus didn’t get it.</p><p>Marcus shook his head, interjecting. “To be clear—in no way am I trying to assure you of her feelings. I haven’t the foggiest,” he said. “You could very well be right in your assumptions.” He crossed his ankle over his knee. “But when we assume we know the feelings and intentions of others, it leaves room for miscommunication. Sometimes, it’s better to ask.” Marcus tilted his head. “Then, we can listen and accept.”</p><p>“But if she thinks that I’m—”</p><p>“Are you planning on abandoning the friendship, should she not return your feelings?” Marcus asked.</p><p>George shook his head. “No, that’s ridiculous,” he said.</p><p>“And do you think Miss Granger would, if she found out and didn’t feel the same?” Marcus prompted.</p><p>George faltered. “She might feel uncomfortable, and—” he trailed off.</p><p>Marcus nodded. “That’s fair. You can’t control her response,” he said. “You can only control what you do.”</p><p>George nodded. “Yeah,” he said.</p><p>Healer Marcus watched him in silence for a minute. “So, that being said—what do you want, George?”</p><p>George gritted his teeth. Now, Marcus was being a git. He didn’t justify the question with a response.</p><p>“If you want to continue with this boundary you’ve set in place, I will try to help you find functionality in that,” Marcus said. “But, I think it’s important you carefully examine why you’ve come to that decision.”</p><p>“I’ve already told you why,” George said.</p><p>“Yes, I know,” Marcus mused, looking over his notes. “It’s because you’re afraid.” He glanced up at George. His look was kind, but the words drove through George like hot metal, lodging in his chest.</p><p>“I’m not—” George faltered. Hesitated.</p><p>His ribs squeezed inwards. Panic, hot and thick, clawed up his throat.</p><p>“Afraid to hurt her, afraid to ruin a friendship, afraid to listen to her response—whatever that might be.” Marcus bit his lips together. “Sometimes, fear is healthy. Sometimes we have it for good reasons. Sometimes, however, it can cloud our perspective. It’s good to take a step back and consider the nature of our fear, so we can—”</p><p>George stood, and Marcus quieted.</p><p>“I’m done chatting about this,” George said, clipped and tight. “My head isn’t in the clouds, Marcus. My feet are on solid ground. I’m not thick.” Marcus opened his mouth, but George shook his head. “Please don’t. You don’t know. You haven’t been there. Every time it comes up seriously, because of articles in that blasted paper or random conversation—she’s made clear that I’m a brother figure. Not anything else. That is all I have ever been to her, and that’s all I’ll ever be.” He was breathing rather hard, not looking at the healer. “So, respectfully, sod off.”</p><p>He snapped the last part and headed for the floo.</p><p>“George,” Marcus said quietly.</p><p>George paused at the hearth, not turning. “What?”</p><p>“I apologize,” he said. “That was out of line of me.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“I didn’t realize she’d clarified to you,” Marcus said. “And regardless, if this is what you want, then—”</p><p>George exhaled. “Don’t worry about it, Mate.” He swallowed. “Um—Sorry for telling you to sod off.”</p><p>“Yes, I’m quite heartbroken over it,” Marcus drawled, picking up his tea again. “However will I recover?”</p><p>George snorted. He paused, watching the other man. “You know, you’re not like most healers,” he said.</p><p>Marcus lifted a brow.</p><p>“You’re not—” The green robes, swarming around Percy’s body flickered through his mind. The way they’d been about to brand him, without so much as a word of consent, and George went quiet.</p><p>“Have you had some bad experiences, then?” Marcus asked. George shrugged. “You know, we swear an oath, but it doesn’t make us infallible to error.” He smiled a little. “We’re people too, and we make a lot of heavy choices. Good ones. Bad ones.” He hovered his hand in the air and winced. “Middling ones.”</p><p>Then, he rose. “Some of us,” Marcus said lightly, looking into his tea. “Feel that the Ministry’s lack of regulation has enabled many of those bad choices.” He drained the cup and looked at George, a bit apologetically. “I’m sorry if you’ve been on the wrong end of some bad choices, George.”</p><p>George blinked, then decided to ignore the last bit. “Well, that’s the Ministry for you,” he said, exhaling roughly. “Rubbish as ever.” He reached for the floo bowl.</p><p>Marcus smiled, and it was a bit wry. “You’re a pureblood, so maybe you wouldn’t know, but there are some healer practices in this world that would be unthinkable in a muggle hospital.”</p><p>“Granger’s mentioned that.” George’s hand paused in the gritty powder as a new thought occurred to him. “D’you ever get tired of it?” he asked. Marcus nodded. “Or want to go back to practicing in the muggle world?”</p><p>Marcus shook his head. “Not seriously,” he said.</p><p>“Not even once?” George asked, incredulous. “You’ve got a muggle license, right? Why stick around, then?” He studied Marcus’s face, brow furrowed. “I mean, it sounds pretty broken, especially when half the lot you’re working with resent the fact that you have magic at all.”</p><p>“Because I want to do no harm,” Marcus said, giving another small, soft smile as he plucked a watering can from the sideboard’s lower cabinet. Before he shut it, George caught a glimpse of some dusty, first-year textbooks and a copy of <em>Beedle the Bard</em> alongside a stuffed, navy bear toy.</p><p>Marcus straightened as the cabinet snicked closed, giving George a significant look. “When things are broken, doing no harm isn’t a passive action.” He patted George’s shoulder and headed over to the Dittany.</p><p>George snorted. “Thought you weren’t a Gryffindor,” he said.</p><p>“Gryffindors do not have the exclusive rights to assertive courage,” Marcus said dryly.</p><p>George grinned. “Yeah, we do,” he said.</p><p>“I shall grow irate if you taunt my house, sir,” Marcus said lightly as he stooped over the plant. “Tread carefully.”</p><p>George withdrew his hand and leaned against the mantle, just for a moment. “It’s terribly embarrassing, but the hat did consider putting me in Hufflepuff, just for a minute.”</p><p>“I figured as much,” Marcus said. He turned the terra cotta pot slowly, pulling it closer to the shelf’s edge.</p><p>George scoffed. “Yeah, sure,” he said.</p><p>Marcus glanced up at him. “Fred got sorted first, didn’t he?” he asked. “Seeing as it’s alphabetical.”</p><p>George tilted his head. “What of it?” he asked.</p><p>“Did you request Gryffindor?” Marcus asked, slightly preoccupied as he prodded at the Dittany leaves. “I requested Hufflepuff, you see. Thought it would suit me better than Ravenclaw, which was another contender.”</p><p>George blinked. “Um—I don’t recall.” He scratched the back of his neck.</p><p>Marcus bobbed his head. “Almost everyone has traits suited to more than one house,” he said. “And it’s well documented that the hat considers both what you’ve got to learn and where you’d like to be in its decision.” He swiped his wrist over his nose then slipped a small set of shears from his pocket. “Patience, toil, trueness—all that’s rather helpful in my field.” With razor focus, he clipped two leaves free.</p><p>He could’ve watered it from his wand, but he didn’t. Instead, he caste the Aguamenti into the can, then sprinkled it carefully over the plant.</p><p>Muggle and magic.</p><p>Odd, but rather nice.</p><p>George reached back into the floo bowl and gathered a fistful of powder. “Y’know, my dad would like you,” he said.</p><p>“Your dad,” Marcus said, not looking up from the Dittany. “Is one of my personal heroes.”</p><p>“My dad?” George asked, blinking. Usually, other wizarding folk found his father amusing, at best.</p><p>“That Muggle Protection Act has saved a lot of lives,” Marcus said, tone distracted as he pushed the greenery back on the shelf. “In the time after it passed, we saw a sharp drop in the number of muggle-baiting incidents at Mungo’s.” He stepped away from the Dittany.</p><p>George tilted his head. “D’you mind if I tell him that?” he asked.</p><p>Marcus glanced up. “Not at all,” he said. “So long as you don’t tell him how rubbish I am at my job.”</p><p>George looked at the powder in his hand, Marcus’s words ringing through him.</p><p>“Alright,” he said. “But you’re not rubbish.”</p><p>The powder hit the grate.</p><p>He’d lied.</p><p>He did recall.</p><p>When the hat had paused, wondering over the two houses, George had stared at Charlie, Percy, and finally, Fred, then begged for Gryffindor.</p><p>“<em>Well, you’ve certainly got a lot of nerve</em>,” The hat had said, because at Fred’s prompting, George had gone up first, when Professor McGonagall called Fred’s name. “<em>But you don’t know he’ll be in Gryffindor</em>.”</p><p>“<em>I want to be in Gryffindor</em>,” he’d thought, hard. “<em>It’s got to be Gryffindor</em>.”</p><p>“<em>No, George, this is about you</em>,” the hat had mused. “<em>You’ve the makings of a brave heart, certainly. But you’re also very loyal. Patient, too</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Gryffindor, or I’ll stick a dungbomb to your brim</em>,” George had said.</p><p>“<em>I know you’re lying</em>,” the hat had replied. “<em>You haven’t a dungbomb on you</em>.” There had a long pause. Then, finally, the hat had said: “<em>You’ll need bravery</em>.”</p><p>George stumbled from the hearth, into his empty flat.</p><p>What did he want?</p><p>#</p><p>January 20, 1999, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>George coughed over the caldron as he added another measure of water. The four pewters sat, bubbling in a row, and the flat swirled with fumes.</p><p>Replenishing the Daydream Charms was a bother, and with all the brewing they’d been doing for his blasted leg, he’d let the shop’s supply run low.</p><p>Hadn’t realized, until he went to show a customer that morning and found the shelf empty.</p><p>To his right, the fifth caldron gurgled, angry despite the stasis charm they’d placed on it.</p><p>“Behave,” he snapped at the brew. The crutch was sore under his arm today. All the pacing between stations was taking a toll. George tipped a vial over the first caldron, directing a thin, opalescent stream into the mixture to give the brew the prescribed daydream—this was a pirate one. He added the same to the second caldron, placed a stasis charm over the pair, then caste a Depulso, sending the vial back to the rack.</p><p>George paced to the third. Probably should choose one of the softer options for the other half of the stock. He glanced at the supply shelf, considering.</p><p>Bugger, it was warm.</p><p>George wiped an arm over his brow, then dried it on his apron.</p><p>Quite warm, actually.</p><p>He braced a hand on the worksurface.</p><p>Should probably crack the door.</p><p>The room swayed. George lurched forward and sucked in a breath, right over the pewter.</p><p>At first, it smelled like burnt licorice.</p><p>But by the time he hit the ground, the scent had shifted to Chamomile.</p><p>#</p><p><em>“What do you want, George?”</em> Healer Marcus’s voice rang through the air, distant and echoing, but he was alone.</p><p>He blinked. George stood in the flat above the Diagon shop, mug in hand. Outside, the sky was dark and star-specked. A cloud or two flanked the horizon, occluding the thin moon sliver that hung suspended over the street.</p><p>He took a deep pull from his purple mug.</p><p>The door clicked open. “Fred?” he asked, turning to the entryway.</p><p>But it wasn’t Fred.</p><p>“I’m home!” she called.</p><p>George’s heart leapt into his throat.</p><p>“Work was ghastly,” Hermione said, pulling a jacket from her shoulders and tossing it over the hook. “But your notes on that file were so helpful.”</p><p>“Granger?” he croaked.</p><p>Her eyes were bright and merry as she looked over him. “Especially the silly ones,” she added, biting back a smile. She flickered, and suddenly, she had on that old hunter-green jumper and a pair of snowflake pajama bottoms. Gold flashed on her ring finger.</p><p>What?</p><p>She worked her fingers through her plait as she crossed the floor, and her curls jumped free. “You know how I love the silly ones,” she said, twining her arms around his neck.</p><p>“Granger?” he repeated. Hermione’s eyes crinkled, and she brushed her nose along his.</p><p>“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she murmured.</p><p>It started to come back to him. The notes—of course he’d left the notes on that file. For the elven advocacy work, yes.</p><p>He’d put a few silly ones in the margins, just like he always did. Something to make her smile during the day’s rougher moments.</p><p>And she liked it. Loved it, even.</p><p>
  <em>“What do you want, George?”</em>
</p><p>“But I’m home now,” she continued, nosing at his ear.</p><p>Something jarred against his shoulders, like a pull. But that didn’t make sense. She wasn’t shaking him.</p><p>For some, peculiar reason, these words brought a lump to his throat.</p><p>
  <em>“What do you want, George?”</em>
</p><p>His brow wrinkled, and he gazed at her, trying to sort the feelings rushing through him.</p><p><em>“What do you want, George?”</em> This time, the question came in Granger’s voice as Hermione pulled back to brace her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were wide, searching his.</p><p>“Because I want this,” she said, leaning back in. “Us.” She took his face in her hands. George nodded slowly. “Together.” Her eyes fluttered shut.</p><p>Gently, she pulled him down and kissed him.</p><p>Dazed, George fell to bits.</p><p>His chest hummed with magic as bright, dazzling light flowed through him.</p><p>“Hermione—” he breathed. The mug vanished from his hand and he drew her close. His forearms fit neatly against the curve of her back—one hand buried in her hair, the other snug on her waist.</p><p>And it should’ve been just—just right.</p><p>But it wasn’t.</p><p>She didn’t feel quite solid. There wasn’t the same warmth that she normally had. Fragments of the magic, the light were there, but—but something was missing.</p><p>Everything flickered. Another jolt.</p><p>George broke away, gasping. Granger flickered in his arms.</p><p>“No—” he choked.</p><p><em>“What do you want, George?”</em> she whispered.</p><p>“No, please—” he begged, but she began to fade. All of it—</p><p>Like streaks of rainwater on a windowpane.</p><p>#</p><p>“George!” The frantic cry cracked loud and high over his head. “Wake up!”</p><p>Hermione was in trouble.</p><p>George’s eyes shot open. The smell of burning rubber filled his nose, and he hacked, lurching upright.</p><p>Hermione crouched before him, eyes rimmed with red. Smoke billowed through the room. George sucked in a breath, then broke into a coughing fit.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Hermione said, panic contorting her features.</p><p>His face burned. He’d just been—the daydream charm’s potion had—</p><p>And they’d—</p><p>Across the room, Luna cranked the back door wide, wand working hurriedly. The smoke swirled, streaming towards the frigid snow, and the cold blast of wind slapped over his sweat-soaked oxford.</p><p>George hissed involuntarily.</p><p>They—they weren’t together. It’d all been nonsense.</p><p>Not real.</p><p>“George?” Hermione prompted again.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. It came out harsher than intended.</p><p>Where was his ruddy wand? He searched over the floor, jaw tight.</p><p>“In that case,” Granger’s voice was cold and clipped. “What were you thinking?” She shoved herself to a stand and glared down at him, nostrils flaring. “Why is it that you always forget to properly ventilate while brewing? How many times do I have to tell you—”</p><p>Not real. Not real in the slightest.</p><p>“Spare me the lecture, alright?” George muttered, cheeks afire. “I don’t always forget. It’s only happened a few times.”</p><p>There. It’d rolled under the table.</p><p>He snapped, and it sailed into his palm.</p><p>“Then spare me the idiocy,” Hermione shot back. “If you’re going to manage five caldrons at once—”</p><p>“It was four,” he cut in, glancing up at her dryly. “Last one’s our project.”</p><p>“—four caldrons at once,” she continued, unphased. “You’ve got to crack the door open! Or a window, at least!” She began to pace. “You could’ve died—”</p><p>“Highly unlikely,” he said, reaching for his crutch.</p><p>“If it’d burned long enough, it could’ve caught fire,” Hermione proceeded and flicking her wand at the work surface. The burners on the first four went out, as though doused by water.</p><p>“I’ve got security charms in place to keep that from happening,” George said. He winced as he pushed himself to his feet. “No harm done.”</p><p>Hermione nodded tightly.</p><p>She wouldn’t meet his eyes.</p><p>“Granger,” he said. Luna stood quietly by the door, humming softly to herself as she looked out over the snow. Hermione didn’t answer. “Hey—” George tried again, more quietly this time. He stepped towards her.</p><p>“George, we found you on your back in a room filled with smoke,” Hermione snapped. “I didn’t know how long you’d been lying there. You wouldn’t wake up. Not even when I caste a Rennervate.”</p><p>“Oh,” George said.</p><p>“It took ages to get you to respond, and when you said my name, even then, you weren’t really there,” she said, face contorting.</p><p>George’s face went molten.</p><p>Had he—had he spoken aloud, while he was under?</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>But Hermione rambled on, pressing her fingers to her temples. “You sounded scared, just before you woke, and I—I’d no idea what was in the caldrons, if you’d accidentally dosed yourself with something, if an—an experiment had gone wrong—”</p><p>Across the room, Luna flinched.</p><p>“I’m fine,” George repeated, glancing meaningfully at Luna. Granger hesitated. “I’m okay.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. “Sometimes, as pesky as you might find them, rules are there for a reason, Weasley.” She worked her jaw. “I mean, brewing habits—that’s first-year stuff. You know this.”</p><p>George’s face burned for an entirely different reason, now, but she wasn’t through, carrying on about how he needed to be more careful.</p><p>She wouldn’t stop moving, pinching the bridge of her nose as she took quick steps, back and forth, around him. To the workstation, then back.</p><p>Flitting about him. Hovering, but never landing. Like a furious bumblebee.</p><p>“Right,” he said. “Well, I apologize for the scare, but I could do without the scolding. I know brewing safety.” He sighed. “It was a lapse in practice. I didn’t want snow flying around in here, and it was rather windy earlier.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and worked his jaw.</p><p>Hermione didn’t respond.</p><p>“You’re not my mum, Granger,” he said, tone dry. “And for the record, if I want to brew in a smog, that’s my prerogative.”</p><p>She lifted her face, and her eyes flashed. “I’m not trying to be your Mum,” she said.</p><p>“Then stop acting like it,” George replied, cocking a brow.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth thinned. “I—” she stopped short. George opened his mouth, but Granger whirled away. “Luna,” she called. “Let’s go.”</p><p>The two strode to the doorway, and Luna went through first. Then, Hermione shot him one last, hard look.</p><p>“Go ahead, then, George,” she said. “Knock yourself out.”</p><p>She snapped the door shut.</p><p>#</p><p>January 21, 1999, 7:00 a.m.</p><p>He stood outside her door with a cup of tea and a blueberry scone, fidgeting his old D.A. Galleon back and forth in his hand. Okay.</p><p>He was raising the fist to knock when it yanked wide, and Hermione’s voice poured out as she backed through it, juggling a key in the lock alongside her glowing wand. “I’ll be a bit late,” she said hurriedly, speaking into the blue light. “I’m going to stop by George’s.” Then, she turned and swiped it, just as her eyes landed on him.</p><p>A blue otter leapt out, bounding into the sky towards the castle in the distance.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione said.</p><p>George swallowed and extended the food and the Galleon.</p><p>
  <em>“Truce?” </em>
</p><p>He’d searched through his trunk, reaching into the far, back corner until he found it. Then, he’d charmed the word into the gold. The other D.A. members would likely be confused, if they had theirs nearby, but—</p><p>Hermione stared at the coin. Then the food. Then at him.</p><p>“I thought we could have a do-over,” he said mildly. “One in which I offer a sincere apology for frightening you.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. Then she let out a short breath as she took the tea and scone. “Yes please,” she said.</p><p>They proceeded down the stairs together. “Um—” she started. “I should apologize as well. I’ve been a bit touchier—more jumpy than usual.”</p><p>George glanced over.</p><p>She stared into the tea. “I’m working on it with a professional near Diagon, but—” The next part came out in a rush. “George-I’ve-been-having-nightmares-about-you.”</p><p>“Nightmares?” George asked, furrowing his brow.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “You know. Typical stuff, after things happen like they have.”</p><p>“Oh,” he said quietly.</p><p>“I let it get to me yesterday, and probably some other times too, and I should’ve reacted better.” She cleared her throat. “So, I’m sorry too.”</p><p>He glanced at the snow, then up at the silhouette of the turrets in the distance.</p><p>“I have nightmares about you too, sometimes,” George said. The snow crunched underfoot. “I’m sorry.” He paused, thinking. “Is that why you’ve been checking on me more often?”</p><p>Hermione exhaled. Nodded.</p><p>“That’s alright,” George said lightly. “I’m glad you’re talking with someone, and I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me.” He looked over at her. “If you ever need another person to chat about it with, I’m here.”</p><p>She swallowed and nodded again, but didn’t say any more.</p><p>He wanted to reach over—pull her into a hug, but she seemed a little shy, just now. Sort of curled up around the tea.</p><p>Instead, George reached over and nicked a corner off of her scone and popped it into his mouth. “So, how goes finding a classroom for that event?”</p><p>Just like that, the tension eased. The tight line of Hermione’s shoulders fell away, and she clutched the cup, talking animatedly about her to-do list.</p><p>He walked her all through Hogsmeade. All the while, Hermione held the tea tight in her hands.</p><p>As they passed The Three Broomsticks, George frowned. Her skin was red.</p><p>“Where are your mittens?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione glanced down. “Oh, I haven’t got them,” she said. George’s brows drew together, and he wordlessly drew off his own, handing them over.</p><p>Hermione laughed and shook her head. “Don’t be daft,” she said. “Those are too big. They won’t fit.” She smiled. “Thank you, though.” And then she took a long drink from the tea and switched the subject.</p><p>She walked slowly enough that he didn’t struggle to keep up, even with the crutch in the blasted snow.</p><p>They were good at that—keeping pace with each other.</p><p>#</p><p>January 21, 1999, 7:00 p.m.</p><p>The week had been a mixture of brewing, coughing over exploded caldrons, and trying and failing to concoct a potion to fix George’s leg. They were making progress, but it was slow.</p><p>If they could identify the Arithmantic calculations in the Stringos Verbero, they could more easily determine exactly the extent of the damage, and they’d be able to balance the potion’s ingredients more precisely. But that would require one of them having been present for the curse’s development. So, trial and error was the only way.</p><p>This evening, however, they’d taken a brief break. Bailey’s entourage would be arriving the next day, and Hermione still hadn’t located a classroom for the talk.</p><p>So, now the two were pacing the basement and dungeon areas of the castle, checking the less commonly used classrooms for something suitable.</p><p>As they worked through the corridors, their voices echoed on the stone.</p><p>“All I’m saying is that fewer students would’ve dropped Muggle Studies if they’d bothered to include more of muggle culture,” George said. “Don’t get me wrong, electricity’s a blast to talk about—just ask my dad—” Hermione laughed, and George grinned before continuing. “But, they ought to include more. Like music. Muggle music is brilliant.”</p><p>“Well, personally, I think Muggle Studies courses ought to incorporate more muggle literature,” Hermione said, peering into another darkened classroom. She shook her head. “But, that’s a good point you raise. Music is just as important, really.”</p><p>George bobbed his head. “Why not both? Take Fred, for example. He’s less of a reader, but he loves dancing, so music would be good for him. And then there are people like Percy, who love reading, but—I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Percy dance, actually.” He frowned, getting a bit distracted.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him, and he returned to his original thought. “Anyways, music’s rather important in the wizarding world, and there’s quite a bit of muggle influence in Wizarding music, even in the more isolated circles. It’s a bridge, really. An opportunity.”</p><p>“You should bring this up to Minerva,” Hermione said, grinning.</p><p>George checked the next set of doors. This room was barely larger than the last. Bugger.</p><p>“I don’t think she’d fancy teaching advice from a drop-out,” George said dryly. Something creaked, and George glanced in the direction of the sound.</p><p>Oh—a door, just there. They’d missed one.</p><p>Hermione paused. “You have a lot of good ideas, you know,” she said. “Very inventive. I’ve always thought that.”</p><p>“Even when I stuck a Filibuster in Ginny’s school trunk fifth year?” George said, tone wry as he crossed to the other side of the hall and cracked open the door. This was something. The seating capacity was closer to sixty, rather than thirty. But, Merlin, the air was stale. Like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.</p><p>“Well, that particular move was inventive. Maybe not good, but inventive, certainly,” Hermione said, crossing to his side.</p><p>George laughed. “What about this one?” He tipped his chin towards it.</p><p>She stepped through the entry and lifted her wand. “Lumos.”</p><p>It was a round room with high, vaulted ceilings lined with windows on one side, near the top. The seating was grouped in a semicircle around a small clearing in the center, and two aisles divided the rows of benches, carving the semicircle into thirds that stair-stepped up to the curved back wall.</p><p>He flicked his wand and lit the torches on the wall.  </p><p>They sputtered and cracked. Cobwebs covered the desk in the center clearing, and a thick layer of dust coated every surface.</p><p>George crossed along the flat wall behind the desk. He’d never seen this on the map. He itched to take it out and see what it showed, but he didn’t want Granger knowing he had the article back in his possession until he’d safely won the bet.</p><p>Finally, George reached the desk, Hermione at his side. “Could use a cleaning,” he muttered, trailing a fingertip through the grime.</p><p>As he touched it, the desk rattled, and a drawer popped out. Suddenly, blue sparks volleyed from it, swirling up, into the air and coalescing into four, glimmering figures. Two of whom were shouting, grappling each other. The third bounced on their toes, and the fourth stood a bit to the side, rubbing their head. “I hardly think—”</p><p>The familiar voice chimed, and George sucked in a breath.</p><p>“—this will work in the way you intend, James.” The sparks crowded more densely, and the features on each figure’s face solidified.</p><p>A very young Remus Lupin glared as an equally young Sirius Black tackled Harry.</p><p>No, not Harry. Harry’s dad.</p><p>“Merlin’s pants,” George breathed.</p><p>“I don’t believe it,” Hermione said, blinking.</p><p>“Hello, there!” James cried.  “If you’re seeing this, it means you’ve come to know our triumph!” He strutted forward over the open air and swooped into a low bow. “The name’s Prongs, and you can ask me anything you’d like.” He rose, smirking at the wall behind George and Hermione.</p><p>Excitement surged in George’s ribs. “Can you hear me?” he asked.</p><p>James cocked his head to the side. “The desk can,” he said. “We’ve left it with a few words, and it’s smart enough to listen.”</p><p>Like the map, it was.</p><p>Oh, bloody brilliant.</p><p>The third boy, the shortest, bounced eagerly on his toes. “Very clever, James!” he cried.</p><p>“What is this?” Hermione asked softly.</p><p>James cracked into a grin. “Well, someone—”</p><p>“Lilly,” Sirius chimed in.</p><p>“—told me I’m so in love with myself that I ought to get a room,” James said. He glanced back at the other three and laughed loudly. “So, I did.”</p><p>Sirius roared and punched his hand into the air. “We stole a classroom!” he yelled.</p><p>“We’re all going to get expelled,” Lupin muttered.</p><p>“Don’t be such a such a prefect, Mate,” James lilted.</p><p>“Yeah, Remus, don’t be such a prefect!” the third boy chimed, and Remus exhaled heavily.</p><p>“We’ve got to show Harry,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>James turned to face the wall again. “No tattling,” he snapped. “Or we’ll seek revenge.”</p><p>“No, he’s your son!” Hermione cried. “He’ll love it.”</p><p>James’s face blanked, and the sparks froze. Then, they leapt back into action. “No tattling,” he snapped again. “Or we’ll seek revenge.”</p><p>George glanced at Hermione. “Must not of planned an answer for that,” he murmured.</p><p>“Can’t think of everything,” James said, shrugging.</p><p>Dust swirled with the bits of light, and George swallowed back the lump in his throat.</p><p>“Charm stuck to the desk, then?” he asked, working his wand over it.</p><p>“Like we’d tell you,” Sirius said, smirking.</p><p>“Does it really matter?” Lupin said, sounding tired. “We could be long dead by the time this is found.”</p><p>“It’s the principle of the thing,” James replied.</p><p>George completed the Specialis Revelio and studied the runes that popped out. “It’ll repeat, any time the drawer is opened,” he said.</p><p>The four watched. “That’s very clever, for a drop-out,” Sirius said.</p><p>George raised his brows. “How did you know?” he asked.</p><p>“Apart from us, this room can’t be discovered unless it’s by someone who’s sworn off classrooms for life,” James said.</p><p>“Yes,” Lupin said. “But it’s only a masking charm, really. Rune, right over the—”</p><p>James clapped a hand over Lupin’s mouth.</p><p>“That’s all we’ve got to say about it, I’m afraid,” James said.</p><p>George limped to the door. As expected, the rune was carved, right into the frame, in the top middle stone.</p><p>He snorted. Like a little keystone, over a classroom.</p><p>“Found it,” he said dryly.</p><p>“That’s very clever, for a drop-out,” Sirius repeated.</p><p>Hermione slid the drawer shut, and the sparks faded.</p><p>#</p><p>They worked to clear the room for a quite a while, casting away the cobwebs and clearing the dust. By the time they were through, it looked presentable enough.</p><p>The most sobering bit had been the chocolate bar wrapper they’d found, crumpled up in the bin beside a copy of <em>The Prophet</em>, dated September 1, 1993.</p><p>They’d stared at it in silence.</p><p>Hermione transfigured a small chisel and added two, thin lines to the rune, modifying it. “Honestly,” she muttered. “Stealing a classroom.”</p><p>George’s arms buzzed with a pleasant sort of ache, and he followed her out, smiling at her ire over a prank older than she was.</p><p>“I think it’s sort of brilliant,” he said. It’d be faster to take the back staircase up to the ground floor, without how far down the corridor they’d gone.</p><p>“You would,” Hermione said, glancing flatly at him.</p><p>“What did you do, anyway?” George asked, watching as she vanished the chisel. He hadn’t recognized the new shape.</p><p>“Added a clause, sort of,” Hermione said, blowing a curl away from the place it had tumbled, over her forehead. “Freezing the masking charm, but not severing it.”</p><p>She blinked at him. “It didn’t feel quite right—the thought of ending their fun,” she whispered. “So, it’s just paused, for now.” Granger swallowed.</p><p>“And there’s still the enchantment on the desk,” George added.</p><p>Granger watched the floor. “I’d like to ask Minerva if we might give it to Harry.”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>They rounded the corner.</p><p>Something gold gleamed against the wall, near the base of the stairs. As they approached the staircase, George faltered.</p><p>In the glass, two figures stared back. A startlingly familiar reflection.</p><p>Him and Hermione, shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>The Mirror of Erised.</p><p>Hermione went still. “Oh,” she whispered.</p><p>George swiveled. “Granger?” he asked.</p><p>“Oh,” she said again, and her eyes widened a fraction. She stepped forward.</p><p>“Alright?” he asked softly.</p><p>“It’s the Mirror of Erised,” she murmured.</p><p>“I know,” George said. Water plinked down the wall, onto the floor.</p><p>“Minerva must have moved it down here, after—” she trailed off, swallowing.</p><p> In the dim light of the corridor, her ears were going red, then her cheeks, and her mouth opened. Closed.</p><p>“Everything alright?” he asked carefully. She’d been upset the last time she saw it, too.</p><p>Hermione was preoccupied, stepping even closer as she searched the mirror. “It’s—it’s not foggy,” she said.</p><p>George turned before remembering that the mirror would show him something very different. The glass shimmered a bit—his reflection smiled down at Hermione.  </p><p>“What do you see?” George whispered.</p><p>There was a stilted pause.</p><p>“Um, I’m graduating,” Hermione said, halting. “I’ve—um—I’ve passed all of my NEWTS with—with distinction. Outstandings on every last one.” Her voice sounded a bit odd. “Top marks in—in every subject.”</p><p>George breathed out a laugh. “Typical,” he said, glancing at her with a warm smile. “I’m sure you’ll get it, though.”</p><p>“Right,” Hermione whispered. She blinked. “What about you?”</p><p>George stared at the reflection, where Hermione tilted her head happily against his arm, ring glinting on her hand just as it had before, while their families smiled in the background.</p><p>There were no clouds, no stone walls, but it was the most beautiful castle he’d ever seen.</p><p>“Same as ever,” he whispered. As he watched, they seemed to age a bit—their faces taking on a few, faint lines.</p><p>Hermione’s image went up, onto her tip-toes and whispered something into the other George’s ear. The lucky sod turned, grinning broadly, and laid a fervent kiss right on Granger’s mouth as she shrieked and laughed.</p><p>George’s reflection winked, Hermione’s arms still twined around his neck, then reached into his pocket. He withdrew a key and looked at George meaningfully, almost in a reproving way.</p><p>George swallowed. Nudged his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat.</p><p>And there, his touch met with something hard and smooth. Round. A circle. The D.A. Galleon—still there from when he’d tucked it away during their walk that morning.</p><p>“We should—” Hermione started.</p><p>“A few more minutes,” George said hoarsely. He might never see the mirror again. Might never get to look upon this, and if—if this was the only time he’d see it, he wanted to get a good look into this alternate reality.</p><p>One where he and Granger had managed to find each other.</p><p>A small, flickering figure stepped between them in the glass, shrouded in mist, and the breath left George’s lungs.</p><p>It was almost cruel.</p><p>Dwelling on dreams would do no good.</p><p>He whirled, scratching the back of his neck. “I think that’s enough, actually,” he said.</p><p>His ribs squeezed painfully against his heart.</p><p>#</p><p>January 23, 1999, 4:00 p.m.</p><p>“I can’t believe more people aren’t here!” Hermione whispered, shocked. “This is Edwin Bailey!”</p><p>Besides the Advanced Ancient Runes students, for whom attendance was compulsory, fewer than two dozen people lined the benches in the classroom. They could’ve held the bloody thing in the Quidditch supply closet, just about.</p><p>“It makes no sense,” she whispered, jostling next to him as the short, stooped man at the front calmly pulled a stack of parchment from his bag. “It’s Edwin Bailey.” Merlin, she was scandalized. A cord of nervous tension ran up her neck, and her shoulders were screwed up tightly. “I thought I’d ask him, after, about his plans for any Mastery students. But, what if he’s put off that we didn’t get enough people to come?” She wouldn’t stop jittering. “He’s responsible for some of the most pivotal work in the field over the last century.” Her hand fidgeted on the bench, knuckles white.</p><p>She needed to breathe. Get out of her head a bit.</p><p>“Yes,” George murmured dryly, not looking up from the beaten paperback in his hands. “I’m sure it will be riveting.” A small, incensed scoff sounded on his left. He peeked at her.</p><p>She was watching him.</p><p>George bit back a smile.</p><p>“Put that away,” Hermione whispered. She swatted at the book, but George lifted it deftly from her reach.</p><p>George kept his gaze on the printed letters as he reached over and poked her side, right under her ribs. “He hasn’t started yet,” he replied, tone smooth as he flipped the page.</p><p>His eyes widened, and he scribbled a note into the margin.</p><p>
  <em>“Can’t believe you compared me to this git. Stealing a glove??”</em>
</p><p>Hermione peeked over his shoulder, momentarily distracted by his fervent scrawl. “What?” she whispered.</p><p>“Brooke,” George muttered.</p><p>Hermione snorted.  </p><p>But then Edwin turned and began to move, and Hermione snatched the paperback away.</p><p>But Bailey was only heading for the door. He disappeared into the hall, leaving his things on the desk.</p><p>“Oi,” George snapped, reaching for it back, but Hermione tucked it inside of her robe, against her stomach. He darted towards her, and her eyes widened.</p><p>“George, this is a professional setting,” she whispered, shifting the book out and hiding it under her knees.</p><p>“I’m not professional,” he snipped back, just under his breath. Hermione stiffened as he scooted closer, and his fingers closed on the worn spine. A few more people filtered into the room. In the distraction they provided, George took the opportunity to deftly swipe the book from her grip. Then, he lightly smacked Hermione over the shoulder with it.</p><p>“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered, ducking close.</p><p>George played at stretching, then nimbly slipped his fingers behind her elbow and gave her a small jolt on the waist.</p><p>She about leapt out of her seat.</p><p>A few people turned to look.</p><p>“Are you alright, Hermione?” George asked mildly.</p><p>“Pardon, I thought I saw something,” she said tightly, then sat back down. “I will hex you into the next millennium if you’re not perfectly behaved during this lecture,” she whispered in his ear.</p><p>George pulled his pocket watch out. “Promise?” he asked.</p><p>Still had a few minutes to go, and she hadn’t lost that rigid set in her shoulders and neck. He sighed. He’d have to work harder.</p><p>“George Fabian Weasley,” she hissed.</p><p>“Hermione Jean Granger,” he replied, cocking a brow.</p><p>Her face went pink.</p><p>“Not to worry, Granger, I’ll behave once he opens his mouth,” George whispered, and gave her a wink. “Loosen up.”</p><p>She really was looking for things to stress over—others in the room were chatting, propping their feet on empty seats, and a few smatterings of laughter echoed, but Hermione looked like she was about to go into battle.</p><p>“Yes, but it’s Edwin Bailey,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George cocked a brow. “So? You’re the smartest person in this room, regardless.” Hermione’s face shifted to a deeper red.</p><p>“That’s not—”</p><p>“In most rooms, really,” he added lightly.</p><p>“George—” she tried again.</p><p>“Take the compliment, swot,” he said, applying the remark with a cheeky grin and a light elbow to her ribs.</p><p>She went quiet. Hands twisting. Back and forth. Back and forth.</p><p>Perhaps she could use something to fidget.</p><p>George fumbled into his bag and pulled out a bottle of pumpkin juice. Hermione watched, aghast, as he tipped the lid under the lip of the bench and popped it open with a click-and-fizz sound that echoed through the lecture hall. Amused, George lifted it to his lips, eyes never leaving hers.</p><p>“D’you want some?” he asked.</p><p>Granger shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she said. “It’s poor form to drink something like that during a lecture.”</p><p>George’s face contorted. “It’s pumpkin juice, not elven wine. Godric’s ragged hat, woman. Relax.”</p><p>Professor McGonagall swept into the room, Filius at her side.</p><p>“Minerva!” Granger called, waving a hand. The two turned. Interestingly enough, they seemed rather delighted upon seeing him and Granger, and they made their way to the seats in front of them with a smile.</p><p>Bailey re-entered the room, followed shortly by Romilda Vane and a few of the other sixth-year N.E.W.T. students. A pale, bored-looking man with limp, brown hair and light blue eyes trailed in last.</p><p>Romilda held out a glass of water and a folded newspaper with a smile. “I apologize for our lacking hospitality,” she said brightly.</p><p>The pale man dragged a hand through his hair. “Uncle, do you need a chair?”</p><p>Bailey shook his head and waved them off, tossing the paper on the table. He glanced over it with a bored expression and took a long drink from the glass.</p><p>Without a peep, George slipped two more bottles from his bag and handed them over to McGonagall and Flitwick.</p><p>Minerva blinked at it, then vanished the cap and took a sip. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” she said crisply. Flitwick tapped his wand to the lid, and it zipped upwards. George nicked it from the air.</p><p>Hermione watched the three of them, then bit her lips together and tugged the opened bottle from George’s hands.</p><p>He grinned.</p><p>#</p><p>“The differing bonds between Runic properties and both contemporary and ancient forms of magic—that is magic predating most modern incantations—are well known but poorly studied,” Bailey droned. “Personally, I have done my best to rectify this gap, and I’m pleased to say that I’ve  found great success.”</p><p>Hermione’s quill flashed across her journal’s page. George propped his chin on his hand. The bloke had been finding new ways to say the same thing for ages. In between reviewing his published work, he continually alluding to “deeper knowledges” which could be explored through runic experimentation, but not offering any insight onto how to get them.</p><p>It reminded him a bit of the way Lockhart had strutted before the classroom, fourth year.</p><p>Perhaps Bailey was a fraud as well.</p><p>Or perhaps something worse—the sort who knew helpful magic but kept it away for themselves.</p><p>Something about the man set George ill at ease. Perhaps it was the way Bailey ignored or condescended to every question raised thus far.</p><p>George stuck his hand in the air.</p><p>“Yes, sir?” Bailey asked, taking a sip from his glass of water.</p><p>“Success in what, exactly?” George asked. He folded his arms and stared at the man. His tone was polite, but Bailey saw it for what it was. A gauntlet.</p><p>Bailey’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>“Research,” Edwin said.</p><p>More obfuscation. Typical.</p><p>“Could you give us an example?” George said smoothly.</p><p>The man stiffened.</p><p>Now he had him.</p><p>The corner of George’s mouth quirked upwards. “You know—from all your research?”</p><p>Hermione’s quill paused, wavering at his question.</p><p>Oh bugger. He’d promised to behave.</p><p>“Only wondering,” He tried to lighten his smile into an open, friendly one, but it was too late. Bailey’s expression had turned stony.</p><p>“Normally, I save demonstrations for the end of the presentation. But if you would find it helpful in grasping this material, I don’t mind going out of order,” Bailey replied, tongue quick and sharp over the words. He gestured for George to come forward.</p><p>What?</p><p>Granger pushed a hand against his shoulder blade. “Go on,” she whispered, tone eager.</p><p>George sighed, picked up his crutch, and slowly made his way down the stairs.</p><p>Bailey’s gaze was unwavering. “Stand here,” he said, nodding at a clear space before the desk. “Face front.”</p><p>George shuffled, giving a small, bored sigh as he stared at Hermione from over the rows. She leaned forward in her seat, quill poised over her parchment.</p><p>“The primary bulk of my work for the past decade has been dedicated to research on runes and one’s magical signature,” Bailey said, clipped and short as he paced before George. “Diagnostic spells have long been limited to a surface level. With a proper command of the connection between older magics and runic casting, however, we might go deeper into magical physiology.” He lifted his wand. “Uncover truths about the network of magical relationships within any magical being’s constitution.”</p><p>George tilted his head. Edwin crossed in front of George, back to the audience. Suddenly, Edwin began to circle George, and his wand shifted through a rapid set of complicated movements as he crossed behind George’s back and out of view from those gathered. He’d finished the wandwork by the time he paced around to the front, and his hand glowed a brilliant white.</p><p>“This,” Bailey said tightly. “Is called a ‘Rune Tap.’”</p><p>And then the little man with a face full of wrinkles leaned in, and pressed a single, gnarled finger to the center of George’s chest.</p><p>Once, when he was twelve, George had taken a Bludger to the stomach, right under his ribs. It’d nearly knocked him from his broom. He’d shouted, loud and hard as the unforgiving sphere drove the breath from his lungs.</p><p>This was a bit like that, but worse.</p><p>“Tap” was far too gentle a word.</p><p>The jolt of magic was precise, unforgiving as it tunneled between his ribs and hooked deep within his stomach. George bent forward and clutched his middle, letting out a strangled yell.</p><p>He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>And then Bailey flexed his hand. It was as though the man had grasped his inwards in a vice and was dragging them out.</p><p>George’s mouth opened, jaw working in shock at the furious pull on his center.</p><p>Hermione had shot to her feet in the audience.</p><p>“Bit unpleasant at first, apologies,” Bailey said calmly.</p><p>George saw spots of white along his vision.</p><p>And then the worst of the pain faded, reduced to a radiating pinch, just under his ribs. Bright, purple runes spilled out of George’s chest, swirling rapidly through the air.</p><p>“There you are,” Bailey said, sounding more than a little pleased with himself.</p><p>George’s eyes went round. There were so many. He didn’t—didn’t recognize most of them. Some of them were different colors, too. There were a good number of red ones as well. Bailey’s wand slashed about, sorting them as they appeared.</p><p>Oh. The red ones seemed mostly gathered around his leg. A few on his arm, too. Some near his head.</p><p>Hermione’s quill worked wildly over her page.</p><p>The pinch in his center intensified, and George’s breath hitched as a flickering, gold rune slipped from under his sternum, spinning through the air.</p><p>“That’s unusual,” Bailey said. “It appears you’ve got an impression from another’s magical signature.”</p><p>George went cold.</p><p>“Stop,” he said.</p><p>“Not complete, though,” Bailey muttered.</p><p>“Stop now,” George hissed.</p><p>Bailey lifted a brow, slashed his wand, and the lights died at once. George lurched forward, gasping as the sensation faded.</p><p>“A hand for the young man,” Bailey said dryly, turning back to those gathered. There was a smattering of applause, but it sounded distant and faded. His ears were still ringing, face burning.</p><p>He stared at the floor as he made his way back to his seat.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Hermione whispered. He jerked his head by way of answer. He couldn’t meet her eyes.</p><p>“That was brilliant,” she continued under her breath. “Looked ghastly, though, like it really hurt. Are you sure you’re—”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he said.</p><p>At the front, Bailey was droning on.</p><p>“I tried to copy down all the ones I saw near your leg,” she whispered eagerly. “I think it’ll help our project.”</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>Maybe he’d hit his head and forget this day had happened.</p><p>He spared a glance at her notes. She’d done a series of rapid sketches. His stomach twisted as he recognized the shape of the gold rune. As he watched, she scrawled “<em>Bond/tie or connection</em>” underneath.</p><p>Bugger. She knew what it—</p><p>And then “<em>Connection</em>—<em>Fred?</em>”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>He didn’t correct her.</p><p>#</p><p>After the lecture, people cleared out. Minerva had given him a soft pat on the shoulder, and her eyes were more gentle than usual.</p><p>He hated feeling pitied.</p><p>“George, imagine if he could teach me how to do that,” Hermione whispered excitedly. “It could save lives.”</p><p>George sucked in a breath. “I suppose, yeah,” he said. He glanced at her. She was exuberant.</p><p>His pride was wounded, but he wouldn’t let that get in the way.</p><p>“Um, if you’d like that, you should talk to him,” he said quietly, nodding towards the front. Doubtless, she’d do far more good with the information than Bailey had.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, and an anxious expression flickered over her features.</p><p>“Hey,” George said softly. “You’ve been preparing for this for ages, and you’re brilliant. He should be flattered that you’re interested.”</p><p>She shot him a hesitant but grateful look, then proceeded down the steps. The room was nearly clear, now. Bailey spoke softly to a few N.E.W.T. students near the front, including Romilda Vane. George watched the group with wary eyes as he pulled himself to his feet and slowly worked towards the door.</p><p>Hermione approached the desk. He couldn’t hear her words, but Bailey turned.</p><p>Light spilled through the windows lining the upper part of the far wall, high, near the vaulted ceiling. It landed on Granger’s curls and danced across the curves of her face as she spoke softly. Her eyes were bright and eager.</p><p>Without thinking, George stepped towards them.</p><p>But then Bailey frowned at Granger. His eyes flicked down, to the paper on the desk. George could see it clearly now that he was closer.</p><p>On the front page, Ron knocked back a shot.</p><p>George’s stomach tightened.</p><p>“No,” Bailey said cooly. “I think rather not.” And then he returned to his conversation with Romilda, whose mouth quirked upwards.</p><p>“Thank you for the lecture, Professor Bailey,” Romilda said smoothly. “I look forward to your return later this term.” She shook Bailey’s hand, then strode from the room.</p><p>“I thought—” Hermione said, blinking.</p><p>Bailey turned, annoyance flashing over his face. “Miss Granger, Ancient Runes is a subject requiring much patience. Commitment. Dedication. You may find success through use of fame in other fields, but here, it will get you nowhere.”</p><p>His tone was snide and cutting, and George blinked, stunned at the rejection.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.</p><p>Edwin didn’t so much as glance at Hermione as he proceeded to gather his presentation materials. “I’m not interested,” he snapped. “Leave.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. Looked at the copy of <em>The Prophet</em>. Looked at her hands. Then she spun and hurried away.</p><p>George leaned on his crutch. Through the propped open door, he could hear the fast clip of Hermione’s shoes. A shaken breath echoed. Then another, and another, further off. The rapid clatter of footsteps faded in time with the sound of Hermione Jean, breaking to pieces.</p><p>She was crying.</p><p>The months and months of work, all leading up to this, and—</p><p>George threw his crutch down. The sound clashed, bouncing off the walls.</p><p>Edwin started and whipped his head up.</p><p>“If you should be so lucky—” George snapped.</p><p>Edwin’s wand lifted, but George didn’t flinch.</p><p>“I’m not an academic, really, but believing every bit of rubbish you read seems counterintuitive to that lifestyle,” he said.</p><p>Bailey rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to convince me to take Miss Granger as an apprentice,” he said. “I saw her Qualifying exam essays. Her interests are hardly serious.” His lip curled over the last two words.</p><p>George blinked. But Granger had written a bit about elves. The importance of sharing runic knowledges.</p><p>The anger flared even hotter in his stomach.</p><p>“Oh no,” George said. “You lost your chance there, Mate. Opportunity of a lifetime, and you won’t get another.” He shook his head slowly. “She’s the brightest witch of her age.” He lowered his chin. “She doesn’t need you.”</p><p>His words came fast, heated as Edwin circled him. “She’s brilliant, driven, and the most dedicated person I know.” He limped forward a step, turning to retain eye contact with the little man, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze. “Got more magic, more potential, in her pinky finger than you’ve in your whole—”</p><p>The rune tap snaked under his ribs, and George choked on the words.</p><p>Edwin’s eyes narrowed as he pulled his finger from George’s back and summoned the gold, spinning symbol from before, right into his hand.</p><p>George’s insides contorted, like they’d been slammed together. Like he was being yanked out of himself.</p><p>Edwin prodded his wand towards the rune, not breaking eye contact with George. A stream of purple sparks with sparse gold flecks swirling through it rushed out, glittering across the floor and into the hall.</p><p>In the direction Granger had left.</p><p>Bailey sneered. “Spare me the dramatics,” he said. He slashed his wand, and at once, the runes, the light faded.</p><p>George gasped, clutching a hand over his stomach.</p><p>“She could be a troll, and you’d still say that,” Bailey’s voice was thick with derision, and he stepped forward. “Tell me, Sir, why haven’t you sealed that bond?” George opened his mouth, shocked, but Bailey held up a hand and continued. “And don’t lie, I know you haven’t. It’d be more solid if you had.” He nodded in a patronizing, caustic manner.</p><p>George clenched his teeth.</p><p>“She’s not interested?” Bailey asked, icy. “Doesn’t want to be tied down?”</p><p>“That has—nothing to do with this,” George muttered. “It’s not like that.”</p><p>“Must be painful,” Bailey said softly.</p><p>“Shut up,” George said, blinking hard at the floor.</p><p>“You must be going mad,” Bailey whispered, tone taking on a sort of awe. “Out of your bloody mind. Never seen one quite that bright, to be honest. And she won’t have you?” He puffed out a breath of air.</p><p>George’s face burned. “This has nothing to do with Granger’s professional qualifications, and you’re out of line.”</p><p>Bailey’s face twisted into a biting smirk under his wiry, white beard.</p><p>“If you ever come to your senses, owl me,” Bailey said flatly. “There are ways to end the misery you’re enduring.”</p><p>“What?” George asked, face contorting.</p><p>“Under practiced hands, old magic can be controlled. Shaped. Cut, if you will,” Bailey said. He lifted his bag onto his shoulder.  “You could have a normal life. Fall for someone who might actually notice.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>
  <em>“What do you want, George?”</em>
</p><p>Bailey searched his face.</p><p>No. Never.</p><p>George clenched his hands. “Not interested,” he said.</p><p>Bailey tutted. “In my professional opinion—”</p><p>“With all due respect, sir—which is none—your professional opinion is worthless,” George said.</p><p>With that, he snatched the crutch from the floor and limped from the room.</p><p>#</p><p>Granger had been gone by the time he reached the corridor, and he hadn’t spotted her on the way to the gate. So, he’d apparated back to the flat to grab the necessities before going over. Because Hermione needed to be taken care of, just now.</p><p>George gathered supplies quickly, shoving knitting needles, a hunk of navy yarn, the book, and a blanket into his canvas bag. He glanced at the kitchenette, then limped rapidly to the floo and called up Granger’s place before heading towards the cupboard.</p><p>She was there.</p><p>He could hear her turntable, spinning some soft piano through the connection.</p><p>“Chocolate chip or peanut butter?” he shouted, hand poised over two tins in the icebox.</p><p>It was quiet a moment.</p><p>A sniff.</p><p>“Chocolate chip,” was the soft reply, barely audible through the green flame. George nodded and grabbed the tin on the left, stuffing it in.</p><p>“I’ll be over in a moment,” he called, swallowing back the lump in his throat at the pained sound of her voice.</p><p>“Okay.” Even quieter than the first reply.</p><p>George paused. “Anything else you’d like?” he called.</p><p>A longer silence.</p><p>“Perhaps a swift kick in the head, so I can forget this day ever happened.” Her voice was louder now, though a bit shaky.</p><p>George exhaled and stumbled towards the floo. “Afraid the leg’s out of commission,” he said. Then he dragged himself through the flame.</p><p>As he shifted through the hearth, the flames flashed from green to a more calming yellowy-gold. The heat radiated over his face and hands, and he propped his crutch on against the wall, to the side.</p><p>Granger shuffled through the room, duvet swamping her head and dragging on the floor around her feet.</p><p><em>“Chiquitita, you and I cry,” </em>sang the record.</p><p>“Quite the den of misery you’ve got here,” George said. The duvet shifted as Hermione nodded. She’d propped the telly on the side table again, and the screen was frozen.</p><p>Bugger, it must be bad.</p><p>
  <em>“But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione held a hand out, and a baggy, pine-green sleeve draped along her fingertips.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>George faltered.</p><p>
  <em>“Let me hear you sing once more like you did before.”</em>
</p><p>“Your coat,” she said. He couldn’t see her face under that blasted duvet, but she sounded like a shadow of herself. George bit his lips together and peeled off the article. His purple Henley was fairly rumpled underneath.</p><p>
  <em>“Sing a new song, Chiquitita.”</em>
</p><p>“Catchy,” he said, glancing appreciatively at the turn-table. Wordlessly, Hermione took his coat and shuffled to the corridor. George watched her, aching. When she emerged from around the corner without the coat, a few curls had slipped free from the duvet, poking out under the blanket’s lip.</p><p>“My mum used to play it when I had nightmares,” she said. She paced around him, but then stopped. “Seemed fitting.” She lifted a small box on the mantle, the set it back down. Walked around the coffee table. Then, she did another loop.</p><p>Aimlessly.</p><p>Starting and stopping. Hovering.</p><p>With each moment, the urge to take her into his arms built. An entirely different kind of pain from the one he’d felt earlier, but one that had become quite familiar.</p><p>“Are you okay?” he whispered.</p><p>Hermione shuffled between the armchair and the side table. “No.”</p><p>George extended an arm, leaning precariously on his right leg as he stooped, trying to see under the duvet.</p><p>“Come here, Love,” he said, and the word slipped out of him like a breath he’d been holding his entire life.</p><p>Hermione made a short, choked sob and tripped over. His arms closed around her—around the thick cushion of the duvet, folding her shoulders and head close to him.</p><p>“What an oaf,” he said thickly. “Imagine, how truly embarrassing—turning down Hermione Jean.” He could feel something wet, soaking the front of his shirt, and he swallowed. “You say the word, and I’ll have my little shop gremlins stuff his trunks with dungbombs. Or Peruvian Darkness Powder, since he can’t see reason.” He was rambling utter nonsense, and Hermione’s arms twined around his sides.</p><p>George stroked a hand over the duvet covering the back of her head.</p><p>“Maybe something with a bludger. He could use a thorough bludgeoning, I think,” he continued.</p><p>Hermione sputtered out a laugh, and George closed his eyes and exhaled. “Ten points to Gryffindor,” he said softly.</p><p>“What for?” her voice wobbled.</p><p>“Dumb luck,” he said, pulling back and tugging on the duvet. It slipped from her head, and Hermione’s red-rimmed eyes greeted him. “On account of dodging the displeasure of having to work with such a prat.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>George stopped smiling. Only looked at her, unflinching. “You are brilliant,” he said.</p><p>Hermione sighed.</p><p>“I suppose I just wouldn’t have expected him to take something like <em>The Prophet’s</em> article so seriously,” she said. “I’ve always been so careful to rely on my work, rather than—than other things. I’ve looked up to his work for quite some time, and after today—” her voice dropped off, and she glanced down. “I’ll find a different Mastery advisor to work with.”</p><p>“He made a telling comment about your Qualifier essays after you left,” George said quietly. “I don’t think he’d have supported your aims, anyhow. You can find far, far better than the likes of him.”</p><p>Hermione slumped a bit. “He never wrote anything that indicated he’d be against elf liberation,” she whispered. “Or sharing runic knowledges.” But then she paused. “But, he’s rather cagey about the details of his own work.” She rubbed a hand over her cheek. “I tried to follow his wand movements during the demonstration, but it was like he didn’t want anyone to be able to see. I thought it was odd. Maybe poor planning, but—”</p><p>“I think it was intentional,” George said tightly.</p><p>Hermione’s nostrils flared. “Well,” she said. Her jaw worked as she stared at the floor. “That’s disappointing and unfortunate. Helpful things like that should be shared openly.”</p><p>“I agree,” George said. And at best, Bailey was using it to bully others and gain acclaim.</p><p>The fire popped.</p><p>Hermione pulled away and sighed, deep and long, staring at it. George watched her, easing his hands into his trouser pockets.</p><p>“Onwards, then,” she said. She looked tired.</p><p>She snorted. “He can find a classroom himself, next time.”</p><p>George breathed out a laugh and hobbled over to sit on the sofa, easing into its the corner on the right side. She swiveled, and with a twitch of her wand, a throw pillow drifted onto the coffee table.</p><p>“Foot up,” she said, tone flat. George stared back at her dryly, but he toed off his trainers and lifted his left ankle onto the designated spot before shifting his right up to join it.</p><p>The screen was still frozen.</p><p>“This one of those muggle movies?” he asked, fidgeting his hand over the back of the couch.</p><p>Hermione started. “Oh—you don’t have to watch this with me,” she said. “Or-or we can put on another if you’d like.”</p><p>George shrugged. “Why not this one?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. “Well, it’s <em>Little Women</em>. And you should really finish reading the book first.”</p><p>George studied her, searching. “Is this what you want to watch?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione hesitated. But then she nodded.</p><p>“Well, considering that today’s been extraordinarily terrible—” George grinned and shrugged. “We’ll do it backwards. Bend the rules a little.”</p><p>Hermione snorted and crossed to the set.</p><p>But then she paused, assessing the space. Crookshanks lumbered across the floor, stretching in front of the snapping hearth.</p><p>“Granger?” he asked, raising his brows. She didn’t answer. Instead, Hermione bit her lips together and pulled her wand from the table, summoning a second blanket.</p><p>“It’s got to be proper cozy,” she said, concentrating as she unfolded it and threw it around him. “That’s half the magic.” It dropped into a soft pile on his legs. George blinked at the blue stitching, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, but Granger was already tripping around the coffee table, heading into the kitchen.</p><p>“We need tea, too. And-and snacks,” she said.</p><p>George pulled the biscuit tin from his bag. “I’ve some here,” he said.</p><p>“Brilliant, but we need something salty, as well,” Hermione said, sounding all at once quite determined as she proceeded around the counter.</p><p>George lifted his brows. “Want some help?” he called.</p><p>“No, stay put,” she answered.</p><p>“But I can—” George started.</p><p>“Don’t you dare move,” Hermione cut in, pinning him with what she meant to be a strict glare, but it was rather amusing, her curls spilling out over the duvet that she’d wrapped around herself like a cape. He smiled.</p><p>George flexed his hand over the blanket as he listened to her pad away.</p><p>A clang sounded in the kitchen.</p><p>“You sure?” he called again.</p><p>Outside, snow came down.</p><p>“Don’t be a prat,” she said. George sighed and fidgeted. “Chamomile?” Hermione called.</p><p>“Always Chamomile,” George called back. A light trickle of laughter filtered through the room.</p><p>At some point, the record had spun out, the needle having run out of grooves to explore, but Hermione’s giggle was a different sort of song.</p><p>The mugs arrived first—tucked onto coasters on the side table near George’s head. The familiar, purple one with the “G” placed closest to him.</p><p>Funny, how it made his stomach swoop.</p><p>Then, she brought out a bowl of popcorn, and a crinkly, orange package that read “<em>Hobnobs</em>.”</p><p>She pulled the biscuit tin away from him and returned to her seat and securing the duvet around her shoulders. “Right,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “Ready?”</p><p>“I suppose,” George said, cocking a brow at her. Hermione flicked her wand, and a small jolt of magic hit the grey box.</p><p>“Y’know, if this is terrible, it’s going to ruin muggle movies for me forever,” George said dryly as the soft music poured from the speakers. The duvet twisted silently as Hermione shook her head, drawing her knees up to her chin.</p><p>“No,” she said quietly. “This one is wonderful. It’s the sort of thing you watch when you need everything to get better for a while.”</p><p>The screen buzzed, and white text lit over a set of blue swirls: “<em>Little Women</em>”</p><p>Names appeared, one after the other, and George tilted his head. “Is—is the whole thing reading like this?”</p><p>Hermione snorted and swiped a biscuit from the tin. “No.”</p><p>George shifted his left elbow on the couch’s arm, propping his face in his fist. “So is it the exact same as the book, or—?”</p><p>“Some things are different,” Hermione said. “Brooke’s not as good in this film, but I think they did a kindness to Bhaer.”</p><p>“Who’s Bhaer?” George asked.</p><p>“Watch the film, George,” she whispered.</p><p>George nodded, adjusting his feet on the coffee table to better face the screen.</p><p>Finally, the television set lit with people. The muggles were dressed oddly, more like wizards, really.</p><p><em>“My sisters and I remember that winter as the coldest of our childhood.”</em> A soft voice poured from the speakers, talking about poverty and cold and things that George knew about, perhaps a bit too well. Hermione shifted as it spoke, turning one way, then another in her seat. George ran his index finger along the couch’s top, focusing. “<em>Somehow, in that dark time, our family, the March family, seemed to create its own light.”  </em></p><p>George breathed out a short burst at the line, smiling.</p><p>Granger scooted backwards, closer to his arm. George glanced at her, momentarily distracted.</p><p>“<em>Marmee—Marmee’s home</em>!”</p><p>But then she shifted back again. George’s gaze flicked from the screen to the back of Granger’s head. That was odd.</p><p>Four girls tumbled into an entryway in the film. That would be the sisters, then.</p><p>George cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. He was too jumpy these days. Hermione’s curls brushed the sofa’s back, just beside his arm as the older woman on screen read from a letter.</p><p>They were singing.</p><p>Marmee began to hand out candles. Hermione glanced at him. The tips of her ears were pink. Was she nervous that he’d hate it?</p><p>“So far so good,” he said. Then he raised his brows, teasing. “Although there seems to be a lack of blokes in this production.”</p><p>Hermione laughed, and George grinned. Hermione turned towards the television once again, shifting against the sofa’s back.</p><p>She was rather close. A flush crept over his neck.</p><p>It would be nice to hold her while they watched it.</p><p>More than nice. Wonderful, really.</p><p>His pulse sped, and George grimaced, tamping the thought down.</p><p>No—bugger, he was being—</p><p>Hermione eased into the crook of his shoulder, stretching her legs over the rest of the sofa’s length.</p><p>George’s eyes widened, and he froze, not daring to breathe. Heat flamed over his cheeks, up his forehead.</p><p>Alright, um.</p><p>He swallowed.</p><p>This was new.</p><p>Hermione shifted closer, snug between his chest and arm. The duvet cushioned her weight against him, and his magic rushed through his ribs.</p><p>George took a slow breath, and his hand flexed on the sofa back. She didn’t want that, she didn’t want that, she didn’t—</p><p>“You okay?” she asked softly, not looking up while she adjusted her blanket. She drew it from behind her back and straightened it so it lay over her legs. Then, she bunched the top part against her chest, clutching it close as she settled back into the crook of his arm, tucked close against him.</p><p>George’s pulse floored. She was warm and soft, and wearing his jumper and—</p><p>He still hadn’t given her an answer.</p><p>George bobbed his head. “Brilliant,” he said.</p><p>Oh, his voice sounded odd. A little hoarse. He winced.</p><p>She didn’t seem to notice, whispering about each of the characters as they appeared.</p><p>On screen, Jo scribbled by a candle. “I love how they do Jo’s writing scenes,” Hermione whispered. “She always writes in that hat there.”</p><p>“Does she?” George asked faintly.</p><p>Merlin, why was he afraid? Why was his heart pounding like he’d gone into battle?</p><p>He swallowed. If Granger wanted comfort while she watched a muggle film, then that was alright. She’d had a rough couple of days, and frankly, so had he. And, he would respect it for what it was.</p><p>Nothing more, nothing less.</p><p>“I used to pretend to be her, when I was little,” Hermione whispered. She tipped her head back, her curls brushed soft under his jaw.</p><p>George gripped the sofa to keep his hand in place, exhaling slowly.</p><p>Hermione’s hair was golden in the light, and the speakers buzzed with the sisters’ conversation.</p><p>She smelled so good.</p><p>He went weak.</p><p>As though of its own accord, George’s head tipped down, and his eyes fluttered shut as he took in a deep breath.</p><p>How was it that she fit so well, just like this?</p><p>“That’s Laurie there,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>Oh, he’d died. He’d died and this was Heaven.</p><p>“Mhm,” George said, blinking.</p><p>On screen, the boy smiled wistfully at the March sisters.</p><p>Hermione’s voice was soft and sweet, and he was going to do something stupid.</p><p>Everything smelt of Chamomile. Warmth pulsed through him, slow and steady. And George’s reckless hand slipped from the sofa back, coming down around her arm.</p><p>He froze.</p><p>Hermione cuddled closer.</p><p>Godric’s Hollow.</p><p>He forgot how to breath, heart hammering, racing, really—</p><p>His fingers curled around her arm. He stroked his hand slowly, up and down, and Hermione seemed to melt a little. George’s eyes widened.</p><p>His feet twisted a bit on the coffee table, and he blinked hard.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George cleared his throat. “Beth doesn’t talk enough,” he said. “I can’t be Beth.”</p><p>“Beth talks through her music,” Hermione said. “And you talk less than Fred when the two of you are together.”</p><p>“That’s because Fred doesn’t know how to shut up,” George said fondly.</p><p>After he reached his free hand up to scratch his jaw, he lowered it onto his chest, just beside hers.</p><p>Her fingers flexed the slightest bit over his Henley, and they brushed his.</p><p>A shiver jolted up his arm.</p><p>“Sorry—my—my hand’s probably a bit cold,” she whispered. “I’ve always had cold hands.” George frowned and picked it up, studying the contours of her fingers.</p><p>It wasn’t frigid by any means, but if she was cold—</p><p>He swallowed and brought it back down to his chest, covering it in his.</p><p>“There,” he said. “That alright?”</p><p>Hermione nodded against him. She drew his fingers between hers, interlocking them around her fist, and George bit his lips together, watching the screen in silence as his heart banged wildly in his ribs.</p><p>He dragged in great tides of Chamomile, letting it sweep through him as she whispered to him about the story.</p><p>And somehow, George forgot to worry, despite the way his heart insisted on hammering and his ruddy palm was a little too sweaty. Despite how his lungs felt as though he couldn’t get a proper breath, like he’d flown far too high in the sky, and the altitude was getting to him.</p><p>And despite the way he’d consigned himself not to think about those balustrades, towers, and great, impossible stone walls in the sky, George found himself drawn into the clouds, pulled towards a bright glow he found there. A kind, drowsy feeling circled warmly between them, and George forgot to worry.  </p><p>They held each other, dropping off into sleep as the film spun light on the screen.</p><p>Neither one realizing that certain, lofty palaces might in fact be built on solid ground.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Aparecium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aparecium: A charm to reveal invisible ink and magically hidden messages.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello Loves!</p><p>This is a double-feature chapter! </p><p>Thank you so much for the kindness and encouragement last week! I deeply apologize for failing to respond to comments from the chapter before last. I had planned on it, but I ended up on a bit of a tight schedule unexpectedly. I hope that's okay! &lt;3 Please know that I greatly appreciate every comment, kudos, and anyone taking the time to read. &lt;3 Thank you so much. &lt;3 &lt;3 </p><p>[I still plan to post a playlist for "Castles in the Air," but with the time crunch, I figured everyone would prefer I focus more on getting this chapter ready.]</p><p>I apologize for any typos or errors. I've almost certainly missed things while editing. </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or this storyworld. </p><p>Playlist:<br/>1) "Born to Be Wild" by Steppenwolf (May 4, 11:00 a.m.)<br/>2) "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles (May 4, 5:00 p.m.)<br/>3) "Shield" by WYS (May 4, 8:30 p.m.)<br/>4) "It's Romance" by Alexandre Desplat (May 4, 8:40 p.m.)<br/>5) "Holding On Where I Am Able" by The Oh Hellos (May 4, 8:40, when they're in the living room)<br/>6) "Darling" by WYS (May 4, 10:00 p.m.)<br/>7) "February 18, 2021: Perseverance-Mars Landing" by Sleeping at Last (when you see the pine trees)<br/>8) "Warm Tea On a Rainy Day" by Kainbeats and WYS (May 5, 8:30 a.m.)<br/>9) "The Night We Met (Instrumental)" by KPH (May 5, 9:35 a.m.)<br/>10) "Arcade" by Duncan Laurence (May 8, 11:05 a.m.)<br/>11) "Vivaldi: Violin Concerto in G Minor, RV 315 'L'estate' (Summer). III. Presto [feat. Antonio Vivaldi] from "Cut Live at Gearbox" (May 8 when the doorbell chimes)<br/>12) "Twist and Shout" by The Beatles (May 8, 1:12 p.m. --briefly, in between Vivaldi. You'll know)<br/>13) **Same Vivaldi song/one of your choice (until May 8, 5:00 p.m.)<br/>14) "The Night We Met (Instrumental)" again (May 8, 5:00 p.m.)<br/>15) "February 18, 2021" again (May 8, 5:00 p.m. --at the mention of equations)<br/>16) "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" by Wham! (May 9, 5:30 a.m.)<br/>17) "Surrender" by Natalie Taylor (May 9, 6:00 a.m.)<br/>18) "Orchard House" by Thomas Newman (May 9, 6:00 a.m. --when you hear the stairwell creak)<br/>19) "Dusk Till Dawn" by Kurt Hugo Schneider and Kirsten Collins (May 11)</p><p> </p><p>If you are reading in multiple sittings, I recommend stopping at May 5, 9:35 a.m.<br/>Alright! Grab your snack (I enjoyed some pesto this week), your drink (I'm going to recommend pumpkin juice or maybe Matcha tea), and your coziest blanket. </p><p>Let's dive in.<br/>-------<br/>[****Content Warning (moderate/major spoilers for this chapter): This chapter includes discussion of pregnancy. I also want to clarify that this story will not involve a pregnancy loss. That is not something I would include without a clear tag in the main description, far in advance.******]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Thirty-Five: "Aparecium"</h2><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>May 4, 2003, 11:00 a.m.</p><p>The long, dark wooden desk thudded as Ron and Harry directed it over the gravel and in through the double doors. The thing was massive, and Hermione hadn’t the foggiest why Harry insisted on bringing it from his office.</p><p>“Why not shrink it?” she called, dusting her hands on the worn, purple apron George had unceremoniously plunked over her shoulders when they’d entered the shed. The faded “<em>WWW</em>” logo on the pocket peeled at the corner.</p><p>Together, the lot of them had sorted, shrunk, and packed away the numerous muggle devices lining the center shelves. They had half the tables to go, along with the high shelving that lined the back and left sides, where clutter was quite tightly packed against the wall.</p><p>“It’s better not to risk it,” Harry shouted back. Hermione’s brow furrowed.</p><p>“Is it?” Ron asked tersely, eyes fixed on the dark wood. A piece of spello-tape was coming loose from the top drawer, and Harry rushed forward to secure it back into place. “All I’m saying is this is larger than the Ministry desk we replaced it with.” His wand arm strained as they waited at the shed entrance. “You moving the bloody car?” he shouted.</p><p>“Yes,” George called, frowning down into the Anglia’s engine.</p><p>“Blimey, Dad,” Fred muttered.</p><p>Hermione blinked, peeking over the crate in her arms that Percy was loading with shrunken items. She could barely make out the chaos under the hood from her position several yards away.</p><p>A mess of gadgets littered the engine. Alarm clocks, mixies, a hand-vacuum, and sparkplugs leading to nowhere. Far more tangled than it had been the last time she’d seen it.</p><p>“I didn’t know it was this bad,” Charlie murmured.</p><p>George pulled his hands down his face. “I was in rough shape for a while,” he said, a bit strained.</p><p>“Yeah, I’d heard, but—” Charlie blinked at the engine, then back at George. “This rough?”</p><p>George swallowed. “Yeah.”</p><p>Charlie’s brow furrowed, and he stared at George with a raw expression.</p><p>“I’m okay now,” George said, but he was still frowning into the engine. “Didn’t know Dad had taken it so hard.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, remembering weeks back. During their visit to the flat above the shop, Mr. Weasley had struggled to look at George. Like the sight had been so terrible that it pained him.</p><p>She hadn’t thought to say anything. She’d been too overwhelmed at the time.</p><p>The crate wobbled in her arms as Percy laid a rather heavy item into the empty space on one side. She braced and adjusted for the load, but Percy had already caste a feather-light charm on the box.</p><p>She smiled gratefully, and he nodded before stooping back over the wooden chest he was bent over.</p><p>George glanced in the direction of the house. “I should—later, maybe—”</p><p>Charlie nodded.</p><p>“Hurry!” Ron yelled, sounding more put out by the moment.</p><p>“Not safe to drive it, and I don’t want anything exploding,” Fred said suddenly. He snapped the hood shut. “Let’s just push it.”</p><p>Fred, George, and Charlie set to work, shoving the Anglia through the back set of double doors as Harry and Ron heaved the desk into the empty space left behind. The car rolled over the gravel path that cut between the house’s wrap-around garden and the thicket. Fred sprinted to the driver’s side door and reached in through the open window, directing the wheel to aim the cab to a spot behind a beat-up, wood paneled vehicle in the small side yard. In the distance beyond them, the orchard trees swayed.</p><p>Bill approached, tugging the crate away from her, then handed it to Ginny. In turn, Ginny headed for the house, where it would be stashed in the attic behind a hastily-erected partition to keep the ghoul from smashing it all to bits (as he was prone to do).</p><p>A piercing shrill boomed over the fields, and Bill winced. “Sorry,” he muttered, casting a charm over the far wall. “She likes to yell.”</p><p>Angelina laughed.</p><p>“We’ve gathered,” Ron said, but it wasn’t in a snide tone. It was more teasing. Like he enjoyed Victoire’s energy. The desk thunked as the two settled it on the ground. He stretched and crossed to Percy’s side. “Haven’t been through this stuff in ages.”</p><p>Fred and Charlie re-emerged, chatting quietly. Fred caught Hermione’s look, and nodded back towards the yard. “He’s rigging up some music.” A pause. “You should go help.” Fred’s eyes flashed with something mischievous, but she didn’t take the time to examine it.</p><p>She brushed between them, searching for him.</p><p>Charlie’s record sat idle on the turntable, which had been placed atop of the dilapidated station wagon. The car’s hood was propped open, some sort of thick cable trailing over it and into the cabin of the vehicle, through the passenger window. The turntable’s cord, meanwhile, dangled freely over the driver’s side door, almost dragging on the ground. It was here that George crouched, oddly contorted over the seat as he fiddled with something out of sight.</p><p>Curious, Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket and bounded over the gravel-strewn grass to see what he was up to.</p><p>The collar on his faded, brown shirt was askew, and a dark, grimy stain near his left hip marred the rumpled, vertical stripes over his back.</p><p>As she watched, his screwdriver-laden left hand darted down, absent-mindedly wiping against the fabric. With the movement, the stain spread to the red, waffle-textured long sleeve of the Henley he had layered underneath, and Hermione bit back a sigh.</p><p>Figures.</p><p>George braced a worn trainer into the gravel and shoved himself further under the steering wheel compartment, muttering. As he did, his body twisted face-up. Hermione knelt down, near his hip.</p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>Bang.</p><p>A yelp—followed by a slipstream of wizarding exclamations. Hermione used a few—particularly “<em>Merlin</em>” herself—a habit she’d picked up from Harry and Ron over the years. But George seemed to reach for the oddest ones.</p><p>A funny habit.</p><p>One that made her smile, just now.</p><p>“Helga’s Village,” he said, clambering from under the mess of wiring. He fell on his backside in the gravel, leaning against the driver’s seat behind him. An angry, red mark on his brow shone at her. George exhaled and brought his arms down from over his head as he looked at her.</p><p>“Can I help you, Dearest?” he asked in a droll lilt.</p><p>“Why are you messing with this car?” she asked.</p><p>George pointed up to the record player. “Got to power the turntable while we clean, and I didn’t think it kind to meddle in Dad’s tinkering with the Anglia—what with everything going on.” His eyes traced over her face with a bit of wryness. Then, he nudged a finger under her wand and lifted it to his face. “Come on then. You break it, you fix it.” An expectant, mischievous grin lit his face.</p><p>She lowered her wand. “I think you’re responsible for your own clumsiness,” she said. “But I don’t mind helping.”</p><p>Hermione tucked her wand away and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the mark. A small instinct took her, and she laced the touch with a non-verbal, wandless Episkey.</p><p>When she pulled away, George was watching her with that startled, off-put expression that had become more and more familiar of late.</p><p>“Yes, well—” George managed. He cleared his throat, and it looked as though a small shiver went through his shoulders. “Um—” He twisted up and back under the steering wheel. “I was never clumsy, until you.” The last part was said in an odd, rushed manner, and she could see a red tint creeping from his collar, up the back of his neck.</p><p>
  <em>“I was never clumsy, until you.” </em>
</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>George, standing over her in the glow of a set of floating blue-bell charms. Pieces of a black rectangle and a set of headphones lay scattered on the floorboards near his feet.</p><p>Clanging, metal wall.</p><p>No—she had to—</p><p>Rushing, cold river.</p><p>She blinked, oddly dizzy.</p><p>What had she been thinking about?</p><p>Inside the shed, a series of clangs echoed, and Hermione started, head clearing as the noise drove her from her thoughts. Even further out, Goldcrests chattered in the thicket, rapid whistles singing back and forth in circles.</p><p>She shifted back to her crouch, and wordlessly, George shuffled to the side a bit, as though making room.</p><p>“Cable,” he said, holding a hand up. Hermione blinked at the dangling cord over the ground, then handed it over. “Thanks.” He dragged the record player’s cable down, into the cab.</p><p>The interior was a tangled nest of cabling. The thick, black one from the engine lay in frayed strands before the similar, splintered ends of what appeared to be an outlet piece. The bits pulsed with a distinctly non-muggle purple glimmer. Meanwhile, under the wheel, yet more wires hung in a tangled mess.</p><p>George’s wand worked over the thick cable, and a shield charm flickered around it.</p><p>“Cover your eyes,” he murmured. She frowned. He glanced back. “Do it, Granger.”</p><p>Hermione clapped her palm over her face, but even through the cover, she could still make out the smattering of sharp, bright flashes over his shoulder.</p><p>She reeled back, tumbling to his side, hand tightening. “Whatever are you doing?” she squeaked.</p><p>The strobe faded.</p><p>“Making it work,” George said mildly. She lowered her arm, and George shifted, leaning on his side to face her. Hermione fixed him with a cool look. He lifted the fused cable and plugged the turntable into it with a mischievous smirk. Then he ducked back in. “Screwdriver.”</p><p>It rested on the middle partition, barely out of his reach as he worked under the steering wheel, but—</p><p>Gravel crunched underfoot as Hermione ducked into the cabin, over him. She nicked the screwdriver from over her head and handed it down before ducking back out. George spun the tool his hand, flashed her a grin over his shoulder, and jammed it into the ignition.</p><p>Hermione balked. Whatever was he doing?</p><p>George raised his brows and turned back to the nest of wiring. “Light?” he asked, barely concealing the mirth in his voice.</p><p>He was teasing her.</p><p>Trying to draw her in closer.</p><p>Well.</p><p>She backed away, searching. There.</p><p>She lifted the smooth pebble and rested it evenly in the place she’d crouched. Her wand swished as she transfigured it. The stone shimmered and stretched, enlarging into a flat, makeshift stepping stool, level with the car’s cabin floor. George watched, a bemused smile splashed over his face.</p><p>She lifted her chin, then knelt on the stone. As intended, it gave her a boost so she could lean over him at his side without having to crane awkwardly under the cab’s ceiling. Then, she leaned to the side a bit, over his back.</p><p>There. That was much more suitable.</p><p>The flush under his collar had spread up the back of his ear and scar. She propped her chin on her left hand, which laid flat atop his shoulder blade. George snorted a bit, and the sound went through her with a bolt of sparks.</p><p>“Comfortable?” George asked wryly. Hermione nudged her wand beside his ear and grinned.</p><p>“Very, Weasley,” she said. “Lumos.”</p><p>The glow emanated from her wand as a different light built between her ribs and his torso. George had been plucking nimbly at the strands, but at this point, he slowed, searching through the wires with a painstaking care. Suddenly, he paused, glancing over his shoulder in her direction.</p><p>“Do—do you know what you’re doing?” Hermione whispered, suddenly nervous.</p><p>George breathed out a laugh. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said, and there was a sportive lilt in his tone as he turned back to the cabling.</p><p>“Well, you’ve slowed down all the sudden,” she said, faltering.</p><p>“That’s got nothing to do with the wiring,” he said lightly, pausing with the pieces held close in his fingers. “And everything to do with dragging this moment out.”</p><p>Hermione snorted, but sparks flooded her face, light, airy, and dancing. “You’re impossible,” she said.</p><p>George let slip the two he’d plucked up. “Oh, no,” he said, sounding rather pleased with himself. “Now I’ll have to start again.”</p><p>The giggle escaped her before she could hold it back. Not that she wanted to.</p><p>George picked at some of the mess. “Shame. This could take hours, I’m afraid,” he said with a performative sigh. “No idea what to—”</p><p>“It had better not,” Percy’s annoyed tone echoed from the other side of the car. Hermione balked, shooting back and out of the cabin, onto the gravel. Percy had crossed from the shed and stared down at them, arms folded. “You’re not helping.”</p><p>“Yes, and neither are you,” George said, sounding put out.</p><p>“Dad won’t like you hotwiring it,” Percy said.</p><p>“What Dad doesn’t know won’t kill him,” George replied smoothly. “And besides, Dad and I have an understanding when it comes to hotwiring this vehicle.”</p><p>“I doubt that,” Percy said.</p><p>George shifted a bit under the wheel, and his voice sparked with something sportive. “Why don’t you go ask him, Perce?” he suggested, dragging a group of wires free. He flashed Hermione a wink.</p><p>Percy’s eyes narrowed. “That hardly seems necessary—”</p><p>George’s wand slashed, and two of the three wires joined.</p><p>“<em>Like a true nature child, we were born, born to wild—</em>”</p><p>The radio roared to life, blasting, and Percy leapt back, spectacles knocking from his face at the sudden rush.</p><p>Charlie’s whoop echoed from the shed.</p><p>A drum rolled.</p><p>The record spun, shouting over the yard with a second tune. <em>“Here comes the sun—”</em></p><p>Bill ducked out of the shed. “Pick one, you git!” he shouted. George grinned and lifted a brow at Hermione.</p><p>She hesitated.</p><p>
  <em>“Born to be wild—” </em>
</p><p>Then, she pointed at the radio.</p><p>“My thoughts exactly,” George said with a serious nod. He plucked the turntable’s plug from the outlet, then backed out of the car.</p><p>The guitar shredded the tranquil air in the best of ways, and Percy muttered darkly, shouldering past them.</p><p>On their way to the shed, George’s hand shot out, taking hers. He flipped her in a rapid spin under his arm.</p><p>She moved like wind.</p><p>But she felt like fire.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>Cleaning out the shed had taken most of the day, and now the group of them had made it to the last section—where the contents seemed to contain more family relics, rather than tinkering bits and half-way finished projects.</p><p>George, Fred, and Charlie had just gone inside to scrounge up some tea when Hermione kicked an empty box aside, and a large, wooden chest came into view.</p><p>“<em>George</em>” was painted across the top in large, purple letters. Her eyes widened, and she knelt. Ron and Percy crossed to a section of shelving further down, murmuring.</p><p>“Merlin, forgot about those,” Bill muttered. Hermione caste a quick detection spell, but nothing cropped up. Couldn’t be too careful. She eased it open with a squeak.</p><p>A preservation charm fizzled, and the smell of nutmeg and fields washed over her. “Oh,” she said. A Quidditch jumper lay over the top—far smaller than George’s frame would allow for, now.</p><p>Had he ever been that young? Surely not.</p><p>George had always stooped over her, from the moment they met.</p><p>Angelina knelt beside her, a wide grin spreading over her face. She plucked it out. “Must be from second year,” she said, eyes lighting. “We all made the team together, and—” she peered around Bill, towards the double doors, and she grinned. “Quick.” She shoved it into Hermione’s arms. “It’s about your size. Put it on and see what he does.” Her tone was eager and conspiratorial as Angelo bounced on her hip.</p><p>Hermione snorted, but did as told. She yanked the apron off, then tugged the jumper on over her head. “Pretend not to notice. Play it cool,” Angelina whispered.</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head and shoved to her feet. It was a rather good fit. Snug, but not too tight—not oversized like all his other jumpers on her.</p><p>Strange.</p><p>Bill watched, a dry smile on his face. Angelina motioned for her to move. As she stepped back, Angie yanked a second trunk out, with Fred’s name scrawled across the top. “Hold AJ?” she asked. Hermione took her nephew, spinning in a slow circle to keep him occupied.</p><p>While she did, Angelina rifled through Fred’s trunk. “He was always rougher on clothes, but with luck—” Then, her hands paused. “Brilliant.” She pulled a matching jumper from the second trunk, waving it aloft. “Arms up, AJ.”</p><p>Eager to please, Angelo thrust his sticky hands in the air. Angelina deftly pulled the jumper over his head. Her grin widened. “Oh, this’ll be great.”</p><p>Bill broke into laughter as Angie rested her son on the floor, and the jumper fabric pooled around his feet. Quickly, Hermione helped steady the boy as Angelina rolled it up a bit before fixing it with a semi-permanent sticking charm, so the hem brushed his ankles.</p><p>Voices echoed from the gravel.</p><p>“Go out and stall,” Angie whispered. “I’m not through with the arms. One of Angelo’s hands was stuck in the neck hole.</p><p>Hermione stumbled into the large, empty clearing near the back of the shed. Sunshine spilled through the doors, warming her face.</p><p>Charlie and George held large trays bearing mugs and a kettle, and Fred strolled alongside with his hands braced on his head. Upon spotting her, the three of them froze in the doorway.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione tilted her head at George and did her best to feign ignorance as Angelina had prompted.</p><p>As they stared, Charlie began to laugh in a raucous burst, while Fred smirked. George, however, was still frozen, eyes working over her, thunderstruck.</p><p>“Perfect timing,” Hermione said smoothly, taking the tray from him and resting it on the nearby worksurface. “How’re things inside?”</p><p>“Brilliant,” Fred said mildly. “Victoire’s still napping with Fleur, and Dad’s with Mum.”</p><p>“Hermione,” George said, voice faint. “Is—is that my, um—?”</p><p>“Is that what, Georgie?” Hermione asked, propping a hand on her waist. Fred snickered.</p><p>George seemed to come back to himself, and he tilted his head to the side. “Funny Granger,” he said lightly. “I don’t remember you making the team that year.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Charlie said, grinning. “And I didn’t just hand these out, Mate.” He tapped the fabric on Hermione’s shoulders as he passed.</p><p>“Close enough,” Angelina shouted from the back corner. Charlie threw his head back and laughed, striding towards her.</p><p>“Ange, name one beater who could’ve outflown those two at tryouts,” he called.</p><p>Hermione shrugged at George. “Maybe I was on the team. Maybe you didn’t pay close enough attention,” she offered quietly.</p><p>“I would’ve noticed,” George said, quirking a brow. He stepped closer.</p><p>Fred snorted. “I dunno, George, it took you ages to even admit—”</p><p>“Go see Daddy,” Angelina cooed. Little, tottering footsteps echoed around the table, and Fred stopped short, smirk dying on his face.</p><p>And then Fred went soft. “Oh, that’s lethal, that is,” he said, staring over the jumble of jumper and the sticky, round face that poked from the top. Suddenly, he swooped down and scooped AJ from the ground. “Look at you, Buddy!” he said, and his eyes glowed with delight. “Are you just like Mummy?” He lifted Angelo’s hand inside the sleeve, bouncing it.</p><p>“It’s your jumper,” Angie called.</p><p>Fred bounded towards her, laughing.</p><p>“We found some old things,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“I gathered,” George replied wryly.</p><p>She took his elbow and drew him towards the trunks. “Maybe we could keep yours at the flat,” she said as they rounded the corner.</p><p>“Hey George,” Bill said, grinning. He lifted a raggedy, stuffed bunny toy up by the ear. George’s face went crimson. “Remember this?”</p><p>Percy straightened at the shelf he’d been sorting and broke into a smile. “Miss Hopperton,” he said warmly, plucking it from Bill’s hands. “You know, Hermione, George used to carry this—”</p><p>George swiped it away, but Percy kept going. “—everywhere.”</p><p>“Miss Hopperton?” Hermione asked, turning to George with a wide smile.</p><p>“Not everywhere,” George muttered, flicking a bit of dust from the toy. “Just around the Burrow.”</p><p>“And the market,” Charlie said.</p><p>“The Ministry, when Dad brought us in,” Bill remarked.</p><p>“And your first year at school,” Fred finished. George whipped his head up, glaring at Fred.</p><p>Hermione’s grin widened. “Miss Hopperton,” she repeated.</p><p>George gave her a stern glance. “Not the whole year,” he said tightly.</p><p>“Really? Because I seem to remember you sleeping with that raggedy thing for months, and—”</p><p>“It wasn’t the whole year, but it was close,” Ron cut in. The conversation stilled. “Well, he gave it to Ginny over Easter hols, because she’d missed him so much during first term.”</p><p>“Actually, he gave it to both of us, and then Ron slept with it,” Ginny added, bouncing onto one of the cleared tables. “For the next year and a half.”</p><p>Fred barked out a loud laugh. “Wittle Ron—”</p><p>Ron’s face went pinched. “Shut up.” Ginny grinned back at him as she lifted Teddy up to sit beside her.</p><p>George tilted his head and gazed at Ron with an odd, thrown-off look. “Did you really?” he asked quietly.</p><p>Ron folded his arms. “Perhaps,” he said. “Considering my own had been changed to a giant spider, I figured you owed it to me.”</p><p>A small, soft voice piped up. “That is very nice bunny, Uncle George.”</p><p>George swallowed down at the toy, then at the soft head of blue curls that watched him from Ginny’s side.</p><p>“Well, Teddy,” he said quietly, crossing to kneel in front of him. “If you ask your Uncle Ron very nicely, I bet he’ll let you borrow him for a while.”</p><p>Then, he held the toy behind him, in Ron’s direction.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, silently willing Ron to take him up on it.</p><p>There was a pause as Ron blinked at the rabbit.</p><p>“Could I please?” Teddy asked, turning to Ron.</p><p>Ron looked confused, blinking from the rabbit, to George, to Teddy.</p><p>But then something seemed to click, and Ron took the toy before shuffling over to George’s side.</p><p>“Course,” Ron said, a bit gruffly. But when he held it out to Teddy, his mouth twisted upwards as the boy eagerly grabbed for it.</p><p>“Well,” George said, pushing to his feet. “That’s sorted.” His voice was a bit odd. Light. And without another word, he crossed back to the trunks.</p><p>Ron watched him, quiet.</p><p>“Miss Hopperton,” Hermione whispered, and George shook his head before snaking a hand out to give her a jolt on the ribs. But she was too fast, and he missed her.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 8:30 p.m.</p><p>The stars were threatening to prick through the dusky sky by the time they’d sent the trunks to the respective flats and houses and thoroughly scrubbed the shed from top to bottom. Near the end, Harry returned from the Ministry. There was still a bit of clutter left along one wall, but they were all knackered, and besides—there was plenty of room for work. Despite the magic use, Hermione’s arms and back ached, and the starting edge of a tension headache crept up her neck.</p><p>She’d have to tend to it later. They’d taken longer than intended.</p><p>Now, Hermione shouldered her bag and stepped up to the floo beside George. They travelled back to the flat, dropping his trunk in the living room. She stared at it a bit longingly. They hadn’t had time to sort through everything inside, and pulling out the items one by one—it appealed to her. Like she’d be able to open up new pieces of George that she hadn’t yet seen.</p><p>Perhaps they could stay a few extra moments, and go through—</p><p>Wait.</p><p>The team would be leaving her parents’ house at any moment. Her parents would be left unattended, save for the rotating auror shift guarding the wider area. And the Grangers didn’t have magic to protect themselves.</p><p>They were exposed. Vulnerable.</p><p>She swallowed, remembering the hollow crack of ice, biting through stone.</p><p>And she felt a little selfish, for wanting that moment with the trunk.</p><p>So, instead, Hermione peeled the red and gold jumper from her shoulders and rested it on top of the curved lid.</p><p>Perhaps another day.</p><p>“Hermione?” George called softly from his position near the hearth. He was busy, trying to Scourgify the stain from his shirt, twisting around in a distracted circle. He appeared a bit disheveled, and she breathed out a quiet laugh before crossing to his side. “I can’t tell if I’ve got it all, or—”</p><p>He paused as she rounded and poked her wand at the second half of the stain. She wiped it clean nonverbally.</p><p>He lowered his arms, then started a bit as she went to work on the second stain on his sleeve cuff. “Would you like a holster, or how do you want to do this?” he asked, glancing towards the study. His fingers absent-mindedly grazed over her wrist as she held the spot steady to caste the second Scourgify.</p><p>“Holster?” she asked. She finished and stepped back.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands through his hair. “We don’t show wands at your parents’ place, but if there’s need of one, having them packed away would be less than ideal.”  </p><p>Hermione nodded slowly. “That’s a fair point.”</p><p>“I’ve got some that Fred and I used, years ago,” he said, working his fingers over his collar as he headed for the study. When he re-emerged, his button down hung open over the red undershirt, and he was clipping a worn holster into place over his chest. As she watched, he adjusted the strap, drawing it a bit tighter, then sheathed his wand inside the narrow slot.</p><p>Without looking her way, he tossed a second one over. Hermione slipped it on over her top and dug in her bag for a flannel to cover it with. While she rooted around, George paced to her side, and his hands played over the buckle on her shoulder, fastening it.</p><p>He gave it a firm tug. Then another.</p><p>“I think it’s secure,” she said dryly. George frowned. Tugged it again.</p><p>“I dunno, Granger, I think—” and then he gave her a good jostle. Hermione laughed.</p><p>She slipped the brown flannel over it, then, like a mask, she did up every last button.</p><p>Sealing in the magic, away from her parents. Buttoning it in, where it couldn’t hurt anyone.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 8:40 p.m.</p><p>The ringing pop of apparition sounded on Heathgate and Meadway, and Hermione stumbled away, feeling a bit queasy.</p><p>Her parents’ home wasn’t too far away from the hub of London, but apparition over longer distances usually made her a bit light-headed. In fact, it was only the sheer necessity of the war that had forced her to grow used to it at all.</p><p>George drew her bag from her shoulder to his as she sucked in a breath. “Alright, Darling?” he asked quietly, and his hand stole to her midback.</p><p>She nodded, gulping in the cool night air.</p><p>“We should probably head in, or the neighbors will phone the authorities,” he said, snorting. “After all, we’re a bit underdressed. hardly dressed for the area.”</p><p>The first time they’d been back, she’d been too nervous to really gauge his reaction to the area. This time was different however. A faint drizzle marked the landscape, and she didn’t miss how George’s gaze worked over the manicured lawns, the fenced in trees, the trappings of the neighborhood she’d taken for granted for years.</p><p>A far cry from chickens in the yard and a magicked together cottage.</p><p>She’d never felt uncomfortable with her childhood home until now.</p><p>George seemed used to it, however, tucking an arm about her waist and leading her towards the stately house she’d once called home. In the unrelenting spring rains, the viny growth over the front had crept ever-higher, encompassing her former bedroom’s window.</p><p>George took two, quick steps up the stairs and gave the door a firm rap.</p><p>“Who is it?” her Mum called from the other side.</p><p>“It’s us, Jane,” George said smoothly. “Last year at Christmas, you had a bit too much cider and told us that Thomas once snogged you in a car park behind a Blondie concert.”</p><p>What?</p><p>Hermione’s mouth dropped open, but George only grinned at her, quirking his brows.</p><p>She’d known her Mum was wild about Blondie, but really? A car park?</p><p>The rattle of the familiar, metal chain sounded on the other side of the door, and then it swung wide, revealing a rather flummoxed Jane Granger.</p><p>“It was a very good concert, see,” she said, faltering as she stepped back to allow Hermione and George in. George’s hand slipped up and squeezed Hermione’s shoulder before it dropped away.</p><p>He’d taken the tension out of the security protocol by using a horridly awkward memory, and she could kiss him for it.</p><p>“A very good concert,” George parroted. “Wasn’t it, Thomas?”</p><p>A laugh boomed from the kitchen. George pulled his shoes off, then paused to wait for her. She’d barely worked the second one off of her foot when her Mum’s arms closed around her.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Mrs. Granger whispered.</p><p>Hermione nodded, trying to tilt so the other woman wouldn’t feel the concealed wand holster. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Things are settling down. Thanks for letting us stay the night.”</p><p>“Of course, sweetheart,” Mrs. Granger said, but there was a ring of tension in her voice. Like she was waiting for a blow.</p><p>Hermione’s insides clenched. “And you?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“We’re managing,” Mrs. Granger whispered. “I was so worried about you.” She swallowed, then tugged Hermione in again before finally releasing her to allow her daughter to finish with her trainers.</p><p>George slipped his hand easily into hers.</p><p>“What’ve we got in the oven, Thomas?” George called, making his way through the living room and tugging Hermione after him.</p><p>Her dad tugged a glass baking dish from the middle rack and settled it on the cooktop. “Hello Sparrow,” he said, smiling at Hermione before turning to George. “A bit of an experiment. Still working on those brownies with reduced sugar,” he said. “Added extra dark cocoa for—” He broke off mid-sentence as Hermione flung herself at him. “—this one.” He finished, patting her head. He hummed a bit as he slid the spatula through the treat, perfectly content to let his daughter hang about his shoulders for a moment.</p><p>“Verdict,” Thomas commanded, holding up a small sliver of chocolate. “Open.”</p><p>Hermione tipped her chin back, and Thomas dropped it in.</p><p>It was bitter, but in the best way. Just a hint of sweet balancing the bold cocoa flavor, and it was more than a bit gooey. It’d be excellent with coffee.</p><p>“Absolutely lovely,” she said with a grin. “You’re the best baker in the whole world.”</p><p>A short scoff echoed from the corner, but Thomas practically crowed. He lifted his chin and grinned at George.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” George drawled. “What am I, a numpty?”</p><p>She’d forgotten about George. But he mostly cooked, didn’t he? Her face prickled. She’d wandered into one of those context-laden situations without meaning to. Again.</p><p>Thomas’s embrace tightened. “Hear that? You’ve been dethroned, you smarmy prat,” he said.</p><p>George’s eyes narrowed on Thomas. “Enjoy it while it lasts, old man. I’ll win her back.” Hermione’s eyes widened. When George caught her look, he shot her a wink.</p><p>“It was only a matter of time,” Thomas said merrily. “She knows her roots. You don’t need to dump twenty stone of sugar into something to make it taste good.” He pushed a little kiss into Hermione’s hair. “I’ve raised you properly.”</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile at the remark, a somewhat gratified feeling spreading through her chest.</p><p>George snorted, and Hermione did her best to ignore the incredulous look he was giving her as the tips of her ears prickled.</p><p>“Sweets before dinner—very proper Thomas,” Jane’s crisp tone lilted over the dining area, where the table was already set.</p><p>“Granger women love a renegade,” Thomas said with a wink. He pointed an oven-mitt clad hand at George, who went a bit pink in the face. “You know.”</p><p>Hermione crossed to George’s side as Thomas lifted his brownie tray over to the table. “Looking a bit flustered, Weasley,” she remarked quietly.</p><p>“I only find it quaint that your father still fancies me the reprobate in our relationship,” he said. “Most of our illegal dalliances have been, after all, your idea.” He dropped his arm along the line of her shoulders and smirked.</p><p>“Sure, George,” she said.</p><p>“Every time I’ve been taken in by the DMLE, it’s been because of you or your ideas,” he said lowly, still smirking.</p><p>Her mind blanked, and Hermione blinked. “There’ve been mul-multiple times?”</p><p>“Don’t play coy,” he murmured in her ear as he eased away, heading towards the dining area. “I know you like it.”</p><p>Her mouth dropped open and she whirled on him. “Whatever have you been arrested for?” she hissed.</p><p>He quirked his brows and slipped his hands in his pockets, walking backwards. “Civil disobedience.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Rats.</p><p>That was rather attractive.</p><p>Hermione face flushed hotter, and George winked before turning and joining her parents at the table.</p><p>#</p><p>Just as before, George seemed to understand just how to keep the conversation moving over the dinner table—slipping into awkward gaps to ask her mum questions about her recent dentistry conference presentations and asking her dad about his upcoming cookbook—a labor of love the man had been working towards since she was small.</p><p>“I imagine my mum will want one too,” George said, draining the rest of his wine glass. The crickets outside the window buzzed pleasantly, and George’s arm had crept along the back of her chair. “She’s a rather prolific baker as well.”</p><p>“Well, I can get you an extra proof copy right now!” Thomas said, bolting from his seat and heading for the den. “Come on, then!” he called, and George shot Hermione a wry grin before following after him.</p><p>She pushed her last bite of roast chicken onto her fork and smiled at her mum.</p><p>Jane watched her, chin propped on her hands. “I’m so glad you’re feeling more like yourself,” she murmured.</p><p>Hermione popped the bite into her mouth and chewed slowly, nodding to avoid having to lie about any particulars.</p><p>Suddenly, Mrs. Granger leaned forward, whispering gently. “I’ve been wondering, have the two of you decided to start again? There’s no pressure, of course, Darling. Your father and I figured you’d placed things on hold with you feeling unwell, but I wasn’t certain where things were, now that you’re—”</p><p>“There you are!” Thomas’s boom echoed from the threshold, and George emerged, carrying a stack of printed paper, loosely bound.</p><p>Hermione blinked at the interruption.</p><p>What had her mum been about to say?</p><p>Jane seemed to have thought better of it, however, pressing her lips together and smiling at the other two.</p><p>They retired into the living room. There, George dropped into the armchair with a sigh. Then he stilled, as though realizing he’d just made some sort of tactical error as Mr. and Mrs. Granger took up the entirety of the sofa—Jane in the corner with Thomas’s feet on her lap.</p><p>And Hermione stood in the center, not quite sure where she fit.</p><p>It hit in her a wave. Exhaustion.</p><p>She was so tired of not knowing. Not having the context for her own life. Tired of having to puzzle things out in the presence of those who didn’t know, and stumbling awkwardly around those who did.</p><p>George’s face pulsed red, and his hand flexed over his knee as he searched around the room. Hermione blinked, then settled on the floor at his feet.</p><p>“You owe me a shoulder rub,” she said crisply to explain away the logic for her choice on the floor, should it be odd for whatever reason.</p><p>Jane laughed softly, and she could feel George untense behind her.</p><p>“Right you are,” he said. His hands descended on her shoulders. “So, Jane, how’re your boys?”</p><p>Hermione blinked as her Mum launched into an explanation of the Collingwood Magpies’ current standing. Apparently, in her time in Australia, her Mum had become a football fan.</p><p>Her mum had never been a football fan before.</p><p>She swallowed.</p><p>George’s touch buzzed warm against through her flannel. He leaned closer, nodding along to the talk, and his right hand darted down. He pressed into the raw spot along her shoulder blade, where the pressure building in her head and neck seemed to originate—just like it always did—and everything went blank.</p><p>Hermione’s head tipped to the side, and her eyes slipped shut. George’s touch shot sparks through her ribs, and she allowed herself to luxuriate in the calming feeling that sifted through her.</p><p>An airy weightlessness had filtered over her throat and chest, like she might drift away.</p><p>“I think Hermione’s a bit tired,” Jane said, breaking off from her lecture on the AFL’s stadium issues with a smile.</p><p>“We’ll do a brunch or something tomorrow, alright?” Thomas said, pushing to his feet. He smiled warmly at the two, then proceeded to help Jane up.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>She hadn’t planned this part out.</p><p>“I’ll take the rubbish out,” George said mildly.</p><p>“Thanks, George,” Mrs. Granger called as she headed up the staircase with Mr. Granger. George, meanwhile, grabbed the large bin and hoisted it against his chest. As he pushed through the front door, Hermione saw him reach through the buttons on his shirt, for his wand.</p><p>He’d caste the wards, then.</p><p>She crept up the stairs.</p><p>Outside, the potential danger loomed.</p><p>But inside, a whole different hurdle awaited.</p><p>It couldn’t be avoided.</p><p>Hermione padded into her bedroom, and her bag thudded on the ground.</p><p>She stared at the singular bed.</p><p>#</p><p>May 4, 2003, 10:00 p.m.</p><p>She hadn’t moved when George rapped softly on the door. With a start, she eased it open. He slipped through, holster poking through his button down. The handle snicked shut behind him. Without any further comment, he spun and caste a Muffliato over the frame and the adjoining walls.</p><p>His voice was soft as he headed for the loo. “I refreshed the wards the team laid down and talked with the patrol watching this area. They haven’t seen anything strange yet.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. The loo door closed.</p><p>The smooth, pastel blue bedspread seemed to taunt her.</p><p>She used to think it was a calming color, but now it made her feel like she’d run a marathon. A nervous jitter snaked up her arms.</p><p>George emerged, kitted out in flannel grey pajamas. He didn’t look once at the bed. Only summoned a pillow with a snap and tossed it on the ground.</p><p>Oh. She let out a breath.</p><p>He was always such a gentleman. He’d always made her feel so—so safe, really.</p><p>And the floor would certainly be uncomfortable.</p><p>George spoke distractedly as he began to arrange a spot on the carpet. “I think they’ll be—”</p><p>“Hold on,” Hermione balked, lifting a hand.</p><p>George paused, brows raised as he pulled a sleeping bag from his pack. His face colored. “Oh—I can um—I can sleep in the tub, if you’d like—I just assumed after—” he was rambling, spinning, not meeting her eyes.</p><p>“George,” Hermione said, lifting her brows. “You’re joking.”</p><p>An apprehensive look came over him. “I—I don’t—?”</p><p>Honestly.</p><p>“It’s only a bed,” she said briskly. “We can share. Just stick to your side.” She eyed him sternly, then nicked the pillow from the floor before tossing it onto the middle of the mattress.</p><p>George looked at the sleeping bag in his hand, blinking, then at the bed. He had yet to speak, and he appeared a little taken aback. Faintly dumbstruck, even.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and aimed for poise. “Put that away,” she said. “Merlin, is that the same one we used third year?”</p><p>George shrugged, then shoved it back in his bag.</p><p>“Truly, I feel perfectly fine with it if you do—so long as you stick to your side.” Hermione tilted her chin up. “You’re always very careful to respect my boundaries, and you’ve never once made me feel pressured or uncomfortable. Really, I feel quite safe with you.” She prattled a little, face warming as she spoke. But, it felt important to tell him.</p><p>It was the sort of thing he’d like to know, probably.</p><p>George’s expression softened, and his smile almost glowed as he took in what she said. “Yeah?” he whispered.</p><p>She nodded firmly.</p><p>He blinked rapidly, and a look of delight stole over him before he abruptly turned to her bookshelf. “Thank you for saying that,” he said softly.</p><p>“I’ll um—” she nodded at the loo, slipping into the en-suite to change. The set of pajamas were warm and soft on her skin, but uncertainty pressed between her ribs as she brushed her teeth, then undid her plait.</p><p>What if he was expecting—</p><p>She stopped herself.</p><p>Again.</p><p>This was <em>George</em>.</p><p>Every step of the way, he’d assured her that he was satisfied with the pace she felt comfortable with. And every step of the way, he’d been careful not to assume. They’d slept in the same room more than a few times. She’d even woken beside him in the same bed, after the ill-fated Knockturn mission. Though, he’d been on top of the covers, and she didn’t recall most of it.</p><p>It was a little new, but he’d be respectful, and so would she, and honestly, there wasn’t reason to fuss over it.</p><p>But still.</p><p>When she emerged, George sat in her desk chair, ankle propped over knee, grinning at a familiar book. “This Paddington fellow seems to get himself into a number of preventable scrapes,” he said dryly.</p><p>Hermione faltered. He nodded at the bed. “Come on, then,” he said easily. George propped his feet up on his side of the mattress and leaned back in her desk chair. “It’s time you learned to appreciate good literature.” His tone took on a silly, posh inflection.</p><p>Her smile slipped free, and George fished his glasses out of his flannel chest pocket, poking them onto the bridge of his nose. He waited, watching with a sportive grin as she fell onto the bed and slipped under the covers.</p><p>“We all tucked in?” he asked with a a cheeky air. Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Proceed, Sir,” she said. She folded her hands across her lap. George paged back a bit, cleared his throat, and started on the story in earnest.</p><p>“<em>One day Mr. and Mrs. Brown were standing in Paddington Station</em>,” he read, and Hermione wriggled deeper under the covers. The crickets sang outside her window.</p><p>Suddenly, she felt as though she might be very small again, with her Mum and Dad poised over her head, passing the book back and forth to read their respective parts.</p><p>It was before magic had come around. At least, in the undeniable way it had when McGonagall rang the bell. Back when that part of her was a mere quirk or oddity that they’d been conveniently overlooking.</p><p>Things had been so much simpler.</p><p>And yet, as George read through the opening lines of the story, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to regret how it had all turned out.</p><p>That was a thought.</p><p>She regretted that she couldn’t remember the journey, but she didn’t necessarily regret where she’d ended up.</p><p>Not in the least.</p><p>She regretted the struggle. The loss they’d both had to endure in different ways as a result, but the being with him?</p><p>“<em>It had a funny kind of hat, and it was sitting all by itself on an old suitcase near the Lost Property Office</em>,” he said, glancing up at her with a grin.</p><p>No, that was as easy as breathing, just now.</p><p>George flipped the book around to show her the pictures, and she nodded approvingly, leaning back further on her pillow.</p><p>“This bit always did remind me of Harry,” he murmured, flipping the page. “Gin thinks so too.”</p><p>“Ginny’s read it?” Hermione asked, breathless.</p><p>“We gave it to Teddy for his first birthday,” George replied. He paused. “Well, it was a bit more complicated than that. We gave it to Gin, who gave it to Harry, who gave it to Teddy, but it was really a gift for Teddy.”</p><p>That seemed odd, but George was already returning to the story, lilting on about tea in a train station, crossing one ankle over the other.</p><p>Without clear reason, she found herself thinking of the way he’d doted over Teddy, Victoire, and Angelo, and something sharp pinched in the center of her ribs.</p><p>She swallowed, pushing the feeling down.</p><p>George flipped the page with gusto, adding in a new voice for Judy Brown. Then another, for Jonathan.</p><p>As he merrily went along, a different pain blossomed—that familiar, glimmering ache flickered in her ribs. Stronger.</p><p>A sort of tranquility fell over her.</p><p>By the time George reached the part where Paddington stretched out in the armchair after an eventful swim, her eyes had slipped shut of their own accord.</p><p>There was a flutter of pages, the small tap of something hitting the desk. A soft shuffle, a swishing sound, and then a tell-tale creak.</p><p>The covers rustled on the other side of the barricade.</p><p>Finally, the click of a lamp, and George’s quiet, tired voice.</p><p>“Goodnight, Love.”</p><p>#</p><p>She ran through the library, dashing around a corner and through an opened doorway. The wall clanged furiously in the background, the faint roar of the river rushing.</p><p>As she cleared the threshold, she emerged into a clutch of forest. Thick snow coated the ground. In the distance, she could see the metal wall, creeping through the woods, but it was too far off to reach her here.</p><p>She whirled through the pine trees, branches creeping tall as towers.</p><p>She ought to be afraid of snow.</p><p>But she wasn’t. Not this snow. Not these trees.</p><p>These trees looked after each other. These trees had roots, running deep.</p><p>A ball of twine scratched roughly in her hands, and a thick purple scarf hung around her neck.</p><p>The sky opened up over her head—so, so very bright, dotted with the most impossible light. It had travelled, come all this way, and she could see it now. Small, persistent flames.</p><p>The twine in her hands spun, spun, and Hermione looped it around the wood-ragged trunks, through the snow-laden boughs, back and forth, back and forth, a tangled web. A three-dimensional string board.</p><p>Then, she tied it off. Made it taunt.</p><p>When she plucked the twine, the cord sang like George’s laugh.</p><p>A single scrap of parchment fluttered through the air.</p><p>Hermione caught it in her outstretched, wind-reddened hand.</p><p>Gold, gleaming lines swooped across the paper’s worn creases, shining over her face in the dark.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re wonderful.”</em>
</p><p>She didn’t know what it meant. But she knew it belonged here.</p><p>She affixed it to the center of the closest string, just above the tie.</p><p>#</p><p>May 5, 2003, 8:30 a.m.</p><p>Rain pattered the windowpane, and a telltale kettle whistle drew Hermione slowly from her slumber.</p><p>She floated, submerged in warm, weightless glow.</p><p>Equilibrium.</p><p>Something comforting and steady thudded under her ear, and a serene current pulsed through her—toasty and cozy and perfect. She nestled closer and fisted her hand against the softness.</p><p>A quiet, breathless, “Oh,” whispered above her head.</p><p>Hermione’s brow furrowed as the dream began to tug at her. She wasn’t ready to wake yet, but she didn’t want to slip back under—not with how lovely she felt. She burrowed deeper into her pillow, clutching it tighter.</p><p>“Bugger,” came the next bit, sort of weak and pained sounding. “Okay, okay—” The muttering tone was familiar.</p><p>Her pillow shifted, and Hermione’s eyes flew open.</p><p>There, trying to extricate his arms from her body, was a very red-faced George.</p><p>A stunned wave of confusion staggered through her.</p><p>Merlin’s Beard.</p><p>She’d—she was wrapped around him like an Incarcerous—arms and legs tangled in his as he lay flat on his back at her side.</p><p>At the look on her face, he dragged a hand down his own. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t intend for this to—even set a charm so I wouldn’t—” he rambled, not meeting her eyes. Hermione blinked.</p><p>She’d crowded onto his side of the bed, and he lay almost at the edge of it.</p><p>It’d been her.</p><p>It’d been <em>her</em>.</p><p>She shot backwards, onto her end of the bed. “Alright,” she said, voice swerving high. “That’s alright.”</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, then paused and grimaced. “You don’t sound alright.”</p><p>She’d practically tried to smother him. How had that happened?</p><p>Her face flamed.</p><p>“Really, it’s—I’m just a bit startled,” she pleaded, looking hurriedly around the room, searching for any sort of distraction. “I, should, um—” She was rambling, searching for an escape. She’d nearly lectured him about sticking to his side, only to completely disregard the rule herself. Was there a bag she could pull over her head, perhaps? “I-I think it was my fault, really. I’m terribly sorry.”</p><p>George sat upright and shifted towards her with a deep line between his brows. “Hermione, it’s not—”</p><p>“Stay there,” she said, freezing. George paused and slowly raised both hands.</p><p>Oh, she was being absurd. She erupted into a burst of nervous laughter, then covered her face in her hands.</p><p>“I’m so sorry; I’m being ridiculous,” she said through her fingers, almost squeaking. “You’ve done nothing wrong, I’m just wasn’t expecting, um—”</p><p><em>“To wake up in your arms.”</em> She didn’t speak the rest of the thought aloud.</p><p>And it’d been her.</p><p>Her face went even more molten, and she shoved the thought aside.</p><p>“That’s alright,” George said softly.</p><p>She dropped a hand and gave him a pained look. “I just didn’t expect it, and I’m—” she waved her hands around her head. “Processing, um.” She paused. “Nothing against you, of course.”</p><p>George nodded. “That’s fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s totally fine. I should’ve thought to warn you. It’s, um—” He paused and glanced at the foot of the bed. “I mean, that’s to say—you’ve always sort of been rather—” He shrugged and swallowed as he stared off. “—cuddly in your sleep.”</p><p>Hermione winced. She’d grown up an only child, and she’d had her own four-poster at Hogwarts. She’d never really shared a bed, before, save for occasional nights in her parents’ when she was little. Yet another detail about herself that she’d failed to realize. “I’m sorry,” she said.</p><p>“Don’t be,” George said quietly. “I’m only worried for your comfort level. Not my own.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, chancing a look in his direction. He still watched the metal bedframe beyond his feet with far more interest than merited.</p><p>Curiosity sparked a new question. A silly one, really. But a little part of her wanted a small piece of affirmation. That she wasn’t troublesome or—or a nightmare, really, to sleep next to.</p><p>What an odd thing to be insecure about.</p><p>Honestly.</p><p>But, she couldn’t keep the question back: “So, it was—is alright, then? You—you do like cuddling?”</p><p>George’s gaze snapped up to hers. “Good Godric, yes,” he said fervently. The corner of George’s mouth drifted up, and his eyes sparked. “I do, so please don’t feel bad on my account, or—” His breath jumped as Hermione flopped back down at his side, content with his answer.</p><p>“Then we can cuddle for a bit, if you like,” she said lightly, not quite ready to abandon the safe, lovely feeling that flowed freely through her chest only minutes prior.</p><p>George’s expression slackened. “You sure?” he asked.</p><p>“Unless you’d rather head downstairs and taste test Dad’s whole wheat French toast?” she teased. George shook his head vigorously.</p><p>Slowly, George eased onto his back, watching her with a hesitating, tense expression. “Do you want me to, um—hold you?” Hermione nodded, eager. George lit like a beacon, and she shifted to let him slip his arms back into their original position.</p><p>That wasn’t so scary.</p><p>Hermione nudged her foot over his, smiling.</p><p>He was doing that little fidget thing again.</p><p>George snorted. “Yes, I know, I’m—” he trailed off, sounding dazed. Hermione blinked in confusion. But then light spooled in her ribs, swirling brightest where they touched, and she understood. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut. “Oh Merlin,” he said thickly. His arm was tucked under her side and close around her back, the hand skating a glaze of sparks up and down her sleeve from shoulder to elbow as his other palm cupped her cheek.</p><p>Suddenly, he faltered, bringing his hand from her face to his eyes, where he rubbed, pinching at the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“You alright?” she asked, propping up on an elbow in concern.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said, but he didn’t sound brilliant. The word had been said brokenly, sounding wobbly and terse. Winded, almost, like he might cry. “I’m just—” His voice fractured, and he tensed, wincing away.</p><p>“George?” she whispered.</p><p>“It’s been a while since I got to hold you like this after waking up,” he said, hand guarding his eyes. He quirked his brows a bit, but his tone was still oddly thick with the next part. “And I’m quite determined to not ruin it just now, so—”</p><p>Hermione tugged his hand away. George winced.</p><p>His eyes were red and watery. “M’fine,” he said hoarsely.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath.</p><p>“Oh, don’t look at me like that; I’m not bloody dying,” he groaned, covering his face back up. Hermione watched him carefully. Her hand crept up, against his chest. His heart was beating rather fast under her palm.</p><p>“Clearly,” she said. Then, she pressed a small kiss to his ear and waited. “Are you sad?”</p><p>He shook his head, hand still fixed over his eyes. “The opposite,” he whispered.</p><p>“It’s okay if you cry,” Hermione said. George shrugged.</p><p>“Probably good you feel that way,” he muttered, a bit clipped. “Since it’s happening already.”</p><p>He waited a moment. “It’s—It’s silly, just—” His words faltered as she snuggled closer. “I reckon it’s sort of like you can miss something but also appreciate what you have for what it is, you know? And I appreciate what we’ve been working on, every part of it, and I guess I’m happy you’re, um—” he stuttered “—here, just now.” He ended the ramble, peeking out at her from under his fingers.</p><p>“I think I understand—as much as I can, anyways,” Hermione said quietly. A small impulse sparked, and she leaned in, smiling a bit. “George?”</p><p>“Hm?” He hummed at her, still hiding under his palm.</p><p>“Good morning, Darling,” she whispered, then fixed a light kiss on his mouth.</p><p>George’s hand slipped from his face and he blinked at her. At first, she was worried that she’d done the wrong thing, but then a small, wonderful smile crept over his features like sunrise.</p><p>He didn’t say anything, but he turned to face her, and his arms pulled her closer.</p><p>Hermione let him hold her, staying very, very still as he brought his hand back to her face, shifted nearer, and pressed his mouth to her forehead, breath slipping lightly over her skin.</p><p>The tempo of her magic kept in pace with his inhale and exhale.</p><p>#</p><p>May 5, 2003, 9:35 a.m.</p><p>Hermione struggled with her hair as it resisted the plait. It was particularly bushy this morning. She’d woken with one side hopelessly tangled, and the other had gotten flattened when she accidentally fell back asleep in George’s arms.</p><p>It’d been worth it, but Merlin, was she paying the price now.</p><p>She’d forgotten the products she might normally use to manage it at the flat. As she muttered under her breath and yanked another stray curl back into place, the loo door swung open. “Almost done,” George said, leaning over the sink with a flash of silver in his hand. “You about ready to head down?”</p><p>“Not if my hair has anything to say about it,” she said, huffing.</p><p>George stood back and gave her an appraising stare. “Rather like it when it’s like this,” he said with a grin. “But if you’re unhappy with it, you could always use some Keddle’s Curl Tamer.”</p><p>The green stuff in the glass bottles was incredible magic—better than Sleekeazy’s, but judging by Harry’s appearance, Fleamont Potter had never had curly hair, and according to George, Dorothy Keddle did.</p><p>“I left it at the flat,” she groaned.</p><p>He backed away from the mirror and crossed into the bedroom. “You’ve a box of things you keep under the sink, for when we stay here,” George said, nodding towards the cabinet over his shoulder as he scraped the blade against his face. The stubble cleared away, falling and vanishing before it hit the floor.</p><p>The practiced ease of the motion pulled her in, and she stared.</p><p>George turned, raising a brow when he found her watching.</p><p>“How are you not cutting yourself without a mirror?” she asked, blinking at him.</p><p>“Practice. But also a charm,” George said. He sawed the blade against his cheek, and nothing happened. “Only severs hair.”</p><p>“Did you make it?” she asked.</p><p>He lifted the tool away, considering it. “Well, I placed this particular charm, but it’s not a terribly original idea,” he mumbled.</p><p>“It’s still quite clever,” Hermione said, heading towards the sink and stooping to open the cabinet door. He smiled at her, and she smiled back before turning to examine the contents.</p><p>There.</p><p>“I can’t believe I forgot my hair products.” She was prattling now, but he didn’t seem to mind. She pulled out the box, then stood and pried the lid off. The stale extension charm fizzled, and the box shrank, pushing the contents upwards.</p><p>George’s voice emanated from the bedroom. “Well, you had your hair in a plait, yesterday, and—”</p><p>A couple of smaller boxes tottered on top, then tumbled to the floor. Little, oblong sheaths of plastic going everywhere. George’s voice faded.</p><p>“What’s—” she muttered, crouching to reach for them.</p><p>“Granger, wait.” He cut in, pacing rapidly towards her. Hermione’s hand closed on the nearest one. As she turned it to face the light, a curious phrase appeared along the gleaming silver, wrapper.</p><p>“<em>Clearblue</em>.”</p><p>What was—</p><p>She reached down for another that had tumbled from the second little box—this one light orange and green. The Mungo’s logo was printed on the side. She twisted the packaging, frowning, then glanced up.</p><p>George stood over her, pale. Mouth open and jaw working. Looking like he’d seen a ghost.</p><p>Hermione’s mind snagged, going blank. “What are—”</p><p>“Hermione.” He sounded as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs.</p><p>What was wrong?</p><p>She lifted the box. <em>“Mungo’s at Home Pregnancy Detection Kit.” </em></p><p>A frigid wall of shock slammed through her. She dropped it like she’d been burned.</p><p>“Hermione,” George said, dropping to his knees at her side as he scrambled to pick them up and tuck them away. “I—I—it’s—don’t—” His voice went garbled, words pouring from his mouth out of order.</p><p>
  <em>“Have the two of you decided to start again?” </em>
</p><p>Hermione shut her eyes. “What are these, George?” she asked quietly.</p><p>“Please don’t worry about it.” He spoke in a stiff, odd rush. But Hermione held up a hand.</p><p>“Don’t give me that answer,” she said, pinched. Her insides burned, and a lump worked up her throat. “Not about this.” She opened her eyes and leveled him with a cool look. “Answer the question. Yes or no. Were we trying?”</p><p>George’s jaw ticked. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, scrubbing his hands over his face.</p><p>“Were we, George?” Hermione’s tone was unyielding, but she needed a simple answer. She needed to know.</p><p>He didn’t reply.</p><p>They had been. Hadn’t they?</p><p>Yet another piece of context that she’d been missing, all this time.</p><p>About her. About their relationship. About him.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. “How could you not say anything?” she said. “I know you’ve got to be careful, with my prognosis, but this isn’t the sort of thing you leave out.”</p><p>“Granger—” he said, and his voice broke over her name, but he still couldn’t meet her eyes.</p><p>“I’m not a child,” she said. The lump grew tighter, larger. She couldn’t breathe.</p><p>“Hermione—” he tried again, but a cold, harsh panic banged hard in her ribcage.</p><p>“Look at me,” she snapped, her voice high and frantic. “Tell me the truth. Yes or no.”</p><p>He met her gaze. George’s eyes were stricken with a raw, unmoored look, and she faltered.</p><p>And then it was like watching an iron gate slam shut.</p><p>He blinked hard, and his eyes went empty and dull. “Yes,” he said, in a voice devoid of emotion.</p><p>Her insides crumpled at the confirmation, the weightless glow of the morning evaporating into mist.</p><p>“Why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, blinking down at the plastic wrappers. Little shards. A Bombarda that the other Hermione had caste, and she’d walked right into it.</p><p>The tip of her nose ached.</p><p>“Didn’t want to scare you,” George said, the words marching after each other in a dulled parade. “You were already overwhelmed, and it seemed irrelevant.”</p><p>“Irrelevant?” she whispered, blinking back tears.</p><p>George’s gaze didn’t leave his hands. “In your mind, you were fresh out of a war and just shy of nineteen, and—” he replied, quiet and measured and cool.</p><p>The word “nineteen” rankled her. She wasn’t a child. She’d just said she wasn’t one, and yet he referenced her age as though it made her less capable of handling information.</p><p>“I just told you I’m not a child. Even if I am nineteen in my head,” she snapped. “You should’ve said something.”</p><p>George nodded dully. “But you had plans when you were nineteen—a lot of things you wanted to do,” he said.</p><p>As though that changed anything?</p><p>Hermione’s fingernails bit into her palms, and anger flushed hot up her throat, but George carried on, staring blankly at his hands, not noticing. “And additionally, it wasn’t safe. You’d just been targeted by blood supremacists who’ve only spun further out of control in the meantime.” Here, his shoulders tightened, before the neutrality returned.</p><p>His tone was gentle and clear, but lifeless. “Clearly, it wasn’t—isn’t a suitable environment for a baby. Therefore, it was—is irrelevant, even if we were to become intimate.” He blinked at his unmoving hands. “So, I vanished our supplies from the loo when I showed you the flat, and that was that.”</p><p>Unsuitable. Irrelevant.</p><p>“But, even months later, when I asked?” Her voice wobbled as she blinked at him.</p><p>“Hurt too much,” he said mildly.</p><p>He said it like he was remarking on the excess rain they’d had this spring.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” she whispered. He didn’t sound like it hurt. He sounded like he was bored. Her hands shook, and she tried to steady her breathing.</p><p>Everything—everything was so tangled. She couldn’t think.</p><p>“We’d been waiting to try for quite a while, and everyone was rather excited for us. We’d started near the end of last year,” he said calmly, gently, even. But his brown eyes were cold. Not hateful. No. Like unfeeling stone, left out in the night during winter. “The day we decided it was one of the happiest in my life. Is there anything else you’d like to know?” He folded his hands and waited.</p><p>All of it—the poised manner, the way he rattled it all off as though it didn’t matter. The way her world had been flipped on its head by his lie of omission, after all they’d worked through, and he didn’t seem the least bit shaken—it made it hard to breathe.</p><p>“And you couldn’t explain any of this to me before?” She barely managed to get the question out.</p><p>“I did,” he said, gaze fixed on his hands. “I wrote you.”</p><p>“Really?” she croaked. “Because I don’t recall getting such a letter.”</p><p>George went quiet.</p><p>“No, George,” she said, spitting the words through her teeth. “You wrote her. But you didn’t write me.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t mind that he missed her. That he wrote her.</p><p>But to be completely left out like this—</p><p>And that was the whole of it, wasn’t it? She was an interloper, stumbling around in someone else’s life. As much as he liked to pretend that she was the woman he’d married, he didn’t truly believe it. If he did, he would’ve shared with her as well.</p><p>A single teardrop splattered over her thumb.</p><p>Then another.</p><p>George glanced up at her, looking into her face for the first time since his initial “yes.”</p><p>He blinked. Tilted his head to the side.</p><p>When Hermione was little, she used to sneak out of bed and tuck beside her mum to watch re-runs of an odd, American show called “Star Trek” on the small telly they kept hidden in the den.</p><p>Just now, George looked like Data.</p><p>She’d always thought it was silly when Data did it.</p><p>But on George just now, while her chest was caving in, it was isolating and almost frightening.</p><p>A wave of nausea crept over her, and she backed away. “Why—why’re you looking at me like that?” she asked.</p><p>A small furrow appeared between his brows.</p><p>“Mm,” he said quietly, and the wrinkle deepened. “It appears I’ve Occluded a bit too hard,” he said. “I’m sorry; it was an accident.” He tipped his chin down, lowering his gaze. “Give me a few moments. I’ll sort it.”</p><p>Occluded?</p><p>Her stomach wrenched.</p><p>“Didn’t mean to,” he repeated, still flat. “Sorry.”</p><p>His hands shifted down to the soft blue carpeting. He exhaled a short burst, flinching, and his fingers clenched over the fibers.</p><p>Then relaxed.</p><p>Then another stiff jolt, and his right hand quaked a bit. He hissed through his teeth, and his legs jerked.</p><p>And Hermione couldn’t breathe. She pressed her hands to her mouth, watching, horrified.</p><p>“I’m trying,” he said, strained like he was attempting to lift something heavier than he was able. His face had gone rather pale. “I just—” He squeezed his eyes shut. Then opened them, and grey-blue sparks flecked through his eyes. His fists tightened.</p><p>George’s mouth opened. Then snapped shut. “Sorry,” he whispered. His breath sped as he blinked rapidly, and like waves breaking over a shoreline, feeling re-entered his gaze.</p><p>And it was visceral—a churning storm of loathing, pain, and regret. Raw. Broken.</p><p>Her vision blurred, and her hand wavered on her mouth.</p><p>“Why?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands over his face. His shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “It’s an old, bad habit.” He was hoarse, but not absent as he worked through the explanation. “One I thought I’d properly kicked, before this year.” He ground his palms into his eyes. “A form of Occluding. Not a good sort—but it’s like a reflex sometimes, when I, um—” He waved his wand hand in her direction. “You know.”</p><p>“I don’t,” Hermione choked. “Why would you need to Occlude with me? I’m not—” she swallowed. “Not Voldemort.” She inched back further, and the tests skittered across the loo’s tile floor like artillery.</p><p>George caved inwards at her movement, and his hands dropped. “Of course you’re not.” His voice was so quiet, she could hardly make out the words.</p><p>Hermione shook her head slowly. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.</p><p>“Occluding isn’t only useful for keeping Legilimency out,” George mumbled. “It’s a form of defense against all sorts of mental attacks. Even your own feelings.” Bitterness seeped through his tone on the last part, and he kicked aside a stray flimsy, plastic package on the floor before tipping his head back against the bedframe.</p><p>Her mind whirred, tangling. It was—it was so much to take in, all at once, and—</p><p>He wouldn’t look at her.</p><p>Still.</p><p>“It’s not healthy,” George said, more than a bit tiredly. “It doesn’t happen often. Hadn’t really struggled with it in years, but—”</p><p>He faltered at her sharp breath.</p><p>But then she’d come along and stumbled into the other Hermione’s skin, and it had ruined everything.</p><p>The plans for the baby. The quaint little life they’d built above the shop. George’s wellbeing. All of it was connected in a terrible orbit. Her presence in place of the other Hermione acting as ground zero.</p><p>“But then I happened,” she supplied, quiet and short.</p><p>George’s face contorted. “No, no, Hermione, it’s not—”</p><p>His voice seemed to fade as the rushing in her ears intensified.</p><p>She needed—</p><p>Needed—</p><p>What did she need? She didn’t know herself. Didn’t know or understand what was happening. Too many things, so little context.</p><p>The panic reached a crescendo, and she sucked in a wracking gulp of air.</p><p>“George,” she said, voice breaking. “I think you should go.”</p><p>A silence.</p><p>George seemed to fold in on himself.</p><p>“If—if that’s what you want,” he said softly.</p><p>She buried her face in her hands. “I need some time.”</p><p>#</p><p>May 8, 2003, 11:05 a.m.</p><p>“Sparrow?” Mr. Granger’s voice filtered from the kitchen. “Would you like any lunch?”</p><p>Hermione curled tighter on the sofa, pulling the light blue bedspread tight over her head. “No, Dad.”</p><p><em>Paddington Bear</em> lay stationary on the floor by her feet, and she took a long, shuddering breath.</p><p>The telly buzzed.</p><p>Her father wouldn’t leave her alone. None of them would, and it was irritating.</p><p>She’d spent the last several days hiding in her room and the den, only leaving to recast the wards and retrieve copies of the day’s <em>Prophet</em> from the aurors that kept watch up the street.</p><p>The first day, a rapid series of owls from Harry, Fred, and Ginny had arrived—promptly followed by two more from Fred, one from Angelina, and then, finally, one from Charlie. All of which she’d discarded before casting a series of masking spells to turn the Burrow’s owls away.</p><p>She didn’t need to hear everyone’s opinions on George’s behalf.</p><p>She thought the time would help her clear her head, but she was just as confused, just as—as angry and sad as she had been, days ago.</p><p>She felt small. Belittled. Sick to think that almost everyone else had known, and she hadn’t. And—and how many times had he held up a mask like that to her during the last four months?</p><p>Could he really caste a silly spell and hide himself away?</p><p>What was real?</p><p>She’d been starting to think that with time, she was picking up where the other Hermione had left off, regardless of the state of her memories.</p><p>Ridiculous.</p><p>It’d been there all along, really. She should have suspected it. Like writing on the wall, and she’d failed to string the words together to grasp the deeper meaning. The way he’d closed off at Mungo’s and avoided the question. The delight in his eyes every time they settled on one of the children.</p><p>He wanted children. But not—not with her. Not with the way things were now. Not when she was like this. Not with the way she was.</p><p>
  <em>Unsuitable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Irrelevant. </em>
</p><p>She clenched the blanket tighter, stuffing it to her chest like that could sop up the molten hurt that flooded her every time she let herself think of it.</p><p>He’d been so cold and distant as he said it.</p><p>Maybe, in her sleep, the other Hermione would return, and she would fade away to nothing. George could have a baby with her, and they’d be so, <em>so</em> happy.</p><p>She choked down a sob.</p><p>“Here we are.” Her dad’s voice was cheerful and quiet as he settled onto the sofa beside her and handed over a bowl of tomato soup.</p><p>She’d told them George had urgent business to attend to elsewhere.</p><p>They hadn’t pried, only told her she was welcome as long as she needed.</p><p>“I said I wasn’t hungry,” she said, and her voice rasped a bit around the lump in her throat. She didn’t react, staring at the telly screen. She didn’t even know what was playing.</p><p>“Humor me,” Thomas said, lifting his own spoon to his mouth. “Mind you blow on it, Sparrow.”</p><p>She set it on the table and picked up the closest reading material. Not <em>Paddington</em>. A dentistry supply catalogue.</p><p>Thomas lifted it from her grasp and rested it on the far end of the couch without a word.</p><p>“Dad,” she said, incredulous. Thomas Granger was many things, but a book thief wasn’t one of them.</p><p>“I think it’s time you share why you’re avoiding George,” Thomas said, face relaxed as he took a small sip from his bowl.</p><p>Hermione clenched her jaw.</p><p>“I’m not,” she said.</p><p>“You’ve got the blanket over your head, and George isn’t here,” Thomas said lightly. He took up Hermione’s bowl and pushed it back into her hands. “There haven’t been any other attacks, and your—”</p><p>“How do you know?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“I accidentally threw some notes away. Found the papers sorting through the bin,” he said. His spoon clinked in the bowl. “Not to worry. I took care of them before your Mum saw. She’s rather skittish about all of this, you understand, but I’d rather know if I need to transfer back to Australia ahead of time.” Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Dad, I’m not going to—”</p><p>Thomas kept talking, not acknowledging her reply. “Anyways, George isn’t one to leave you in this state, so he’s either dead or you’ve told him off.” Thomas took another sip from his spoon.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>“Shall I beat him for you?” Thomas asked, stretching an arm over the back of the sofa.</p><p>Thomas Granger was 5’8 and had the same, slight build as his daughter and wife. Hermione would’ve laughed aloud had she not been utterly miserable.</p><p>“That won’t be necessary,” she said softly.</p><p>“Thank goodness,” Thomas said. A pause. “Was it bad, Sparrow?”</p><p>She almost came undone.</p><p>But she couldn’t. It was all tangled up with magic, through and through, and she couldn’t.</p><p>So, Hermione clutched the blanket around her shoulders and merely said, “I’m tired.”</p><p>Mr. Granger sighed.</p><p>The doorbell chimed.</p><p>“I’ll see to it,” her dad said. “I’ve got a delivery coming.”</p><p>The wards hadn’t gone off.</p><p>Even still, Hermione rose, blanket clasped around her, feeling her wand holster under her dad’s baggy shirt that she’d nicked from the laundry. She waited, hidden behind the dining room wall and poised to strike, should it be a threat.</p><p>Thomas swung the door open, and a redhead stood at the threshold.</p><p>“Wonderful to see you, Mr. Granger.” The clipped, proper voice filtered through the entry. Hermione groaned and rested her forehead against the wall.</p><p>“She’s inside,” her father whispered.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth dropped open at the betrayal.</p><p>Percy Weasley strode into the living room, polishing his glasses on his grey jumper. When he came upon her, he propped them back on his nose and stuck a hand in the pocket of his darker grey, tweed trousers.</p><p>“Well?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione glanced at her father. “Could you give us a moment, Dad?”</p><p>Mr. Granger nodded and headed upstairs.</p><p>They both waited until he left.</p><p>“The rotating security team is more than capable of refreshing the wards,” Percy said, the moment a shutting door echoed from over their heads. “If you’re that worried, Harry can put another team member on it. You’re needed elsewhere.”</p><p>Hermione sniffed. “I don’t want to—”</p><p>“I’ve gathered that something’s occurred between you and George,” Percy said, sounding put out. “Haven’t the foggiest what it is, since no one bothers to tell me anything or answer any of my questions.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the floor. “I know the feeling,” she said. So, Percy hadn’t known about it all. At least that was one Weasley.</p><p>“Yes, well, the Ministry’s in crisis, and you’ve got a blanket on,” he said cooly. “Get it together.” He spun to the bookshelf beside the mantle. “Bring the Vivaldi. We work best to Vivaldi, in case you don’t remember.” His mouth quirked. “And besides, Fred and George hate it.”</p><p>Hermione gawked.</p><p>Percy paced to the shelf, examining her parents’ sizeable collection of books and vinyls. When she made no move after a few moments, he huffed. “Have you been confunded?” he asked. “This is important. They found the Greengrass boy, but the task force is claiming jurisdiction and took him. You and I have work to do. Research to sort. Stringboards to make.” He snapped his fingers at her without looking back. “Come on. They need us.” The words were crisp and impatient off his tongue.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “That wasn’t in the papers,” she said.</p><p>Percy spun on his heel and gave her a sarcastic smile. It was almost wolfish in its sharpness. “Shocking.”</p><p>Hermione paused.</p><p>Percy crossed close, ducking to her head in an uncharacteristically aggressive swoop.</p><p>“Now, it’s a week from full moon, and I’ve about—” He lifted two fingers, pinching them quite close together. “—this much patience, and half of it’s been spent already convincing Harry to hand over clearance to me, so please, for the love of Merlin, <em>move</em>.”</p><p>“—moon?” Hermione faltered, but Percy had already carried on.</p><p>“Everyone’s too busy to mind you,” he said. “Most of them are at work, anyway. You won’t be bothered.”</p><p>She bit her lips together. Going back to the Burrow—that was terrifying. It was simultaneously the place she most and least wanted to be, presently.</p><p>“You can bring the blanket if you must, but do try to gather your mind,” Percy snapped, tone going peevish. “I came for Hermione, and I intend to leave with her.”</p><p>He glared at her until she tripped back up the stairs.</p><p>#</p><p>Percy waited while she had a quick shower, then gathered her belongings. The stairs thudded under her feet as she shoved her curls into a hasty plait.</p><p>The redhead waited at the base, jaw clenched, tapping his foot. “Ready?” he asked, voice taut.</p><p>“Almost,” Hermione said. She stuffed her magically shrunken turntable into her bag beside the other reduced items. It clanked against one of the two generators from the supply closet.</p><p>She wouldn’t be hotwiring anything to make it go.</p><p>Percy sighed loudly as she approached the bookshelf, and she shot him a sharp look before snagging a few cardboard sleeves.</p><p>“You’re the one who requested Vivaldi,” she said. He didn’t reply. Finally, she darted into the kitchen, where her father had migrated, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.</p><p>Then, she flitted into the den. Percy followed close behind, muttering. Hermione lifted the bowl and downed the tomato soup.</p><p>It hit her, warm. Her energy surged.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Food did help.</p><p>Percy checked his pocket watch. “Haven’t got all day,” he snapped. Hermione smacked the dish on the table and sucked in a breath.</p><p>Percy’s incessant foot tapping continued, and she spun.</p><p>“Try me, Percy,” she said.</p><p>He heaved a breath and rolled his eyes. “Finally, okay.”</p><p>With that, he snagged her by the elbow and dragged her to the door.</p><p>#</p><p>May 8, 2003, 1:12 p.m.</p><p>Hermione paced back and forth before the massive wall she and Percy had begun to manage. First, they’d clipped up her notes from each attack—assembling a larger, spread out version of the board on her closet wall. Then, they’d added her notes from <em>Magical Tradition. </em>Then the photos she’d commissioned from the library.</p><p>So far, Percy had been right. They’d been mostly left to themselves. For the most part, she’d only caught flashes of the other Weasleys, appearing through cracks in the door as the others went about the day.</p><p>Hopefully, it would stay that way.</p><p>Just now, however, a few of them were providing a formidable distraction, and Hermione couldn’t help but watch.</p><p>Outside the window, Bill jumped with Victoire in the side yard. The faint buzz of the Weasleys’ record player sang over the grass.</p><p>“<em>Twist and shout</em>.”</p><p>Bill swung Victoire upwards, and laughter pealed out of her like a supernova. He threw her skyward.</p><p>It should’ve been beautiful, but at present, it felt like witnessing a collision. Each moment stung worse than the last, and yet she couldn’t tear herself away.</p><p>Hermione’s insides twisted.</p><p>
  <em>“Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now.” </em>
</p><p>As the song built to the end, Bill stooped lower, egging Victoire on. “Come on, then, you can go louder!” he shouted, grinning.</p><p>Victoire’s little feet went wild, and she sucked in a massive breath.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>She braced for it, but she still wasn’t ready.</p><p>As the band yelled into the mic, Victoire’s shriek boomed, and the trees shook. Hermione fell back from the window, and Percy contorted like he’d been slapped, then grimaced. “Honestly,” he muttered.</p><p>Bill’s roar of laughter echoed through the walls, followed by Victoire’s babble.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and flicked her wand.</p><p>Silence fell in the shed, cushioning them from the outside.</p><p>“Thank Merlin,” Percy muttered, shoving his glasses higher on his nose. He worked near the back table, close to a gurgling caldron emitting a faint, blue smoke. As she watched, he scooped some out and filled a goblet, not looking up while he unpacked even more volumes and files from what appeared to be a Ministry-issued expanded suitcase. The bold “<em>M</em>” stamped on the front was worn, and only flecks of the original, gold imprint remained.</p><p>Hermione crossed to her old turntable. She’d assembled it on top of one of the desk that now laid bare. The generator hummed, and violin shuddered through the room in a quiet flow of sound.</p><p>She tipped her head towards Percy. “What do you think about—” Across the room, something creaked. Hermione stiffened, going quiet.</p><p>Fred, Angelina, and Ginny stood before the rusted, green metal doors. No one spoke. As she watched, Charlie shouldered between them with an uncommonly serious look. Finally, Bill stepped into the background, Victoire clutching about his neck. He discreetly motioned for the others to follow him out, but they ignored him.</p><p>Percy dragged a hand over his face. “We’re working,” he barked.</p><p>Hermione spun away to the wall.</p><p>“Granger,” Fred said quietly. “I know he was a git, but—”</p><p>No.</p><p>“Who else knew.” She cut him off before he could get started. Kept her voice cold, building layers of armor between her and the others.</p><p>In the window’s reflection, she watched as slowly, Fred’s hand lifted. Then Angelina’s. Then the rest of them, one by one, except for Percy.</p><p>Right.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” she said, looking everywhere but their eyes. “I don’t want to hear it.” The hurt lashed out of her like a whip. “Not a single word.”</p><p>At her right, Percy searched the group, then her, mouth slightly open like he was sorting through a particularly difficult puzzle. Her face prickled with heat and embarrassment, but the anger and hurt under her sternum scorched even hotter.</p><p>“Percy and I are working,” she snapped. “If you’re not here to help, leave.”</p><p>Fred started forward. “We’re trying to—”</p><p>Hermione’s plait snapped through the air as she spun and strode to the turntable, cranking the volume. Fred’s voice died beneath Vivaldi’s screech.</p><p>Nervous energy surged over her chest, down her arms and legs.</p><p>Why was she so wired? Like she was about to enter a fight?</p><p>Armor. She needed armor.</p><p>Hermione twisted her head from side to side, and her neck popped. Meanwhile, her wand spun circles in her right hand, flipping over and over through her fingers.</p><p>George wasn’t the only one who could put up an unfeeling front, and she didn’t even need Occlumency to do it.</p><p>She stared hard at the space where the Anglia had been, at the large wooden desk that now took its place and raised her wand tip to her throat.</p><p>“Get out.”</p><p>The corrugated steel walls rattled under the sharp iron in her timbre.</p><p>When she turned, they’d all left except Percy and Fred. The latter’s face had gone stony. His wand slashed. The Vivaldi quieted.</p><p>“Enough, Granger,” he hissed.</p><p>Hermione clenched her jaw and counter casted.</p><p>The Vivaldi rose.</p><p>She lowered her chin.</p><p>Fred’s stance shifted the slightest bit, but Hermione was faster.</p><p>Light cracked through the shed, and suddenly, they were dueling.</p><p>Not to kill or maim. No.</p><p>Over the blasted control nob on the record player. Accios, Incarcerouses, minor jinxes—all exploding over the smooth stone floor in splashes of light as they tried to drag each other away from the speakers. Not a single shield was caste, save for the one Percy placed before the corner in which he stood, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shouted at them to cease.</p><p>Fred hit the floor with a clap of red light, then darted back up and hissed out a freezing spell, which she dodged. “At least let him apologize!” he roared, spinning behind the shelter of the remaining shelves on the far wall.</p><p>“So he can occlude some more?” she shouted. Hermione flung a Rictumsempra, then a Bat-Bogey hex, but Fred dashed out of the way just in time.</p><p>The return burst of red zipped alongside her cheek, and she sucked in a furious breath before flinging a Locomotor Mortis.</p><p>Fred’s next charm flashed, bright and furious across the room. It smashed into the caldron and the pewter went flying. Frothing, dark blue potion splashed through the air.</p><p>Percy swore.</p><p>“I know you’re upset, but consider how he feels! You don’t even want a baby!” Fred yelled, ducking beneath the Locomotor Mortis bolt. An orange, jagged flare streaked towards her, and she leapt aside.</p><p>“You don’t know what I want!” Hermione screamed.</p><p>Fred stopped short just as she unleashed a stunning spell. The bolt of light burrowed deep into Fred’s chest, throwing him against the wall.</p><p>Hermione’s wand clattered on the floor. “Fred!” she shouted. She tripped over, sticky potion splashing under her trainers, and suddenly her breath was coming fast and short as she remembered the way he’d—</p><p> “Fair point,” Fred gasped. Then, he winced and rubbed the back of his head. His hand groped out, finding hers, and he pulled himself up.</p><p>“You were supposed to dodge,” Hermione said weakly.</p><p>Fred was breathing hard, and a light sheen of sweat coated his face. He paused and bobbed his head. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, a ring of sarcasm echoing through the words. “Merlin.” He rolled his eyes, then swallowed and braced a hand on her shoulder before lifting his wand over his head. “Aguamenti.” The water shot straight into his mouth.</p><p>“Are you quite through?” Percy snapped. Fred twisted his head to look at his brother. He swallowed down the water, gaze stony.</p><p>“No,” Fred said flatly. Then he turned back to Hermione and nodded at the record player. “Listen. If you’d like, I’ll hold George down, and you can blast that shrieking rubbish in his ear until you feel he’s paid his dues, and then you can hear him out.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>“No really,” Fred said eagerly. “It’d be dead easy.” His arm looped around her shoulders. “Charlie could help. Ginny as well, though I doubt George’d put up much of a fight in his current state.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed and pulled away. “You’re trying to make me feel sorry for him,” she said quietly. “Stop.”</p><p>Fred scoffed. “I’m not doing anything of the sort,” he said. “Bloke did this to himself.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together. “So, what’ll it be, Granger? An old-fashioned thrashing? Death by music? Take your pick.”</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you’re serious, but lashing out at him wouldn’t fix anything,” she said. “And I’m not trying to punish him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”</p><p>Fred blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Could’ve fooled me.”</p><p>“I’m allowed to be upset, Frederick,” she snapped.</p><p>“Yes,” Fred said cooly. “But what you’re doing now is shutting everyone else out, and we’ve got to—”</p><p>“I’m not,” Hermione said.</p><p>Fred stared at her blankly.</p><p>“I’m working with Percy,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ve always been fond of Percy.”</p><p>A small, surprised cough echoed on the other side of the shed.</p><p>“That’s very kind, and normally I would return the sentiment, but I’d rather not be brought into this,” Percy said. “And in the meantime, I’m going to need more—”</p><p>“Yes, we all love Percy,” Fred said, not so much as glancing in Percy’s direction.</p><p>“Wonderful,” Percy muttered.</p><p>“See, Percy—Percy didn’t lie and watch me make a fool of myself for months on end.” The words were snippy and terse, and her smile tightened.</p><p>Fred stepped back. “No one—” he paused. “No one thinks you’ve made a—”</p><p>Hermione brushed past him and turned up the Vivaldi.</p><p>“Fred,” Percy said, and there was a tight, pinched note in his voice.</p><p>Fred spun on his heel. “Yes, Mate. We’ll get it sorted.” He huffed and left the shed.</p><p>“Thank you,” Percy said flatly at his brother’s retreating form. Then, he searched along the flooring, vanishing the mess. “Here,” he muttered, swishing his wand at her shoes. “It smells ghastly if you don’t get it out straight away.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hoping it was a misunderstanding.</p><p>Perhaps—perhaps Percy had been brewing it for someone else. Perhaps they were coming over presently to pick up that goblet, and that’s why he was on a time crunch.</p><p>Surely, he hadn’t become—</p><p>Percy checked his pocket watch, then crossed to the table. He picked up goblet with a white knuckled hand and threw back a sizeable gulp.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>She tried not to watch, to lend him some privacy as he worked away at the potion for several minutes. Taking small draughts, coughing, pacing, then returning to force more down.</p><p>She’d yet to say a word, but the sight of it made her insides squeeze.</p><p>Had it happened during the battle at Hogwarts? Before? After?</p><p>Had he been afraid like she was when Fenrir dragged his claws up her throat?</p><p>Percy tipped the rest back, flinching, then vanished the cup. Slowly, some of the tension eased from his shoulders. The harsh look he’d had about him all day faded. He caught her watching, rolled his eyes, and waved a hand for her go ahead.</p><p>“So, you’re—” she trailed off.</p><p>“Yes,” he said tiredly.</p><p>Hermione’s chest constricted. “How long?” she whispered.</p><p>“Little under five years,” Percy replied. “It was terribly, horribly undignified, and I don’t speak about it unless I must.” He paused, and his look was calculating. “I am willing to make an exception, considering the nature of our friendship and your current state.”</p><p>With this, he leaned back against the table, bracing his hands on the edge. “We were raiding a former Death Eater’s mansion—Magnus Vane, actually—”</p><p>Hermione froze.</p><p>“<em>I’ve got to be very careful in this building</em>,” George had said. “<em>Especially with Vane</em>.”</p><p>His voice echoed through her mind, snagging on the new bit of context with each loop.</p><p>Percy continued, heedless to the swirling storm in her head. “And he claimed the usual. Imperious. Unwilling participation. His daughter, Romilda, was there.” Percy spoke smoothly, reaching behind him for a glass of clear water. “Angelina, Fred, and George were also in attendance, as they’d volunteered to help support the Ministry’s efforts in hunting them all down.” He quirked his brows. “I was to be record keeper—something I’m more suited for, as I’m sure you agree.”</p><p>Hermione’s heart pounded.</p><p>“Vane offered another Death Eater he’d captured as leverage, and when I went to investigate the room in which they were being kept, I found a fully grown, transformed werewolf.” He took a drink, then settled the glass on the tabletop with a ginger touch. “The others tried to help, but I found myself on the wrong end of its claws and teeth.” He laughed coldly. “Last time I ever forgot about a full moon.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Hermione said softly.</p><p>Percy seemed less impressed with this response and blinked flatly at her. “It would have been preventable, had I been a better fighter. Unfortunately, I’ve always been more Weasley than Prewett in that regard,” he said, something rueful flickering in his gaze. “Luckily, the lot of them got me into Mungo’s on time. Nearly bled out, but I recovered, except for—” He gestured at himself.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “That’s ghastly,” she said. Her brow furrowed. “Why isn’t Vane in prison?”</p><p>Percy smiled tightly. “I asked the others not to say anything, considering the anti-werewolf sentiment in Britain. I didn’t want anyone to know.” He crossed to the string board. “And, apparently, the remaining evidence wasn’t enough to convict him. Not with the money and power he had.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the fluttering image of Wolfric Vane.</p><p>Insects buzzed outside the shed.</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. “That explains some things,” she said.</p><p>“Oh?” Percy replied, joining her at her side. “New theory?”</p><p>She shook her head. “Not quite. But I didn’t realize the history there was so tangled.”</p><p>Percy heaved a sigh. “Yes, well, that’s a word for it,” he said. “It goes further than that, but the rest isn’t my story to tell,” he said.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows. “Whose is it?”</p><p>“George’s,” Percy said.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth thinned. “Does it have anything to do with me?” she asked.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“That’s complicated,” Percy said.</p><p>Hermione clenched her teeth.</p><p>There was a long silence, and she could feel Percy’s gaze working over her.</p><p>Finally, he looked away. “Do you remember the third edition of <em>A History of Magic</em>?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded. A rather significant let down, published her fifth year. It’d attempted to include more recent events into the book, but Bagshot shouldn’t have bothered. Luckily, Professor Binns had been too stuck in his ways to switch textbooks, and they’d kept on with the second edition.</p><p>“Terrible mess,” Percy said. “Undoubtably, it had the worst organization I ever saw in a Wizarding history volume—and that’s quite a low bar. Placing the Statute of Secrecy content before the Founders, no thematic grouping, and the index was infuriating. Not a single footnote.”  </p><p>“What’s your point?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“I do get bored, you know, in between feeling sorry for myself and working a dead-end job,” Percy said. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a spindly finger. “So, I decided to re-write it. Perhaps a fourth edition would clarify things, I thought.” He scratched his head. “As it turns out, I could do little better. When I sat down, tried to locate what was necessary—what the reader ought to know first, I found myself overwhelmed.”</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. “You could’ve done a bit better,” she said. “There are plenty of magical groups who’ve been wronged by the tone and gaps in the first three.</p><p>Percy’s eyes travelled over the wall. “Yes, I quite agree. However, everything seemed terribly important, all at once, and a single word out of place could mislead. All my private assumptions, speculations—they couldn’t go in. It would compromise the integrity of the narrative. Potentially do more harm than good.” He turned to look at her. “It felt impossible, and that was in the security of my familiar office with a strong cuppa and no interruptions.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“I imagine trying to sort five years of history isn’t easy,” he said. “Especially in the middle of a time like this.”</p><p>“I’m not asking for a textbook, Percy. I don’t want a full account of the last five years. I know that could make a mess—plant false memories or confuse any that might otherwise return.” She blinked at her hands. “I’m only asking for honesty in the things that affect my relationship with him as it stands,” she said.</p><p>Percy nodded. “Did he lie?”</p><p>Hermione thought of the deadened look in George’s eyes as he’d explained everything days before. The way he’d dodged her questions in Mungo’s. His arms around her, guiding that blasted spatula as he whispered about how he’d forgotten during the night with the eggshells—as though he could be anything but constantly, painfully aware of it.</p><p>“Yes,” she said.</p><p>#</p><p>May 8, 2003, 5:00 p.m.</p><p> “There’s no precedent for it,” Percy said, lifting a hand from the other side of the shed. A large volume lay open on the ground, and papers cluttered the floor.</p><p>The same, tired Vivaldi record filtered through the room, violent shrieks of violin like madness, and yet something about it made her read faster. If Percy had grown tired of it in the last several hours, he hadn’t said so. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it more, the longer it went on, bobbing his head to now-predictable tempo.</p><p>“No law against it, either, though,” Hermione groaned. “Can you check back over that case from 1934 again? Maybe we missed something.”</p><p>A shuffle of parchment.</p><p>“I haven’t got it,” Percy said. “You have.”</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “It’s not here.” She hopped to her feet and skimmed over the litany of materials on the ground.</p><p>“This would go faster if you—” Percy started.</p><p>“Shush,” Hermione said.</p><p>When she found it, she’d use that old charm, the one from—</p><p>No matter, actually.</p><p>Anyways, but she’d caste it, and that would keep the thing from slipping under the mess strewn about the room. She bit her lips together and hopped to the next clear spot, searching.</p><p>Her foot wobbled.</p><p>Rats.</p><p>There were almost no free surfaces left.</p><p>A new thought occurred to her.</p><p>The equations appeared almost before her eyes, and she jolted, scrambling heedless over parchment stacks to the nearest table.</p><p>“What is it?” Percy asked.</p><p>“Quiet,” she snapped.</p><p>He obeyed.</p><p>She struck the hot iron, ink flashing on a blank page. So—so terribly simple, really. An adjustment to the wand movements, the syllabic flow of the incantation would need to match—</p><p>It all came to her, the Arithmancy, the Charmwork, assembling in quill strokes as she wrote. She’d never worked so fast before, and the progress made her heart leap.</p><p>She was close to greatness. She could taste it, the same way that she could taste cinnamon, just before lifting a cup of pumpkin juice to her lips.</p><p>Percy crossed to her side quietly. She could feel his eyes, taking in her process.</p><p>The paper became crowded, and Percy stepped back as she reached for another sheet.</p><p>“You know you’ve—”</p><p>“Not now,” she said, a bit clipped. She’d need to lace it with an Accio variation. That complicated the math. She split the page into quadrants—one for wand movements, one for equations, one for syllabic drafting, and one for scribbling when the ink stuttered.</p><p>That was another thought. It really would be easiest if she could do it wandlessly, since she might be holding a quill or books.</p><p>Percy sighed.</p><p>George would find this enthralling, she was sure of it. But Percy? Percy sounded bored.</p><p>She pushed the thought down.</p><p>Her wand found its way to her hand, and she shifted it through the movement. Scratched something out. Adjusted the numbers. Tried a new set of movements.</p><p>As she worked, Percy attempted to interrupt her a few more times until he finally gave up and resigned himself to waiting.</p><p>A curl slipped free from her plait.</p><p>Another.</p><p>It wasn’t—wasn’t just right. There was something missing.</p><p>It was too cold.</p><p>It needed to feel alive. Steady.</p><p>Like the weightless glow she’d felt, waking in George’s arms.</p><p>She blinked and forced the memory down. Not now.</p><p>Hermione bent over the parchment. Equilibrium—with the change of a few numbers, a small alteration on the amount of force used on the upswish—that would do it.</p><p>In theory.</p><p>She spun to the materials.</p><p>Her wand flashed.</p><p>“Cognitas.”</p><p>The effect was instantaneous. The books, the papers, all of it—slipped free from the ground.</p><p>It worked.</p><p>She blinked. “It—it works,” she breathed.</p><p>Raw determination sparked hot in her veins, and she pushed further. With another flick, she set them in orbit. Slowly, the materials gathered into a current.</p><p>It wasn’t fast enough.</p><p>Something clanged across the room.</p><p>But Hermione Jean stuck her wand behind her head, through her plait. Then, she flung her hand along the charm, spinning to add more force to the directive. The materials surged, whipping by at a far greater speed than she could read, but the rush was worth the energy.</p><p>She was a conductor, and the symphony an organized chaos. If she’d used her wand, it would’ve been less clumsy, with fewer pages flapping wildly against their spines. But, she wanted to try it this way—just to see if she could.</p><p>It felt rather like stretching an old muscle.</p><p>Her magic seemed know where to go. It surged loose from her fingertips. Wild. Rhapsody.</p><p>Faster.</p><p>Faster.</p><p>Brilliant, gold light snapped around her hand.</p><p>“It works, Percy!” she cried, laughing aloud as elation filled her. “It really works!”</p><p>Breathless. Her curls lashed over her face like she’d caste a Ventus. The storm of books had created its own gust of wind, and it was beautiful.</p><p>George would love it.</p><p>Hermione bit down hard and flung her hand again.</p><p>The Jetstream of paper twisted, picking up speed. Vivaldi screamed from the speakers, and Hermione raised her arm at the elbow with the utmost confidence. The tingle of the spell’s retrieval component sang up her skin.</p><p>“1934 DMLE vs. Department of Mysteries,” she shouted.</p><p>The file in question ripped from the river, sailing into her left hand. Without further remark, she dropped her right arm, pulled her wand from her plait, and swiped down. The current stopped on a dime, pages fluttering with the sudden execution of speed.</p><p>She let them float, flipping through the file as she turned to speak to Percy.</p><p>But Percy wasn’t alone when she lifted her gaze. He was whispering, gesturing at the floating books to the figure beside him.</p><p>George.</p><p>Her spell shattered, and everything—<em>everything</em> dropped.</p><p>As if on instinct, George’s wand snapped out, and the very movements she’d just coined and calculated danced from it. The aged volumes and precarious parchments lurched, inches over the floor, as though caught by the strings of a Marionette.</p><p>George’s arm was still extended, eyes wide as the books shuddered above the ground.</p><p>Then his arm lowered, and he stood. Well, standing wasn’t the right word. He stooped, rather, hands loose near his pockets, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. He was pale. Drawn, with deep shadows under his eyes. A crate lay tipped on the ground near his feet, caldron, ladle, and instruments spilling out. Ragged stubble crawled over his jaw, and he wore the same clothes he’d had on when he’d left her parents’ house. But they looked far more rumpled, and a button near the collar had come loose.</p><p>Their eyes met, and he exhaled a short burst, like he’d been kicked under the ribs.</p><p>“Where did you learn that?” Hermione asked, blinking rapidly.</p><p>“You taught me,” he said quietly.</p><p>“But I just—” She stopped. “She did it first, then.” The vestiges of wonder clicked off like the quick snap of a light switch. She’d thought this was hers. Not something from the other Hermione.</p><p>Everything in her hurt.</p><p>She whirled away, gritting her teeth. She wasn’t—she didn’t know how to—</p><p>So, instead, she turned to Percy, thrust the folder into his hands, and said in a stiff voice, “Here’s the case.”</p><p>In the corner of her eye, she saw George’s throat bob. Then, he knelt, slowly gathering up the crate of spilled equipment with faltering hands.</p><p>He glanced at her, and Hermione spun in the opposite direction, clenching her fists.</p><p>She wanted to hold him so badly it ached. It made no sense. She was hurt and furious and frightened, and—and confused. The Occluding. The—the unsuitability. The way he’d kept such a major, pivotal thing from her.</p><p>All of it hurt.</p><p>And yet she wanted nothing more than to rush over and throw her arms around him, and it was all terribly confusing.</p><p>But she also wanted to shout at him a bit.</p><p>The impulses clashed, and rigidity locked her spine as the war inside of her intensified.</p><p>Her eyes stung.</p><p>No.</p><p>Not now.</p><p>She needed to sort her thoughts. Communicate with him fairly, and not from a place of rashness. Glossing over it would only do greater harm, as would lashing out.</p><p>She swallowed and pushed her shoulders back, striding in the opposite direction.</p><p>She would approach this logically. One thing at a time. Presently, she was dismantling the task force’s legal argument for removing a suspect from DMLE custody.</p><p>That had a deadline. If released by Vane’s group, Albert could disappear.</p><p>“You can put it over there, thanks,” Percy muttered. A pause. “Is it alright if he brews for me in here, Hermione?”</p><p>She bit her lips together.</p><p>“I’ve used my last dose earlier, and—”</p><p>“Yes, of course,” she said tightly, not turning around.</p><p>A small part of her fluttered in relief. She wasn’t sure that she was ready to talk, but she didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want him to be alone.</p><p>“Brilliant, I’ll just grab the extra potion rack from the house, then,” Percy said, and the steel doors creaked.</p><p>The soft shuffle of footsteps approached, and Hermione swallowed. But she didn’t turn. Instead, she lifted her wand, set the materials back into a slow orbit.</p><p>She’d thought she’d made something new.</p><p>But she’d only managed to replicate what the other Hermione had done—and poorly. She hadn’t even been able to keep them all aloft when surprised.</p><p>How irritating.</p><p>Her magic stirred, flickering heat over her shoulders as George neared. Not quite touching her, but there.</p><p>She couldn’t help it. She glanced to the side. Not at him, but towards where he stood. He stared at the charm. Slipped his hand into his back pocket, and pulled out a thin, black journal.</p><p>“I wrote this to my wife,” he said. The words were a quiet rasp. Worn leather on an outstretched palm. “And, as such, you’ve every right to it.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>A hard lump rose in her throat.</p><p>When the charm found it, he didn’t fight.</p><p>Magic wrapped the pages, and he freed it to the tide.</p><p>“I’ve not been fair to you,” he said. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “Read as much or as little as you want.”</p><p>Hermione’s chest went tight, and she found herself answering. “But, wouldn’t—wouldn’t some of it compromise the memories?” She sounded wobbly. Off-balanced.</p><p>“Some of it might, yes.” He took a deep breath. “But—” Then, George’s voice broke. “—But, it’s your choice, and if that’s what you want—if you’d prefer that, then I’ll make peace with your decision.”</p><p>She spun. The river flowed around him, slowly tangling, and George’s shoulders stooped inwards, surrendered to the current.</p><p>Hermione pulled his journal from the undertow. “What you kept from me, what you did when you explained it—the occluding, all of it’s—” She paused as her thoughts cluttered. “So much.” George watched her, a familiar, pained look in his eyes. But he didn’t shrink back.</p><p>“I don’t want to lose the possibility of those memories returning,” she said slowly. “I appreciate you extending this to me, but I don’t need it. At least, I hope I don’t.” She pushed the book through the air, and it floated back to his hands. George blinked.</p><p>She took a breath, and it smelled like fields. Rain on wet earth, with the faint tinge of sunsoaked metal. “George, I’m not expecting every detail, and I’d rather hear it from your mouth, besides. But when it comes to things that involve me—things that directly affect our relationship and the way you see and interact with me as I am—I want you to think long and hard about what I should know.”</p><p>His mouth opened, but she held up a hand.</p><p>“I’m still upset with you,” she said softly. “And I’m not ready to have it out. We do need to talk—about what happened and why and everything you said, but I—I do need more time.” She steeled herself and summoned her courage. “And I’d like you to take some time as well to consider what I’ve asked. A few days, maybe.”</p><p>He nodded, and his eyes searched her face. His form was ragged, like a shadow of the man she’d laughed with days before.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “That being said, you look ghastly, so I’m going to give you a hug. And then I’m going to ask you to eat something, and maybe sleep if you need it.”</p><p>George faltered, exhaling a short breath.</p><p>She took one stride to him. Two.</p><p>Then closed the distance.</p><p>George uttered a short, almost pained sound in the back of his throat as she pulled him close, folding over and into her embrace like a wave. His arms came around her, and when she didn’t step away, he caved to a sudden surge of movement. His hands searched in urgent sweeps, up and along her back, shoulders, and face.</p><p>She’d intended for it to be quick, but she couldn’t bring herself to untwine her arms from around his neck—not with the way he was breathing her in, nose pressed to her ear, then her hair, holding her tight.</p><p>Warmth seeped through his chest, into her face, and her resolve weakened. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck. George let a slow breath and cradled a hand against the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her half un-done plait. “All I could think when I sorted this stupid charm was how much I wanted to show it to you.”</p><p>“Percy, um—” His voice was a soft, hesitant murmur. “Percy said it took you just under an hour.”</p><p>She sighed. “Yes, well, I thought it was brilliant until I found out it had already been done.”</p><p>“Last time,” George said quietly. “It took you two weeks, and you didn’t add the wandless bits until later.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“You’re brilliant,” he whispered. His nose brushed her cheek. “Funny, but I still get a bit weak every time you caste it.” He exhaled the words softly against her temple, and his arms tightened for a moment. “I’ll never get tired of it.”</p><p>A small hook snagged in her chest, and she let it.</p><p>She held on, long after George’s heartbeat slowed.</p><p>#</p><p>May 9, 2003, 5:30 a.m.</p><p>Fog and sunlight swirled together over the gravel, spilling into the shed’s open doors in the early morning. The breeze lifted Hermione’s curls, and a chill flitted up her neck. She’d slept at her parents’ house again, and George elsewhere. Probably the flat, but perhaps here. It was for the best, for now.</p><p>But she’d been so eager to see him that she’d left for the Burrow at sunrise—apparating to the Leaky and making use of the public floo there.</p><p>Ron’s face was listless as he handed her a steaming mug. “Charlie made it, so good luck.” Hermione accepted it with a small smile.</p><p>Fresh, hot matcha steamed under her nose.</p><p>“Tastes like bloody grass,” Ron muttered. His grey robes were creased heavily across the front, and the lines in his face looked deeper than usual. Despite his complaints, however, he took a draught from his own cup, then smacked it on the desk, snapping his fingers. “Oi, Creevey—put that down.”</p><p>Dennis jumped from across the room, shoving the empty portrait frame back behind the shelf with the small amount of remaining clutter.</p><p>Dennis, as it turned out, had grown into a slight, lanky young man with wispy blonde hair and wiry hands that were constantly in motion. He looked as though he might be playing dress up in the stiff, grey auror jacket. A patch on the front belayed his trainee status.</p><p>He mumbled an apology to Ron, then took a few sprightly steps to the table, picking through the closest volume. <em>Magical Tradition</em>. He flipped quietly, and the soft rustle of skimming pages was the only sound as Ron stared at the boy with no small amount of exasperation.</p><p>“We call him Harry’s shadow,” Ron mumbled under his breath. “Decent caster, but jumpy as all—Dennis, what’ve I just said?” he barked out as Dennis absentmindedly crossed back towards the shelving.</p><p>Dennis flinched. “Sorry—sorry—” He returned to the books.</p><p>“Bit rough around the edges, but unwaveringly loyal,” Ron mumbled.</p><p>“We appreciate the help, Dennis,” Hermione called softly. Dennis’s head jolted upwards, and his cheeks went dark red.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” he said.</p><p>She crossed to his side and looked over his shoulder at the volume. He’d opened it to the place with the most wear—the old group photo that she’d matched the newspaper portraits to.</p><p>She sighed.</p><p>The gravel crunched and two new voices echoed into the shed.</p><p>“I’m not saying we put up a Fidelius just yet, but—” Harry’s sentence was interrupted by a loud sneeze. “Alright?”</p><p>“Fine. And, yes, I agree,” George’s familiar tone came just after, and Hermione brightened. The two rounded the corner.</p><p> </p><p>George looked rough. Better than he had the day before, but still worn down, still moving a bit gingerly and with those dark shadows under his eyes. But when he saw Dennis, he straightened and plastered a bright smile over his face.</p><p> Harry gave Dennis a nod, and George shoved at his shoulder.</p><p>“Shouldn’t you be in class?” George asked.</p><p>Dennis’s face constricted in a smirk. “Shut your dumb mouth, prat,” he said, shoving George back with a bit more force.</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>Dennis flung an arm out, trying to grapple the other man, but George swooped and caught him in a headlock.</p><p>Harry was totally unphased, paging through some of Percy’s notes from the day before. “You’ve made some decent progress,” he said, glancing at Hermione. Dennis’s jovial shouts echoed in the background.</p><p>“What’s that?” Hermione asked, glancing meaningfully at the brawl.</p><p>“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, Dennis used to work some weekends and holidays for Fred and George, until they had to fire him.” He flipped the parchment over. “As you can see, there’s some residual animosity.”</p><p>Dennis’s laughter cracked through the room.</p><p>“Why’d they fire him?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“That was a joke, Mione,” Harry said dryly. “As you can see, Dennis quit to join the circus.”</p><p>She folded her arms. “Is that what you call the DMLE?”</p><p>Harry took a sip from his mug. “On a good day.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and drifted closer to the merriment.</p><p>George was lowering Dennis to his feet when he spotted her. “Hi,” he breathed, ruddy faced. “You’re here early.”</p><p>Dennis snorted and yanked his sleeves back into place over his spindly arms. “Didn’t you two come together?” he asked.</p><p>“Would you like any tea?” Hermione asked lightly, smiling at Dennis. He blinked at the subject change, but then he nodded.</p><p>Ron huffed and went to fetch an extra mug.</p><p>George eased alongside her, gentle and hesitant as he watched her. Nutmeg and cinnamon joined with the scents of the Burrow’s early outdoor morning.</p><p>Something wistful and unwieldy came over her. She pressed onto her tiptoes and slotted a quick kiss onto his cheek. “Good morning.”</p><p>His face went a little pink, and he busied himself with unbuttoning and rebuttoning his sleeve cuffs. “So,” he asked, voice light and mild. “How’re things?”</p><p>She skated the back of her hand against his. “Alright. You?”</p><p>George’s fingers flexed towards hers. “Fred woke me up at four in the morning to test a new sneezing potion, so I’m positively corking.” He quirked his brows at her. “Don’t have an antidote yet. No clue when it’ll wear off.” He folded in half as another one shot from his nose in a spray of purple sparks.</p><p>“That’s absurd,” Hermione said.</p><p>George studied the purple flecks as they faded from his palms. “That’s the job, Dear.” His tone went a bit distracted. He flung the mess from his skin with a bright Scourgify, then paced to the table, where Dennis had resumed his perusal through <em>Magical Tradition</em>.</p><p>“What’ve we here?” George boomed, yanking the book from his grasp. “Reading’s for numpties, Dennis, how many times do I have to—”</p><p>He paused.</p><p>“George, you read all the time,” Dennis said.</p><p>“I know this photo,” George said faintly.</p><p>Hermione dashed over. “Which photo?” she asked. Sure enough, there on the page, was the same group picture in front of the lighthouse and iron gate.</p><p>“<em>United in purpose</em>” in small, marching italics underneath.</p><p>She blinked at George. “What do you mean?” she asked.</p><p>“At my Great Aunt Muriel’s,” he whispered.</p><p>#</p><p>May 9, 2003, 6:00 a.m.</p><p>Harry, Hermione, and George grouped around the Pensieve in the shop’s back workroom.</p><p>“It’s been a while, so it might be shaky, but—” George flinched and drew a deep blue strand from his temple.</p><p>Hermione’s hands fidgeted, anxiety blossoming in her stomach and up her throat.</p><p>How had she never thought to show George what she was working on?</p><p>He’d said, time and time again—they usually worked on these things together. He’d even found the book for her, all those weeks ago.</p><p>And yet—</p><p>“How long ago?” Harry asked.</p><p>George shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “During the later part of the war, while we were hiding out.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“This is—” she paused. “This is a memory from the war?”</p><p>From her time?</p><p>George nodded slowly.</p><p>Excitement built in her ribs. “And I can see it?” she asked.</p><p>He nodded again. “It’s from before the gap.”</p><p>Harry tucked a notepad into his pocket. “Alright, take us in,” he said.</p><p>George spared Hermione a glance, and his expression was unreadable. But then the moment of hesitation faded, and he directed his wand towards the bowl.</p><p>They fell in together.</p><p>#</p><p>The Pensieve swirled, and a dusty, cobweb-crowded attic materialized.</p><p>Along with it, two Weasleys.</p><p>First, Ginny flickered into being, and Harry sucked in an audible breath.</p><p>The other witch looked gaunt and pale, with the shadow of a bruise marking her forehead. Her arms folded over her stomach as she grimaced at a broken-down set of boxes in the corner.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>She’d gotten used to the way Ginny looked presently. Warm. Vibrant.</p><p>Healed.</p><p>“You didn’t mention Gin was in this,” Harry muttered. At her side, George shrugged.</p><p>But then George’s younger self stepped into view, and the breath left her lungs. He was young. So young, really.</p><p>Tired.</p><p>A checkered, purple jacket hung about his shoulders, and he kept stealing glances at Ginny, his frown growing deeper and deeper with each one. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and flicked it, clearing dust.</p><p>Hermione walked forward, circling the phantom. Where had she been, when this had occurred?</p><p>She willed the memory to see her, to look down and meet her eyes, but it didn’t.</p><p>The other George hadn’t the foggiest she was there, of course.</p><p>A lump rose in her throat.</p><p>He knelt at a large trunk, and she crouched with him, studying his face. As he reached to clear a bit of grime from the surface of the lid, a bandage peeked from under his left sleeve.</p><p>Oh.</p><p><em>“This is ghastly, George,”</em> Ginny’s voice was a tired drone.</p><p><em>“It’s only a bit of dust,”</em> George replied. He wiped up the filth and flung it at her, and his laugh pealed through the room—rebellious against the circumstances.</p><p>Ginny lunged out of the way, and disappointment flickered in George’s gaze.</p><p>Only for a moment, but she saw it.</p><p><em>“Why don’t you ask Fred to help you explore?”</em> Ginny asked, sounding put out.</p><p>“<em>Because Fred wants to be with Angelina right now</em>,” George said. There was a pause, and he tugged at the pink scar on his ear.</p><p>It was fresher, here.</p><p>She swallowed.</p><p><em>“Reckon there’s a body inside?”</em> George goaded, bugging his eyes out at Ginny.</p><p>Again, Ginny didn’t laugh.</p><p>George turned back to the trunk, and that same flicker of disappointment appeared yet again.</p><p>Oh, George.</p><p>Trying to make it better, just like always.</p><p>Without thinking, she reached up to touch his face, but her hand passed right through it. She faltered and drew it back.</p><p>Ginny knelt. <em>“How is it so stuffy and hot up here? It’s only April.”</em> Her face scrunched.</p><p>April. Of course, that’s when the Weasley family had had to go into hiding, because they’d been caught at—</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>George must’ve gotten hurt around the same time, then.</p><p>In the same place as she had, too.</p><p>Odd.</p><p>George ignored Ginny’s complaint and opened the trunk. The hinges squeaked.</p><p><em>“I know they’re married, you know,”</em> Ginny said.</p><p>George peered at the items, and a nervous look came over him. <em>“That’s ridiculous.”</em></p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>Ginny swiveled her head to pin George with an appraising stare. <em>“Yeah, she’s hiding in my room at night, but did the lot of you ever stop to think about the family wards around this place?”</em></p><p>Or the clock, for that matter.</p><p>Ginny kicked at the trunk’s corner, and the contents inside shifted.</p><p>George coughed. <em>“Angelina’s basically family,”</em> he muttered, lifting a sheet of parchment. He stared at it, then flipped it around.</p><p><em>“They would’ve gone off if she weren’t married in, and Aunt Muriel would know she was here. We both know it,”</em> Ginny said, and her tone went tight and angry.</p><p>George’s memory hesitated, then turned to sit, leaning back against the trunk. He seemed to gauge Ginny for a moment before caving and rubbing his temples. <em>“You can’t tell Mum and Dad—or Muriel.”</em></p><p>He must’ve been exhausted. Not thinking clearly. The clock would’ve informed Arthur and Molly already, unless they’d had to leave it behind in the rush.</p><p>She doubted it, though. She’d never seen Molly stay overnight in a place without it.</p><p><em>“Obviously,”</em> Ginny snapped. <em>“Muriel would kick them both to the curb if she thought Fred went behind her back and eloped, only to sneak the bride into the house—”</em></p><p><em>“And Mum and Dad have enough to worry about,”</em> George’s face was stony, almost a warning as he stared at Ginny.</p><p><em>“I know,”</em> Ginny said tightly.</p><p>Hermione folded her legs under her, watching them go back and forth.</p><p><em>“What’s got you rankled?”</em> George muttered, and he nudged a foot at his sister. The gesture was an echo of the George she’d come to know—always teasing, little nudges here and there. It was one of his more charming habits.</p><p>How had she missed that detail, back then?</p><p>She chewed her lip in concentration and leaned closer.</p><p>Ginny let out a short, angry huff. <em>“He didn’t invite me to come along!”</em> she hissed.</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile at the flash of the Ginny she knew. It was tamped down under all the war’s burdens, but there it was—peeking out. Red and bold and brilliant.</p><p><em>“Ah,”</em> George said. <em>“It wasn’t exactly safe, Gin.”</em></p><p><em>“Stop it,”</em> Ginny said, and her voice went hard and unyielding. <em>“I’m not a child. Not anymore.”</em> Something in her look was raw and dark. <em>“Not after—”</em> Suddenly, Ginny stopped, and blinked rapidly at the floor.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. She’d heard stories. But she’d never seen much of the traces on Ginny. During the final battle, there hadn’t been much time to chat, and then she’d woken up in the hospital. She hadn’t seen her like this.</p><p>She’d skipped a lot of messy bits, it seemed.</p><p>George lifted his hands to his face. <em>“But you should be,”</em> he said, sounding suddenly older and far more worn. Hermione’s heart clenched. <em>“Merlin, Ginny, let us pretend.”</em> The request carried a familiar strain.</p><p>Hermione twisted her hands together to keep from reaching out again.</p><p>It wasn’t real. They weren’t really there—no matter how much she wanted to reach in and assure them that things would turn out.</p><p>But Ginny was already moving, looking over George with an appraising stare.</p><p><em>“Budge up,”</em> Ginny said, and she scrambled beside him, then rested her head on his shoulder.</p><p>George pulled his head from his hands and took a long breath as he stared at the ceiling.</p><p>Hermione had always wondered how they’d managed in her, Harry, and Ron’s absence.</p><p>The exhaustion. The waiting they had done.</p><p>It must’ve been horrible.</p><p>Suddenly, George lifted his face, staring straight at her, and her breath hitched.</p><p><em>“How about this,”</em> he said. <em>“If I ever get married—”</em></p><p>Hermione blinked and started back a bit. George’s gaze remained fixed on a point along the opposite wall. <em>“—you can be my best man.” </em>It was only a coincidence. He hadn’t—hadn’t actually seen her.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Ginny whispered, sounding entertained. “<em>That wouldn’t work. Hermione will want me for her maid of honor</em>.”</p><p>Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth.</p><p>A roar of laughter echoed behind her.</p><p>“Merlin, Gin!” Harry cried.</p><p>Hermione whirled. George stood beside Harry, rubbing the back of his neck.</p><p>She’d forgotten they were there.</p><p>She turned, face reddening. George’s memory had gone still, eyes a bit wide.</p><p>He’d said he’d had a bit of a crush on her for years, but that he wouldn’t have admitted it to himself. And he’d spoken about finding her encouraging during the war, but they hadn’t gotten together until after the fighting.</p><p>She’d figured things had perhaps begun to shift to a more serious nature for him during the battle at Hogwarts, given the moment they’d shared in the Great Hall and the fact that they hadn’t seen much of each other during the rest of the war.</p><p>But, here, Ginny was saying—</p><p>How strong were his feelings at that point?</p><p>“<em>You’ll have to ask Fred. Or maybe Charlie</em>,” Ginny continued.</p><p>George huffed and dropped his arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “<em>I think the dust is addling your brain</em>,” she said.</p><p>“<em>I’m not stupid</em>,” Ginny said. “<em>Also, you talk in your sleep</em>.”</p><p>And then, the most beautiful, wonderful red flush filtered over George’s face.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth opened, and she spun.</p><p>“<em>You must’ve misunderstood</em>,” George’s memory said, but the other George—the real George looked straight into her eyes and shook his head softly.</p><p>“She didn’t,” he said.</p><p>Hermione stood, mind blanking.</p><p>His wand flicked. The memory froze.</p><p>“It’s a bit strange watching my wife make eyes at another man,” George said. “Should I be jealous?”</p><p>Harry cracked into laughter and crossed the floor to examine the trunk’s contents.</p><p>George’s voice was teasing, but his gaze worked over her with a knowingness that made her face go warm.</p><p>“So, what’d you think of the photo, Mione?” Harry said finally, turning to look at her.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “What photo?”</p><p>Harry glanced to George, incredulous. “Merlin’s Beard. She didn’t even see it, Mate.”</p><p>George gave her a pained smile and twisted his wand. The memory unwound, back to when George crouched at the trunk.</p><p>Hermione’s face was molten. “I—I—”</p><p>“It’s alright, Love,” George said softly, crossing to her side. “It’s just there.”</p><p>He gestured, and Hermione crouched, looking over the younger George’s shoulder.</p><p>He didn’t smell like parchment or cinnamon or nutmeg. Perhaps he might’ve in the moment, but she couldn’t sense it now.</p><p>The photo, however, was one and the same. Exactly the same.</p><p>The same line of faces she’d poured over. The same lighthouse in the background. The same set of iron gates.</p><p>Her heart pounded. Why did Muriel have a photo that was in a blood supremacy book?</p><p>George’s younger self flipped it over.</p><p>“<em>Merlinsguard, ’32</em>,” was scrawled along the back.</p><p>“Merlinsguard,” Hermione whispered. “United in purpose.” She blinked. “It—it was some sort of organization.”</p><p>“I’m going to pop over to the office. Check some records in the system, see if the name comes up,” Harry muttered, and his quill scratched away. “Let me know if you spot anything else of note.” His wand slashed, and the Pensieve rippled as Harry blinked out.</p><p>Meanwhile, George was twisting his wand, stepping closer. The memory rewound a bit, and this time, she smelled all of it—the nutmeg, the cinnamon, the parchment, and the fields when he knelt at her side.</p><p>The heat of his arm spilled over her as he reached across and pointed at the photo.</p><p>“That’s my Great Aunt Muriel,” he murmured. “Hard to tell under the floppy hat. I’m surprised Percy didn’t recognize her when you showed him.”</p><p>She shook her head. Percy and her had focused more on the paper clippings and discussing who might be most likely to offer information.</p><p>“Would she talk to us about it?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George’s brow furrowed. “It’ll be difficult. Scorched earth, me and her. Maybe if Fleur goes about it.”</p><p>Hermione glanced between the frozen memory, where George stared with a tired look in his eyes, and the man beside her—who was very much solid.</p><p>Her George bit his lips together. “Y’know,” he said softly. “He’s still right here.” He gave her a small, lopsided smile. “Same bloke. Just a bit more mileage.”</p><p>He swallowed, then slowly reached for her hand. There was something vulnerable in his expression as he lifted it to his face. Her fingertips grazed over his stubble, little sparks fluttering up to her wrist.</p><p>George turned his head into her touch, and his eyes squeezed shut as he pushed a kiss into her palm. Hermione swallowed. He reached his other arm up, cupping her right hand in both of his.</p><p>Then another kiss, in the same place as the first.</p><p>And another.</p><p>Again.</p><p>“Hermione,” he breathed her name into her skin.</p><p>She inhaled sharply, watching him. “Even then, George?” she whispered.</p><p>He paused, and his fingers closed around hers. “May I show you one more?” he said, and his voice was a bit odd.</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>The Pensieve swirled, and they fell into the workshop. George’s hand jittered on the side of the bowl as he pulled another strand of blue gossamer from his head.</p><p>“Right,” he said, taking a deep breath.</p><p>They fell into another.</p><p>A figure—George—lay on the couch in the Burrow’s living room. Red bloomed through the bandages wrapped around his head, and he shivered as he pulled his blanket higher.</p><p>The stairwell creaked.</p><p>Hermione started. “I remember this,” she said. “I remember—”</p><p>Suddenly, a ghostly image of herself passed right through her, walking towards the sofa. She bent over the younger George, and Hermione watched as the younger boy pulled in a deep, ragged breath.</p><p>“Even then,” George whispered at her side. “Oh, Merlin, especially then.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes rounded.</p><p>“Granger,” the boy on the couch slurred, and the sound of his voice was warm and glazed over, but there was a particular eagerness to it that made her pause. It was half-relieved, half-pleading, and she hadn’t even—</p><p>She blinked. She’d not noticed in the moment—just—just thought it was the pain potions, or the—</p><p>Her form stooped closer, murmuring, and George’s expression was dazed, eyes lighting with a soft smile. He leaned into her touch.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth opened.</p><p>The signs were all there—she could read it, plainly written on his face.</p><p>But at the time, she hadn’t noticed. She missed it entirely.</p><p>George twisted his wand at her side. Hermione watched as she lit the hearth and dropped into the armchair, then pulled out a book and began to read to him. George’s face slipped into a blissful, contented expression, and she blinked yet again.</p><p>Hermione swiveled and gestured at the scene. “That’s what you look even now, whenever I read aloud around the flat,” she said, brow furrowing.</p><p>George’s pained smile was warm and kind. “How odd,” he said. “Can’t imagine why.”</p><p>Her eyes prickled, and she hurriedly looked back.</p><p>Eventually, the younger Hermione shifted in front of George’s place on the couch, and he seemed to tilt, melting closer and closer to her the longer she read.</p><p>Oh George.</p><p>His hand had drifted awfully near—just behind where her shoulder rested against the sofa cushion.</p><p>The scene began to disintegrate as he drifted off. Growing fuzzier and fuzzier around the edges, until the whole thing went out of focus, and the only thing left was the sound of her voice reading to the chorus of a crackling fire.</p><p>At the time, she’d known he was falling asleep. But she’d kept reading.</p><p>It’d been a nice book, and she hadn’t wanted to leave him there all alone.</p><p>The Pensieve swirled, and she found herself standing before a weary looking man in a dim workshop.</p><p>Dust particles swirled through the air.</p><p>“Perhaps, every once in a while, you’d like to see more of that sort of thing,” he said softly. “Ones from before the gap. Ones that you weren’t there for, or maybe um—ones you do remember, but from my side of things.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “The matter of when is complicated. Can’t very well pick a single moment in which I initially became besotted with you, Granger.”</p><p>She snorted. “Besotted,” she said.</p><p>His gaze was sincere. Not a trace of a joke in it. “Yes, Love,” he said. “But ‘even then?’ That’s a question I can answer.” He bit his lips together and shuffled. “So, maybe after we have this talk, we could start with working through some of those earlier, little moments—the, um, the ‘even then’s?’”</p><p>Hermione nodded again, and she studied him. Really studied him.</p><p>Something had shifted, over the last hour.</p><p>The Georges had melded a little, somehow. The person she remembered from before the battle blending a bit more into the one she knew now. Not two, separate figures, but one, who ultimately grew more complicated with time.</p><p>She could almost see the younger George, peeking through the layers wrapped around him.</p><p>A thought occurred to her, popping into her mind from nowhere.</p><p>“You’re inside out, and I’m outside in,” she whispered.</p><p>George blinked. “Pardon?”</p><p>“Well, you’ve got your younger self stored underneath and your older self on the surface, right?” she asked. “But my younger self is on the outside, and my older self is—” she blinked, faltering as the words came to her. “—if she’s still there, I suppose, locked away somewhere inside of me.”</p><p>George snorted. “That’s an interesting way of thinking about people,” he said. “A bit odd, though. Close, but not quite the metaphor I’d choose.”</p><p>“What do you think, then?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George’s smile took a wry twist. “See, I’ve always thought humans are a bit of light and purpose, wrapped in a fragile shell.”</p><p>“You make us sound like eggs,” Hermione said.</p><p>George’s eyes crinkled. “Exactly. The eggshell holds the important bits together.”</p><p>A bell jangled from the other room.</p><p>“Fragile, though,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Yes,” George said.</p><p>#</p><p>May 11, 2003</p><p>As they waited for Fleur to pen the letter, then, on Muriel’s reply, the lot of them followed a simple pattern. Percy, Hermione, and sometimes Harry, Ron, and Dennis worked in the shed, searching for hidden texts and loopholes, trying to compile a case that would be airtight enough to force a stacked Wizengamot to return Albert to DMLE custody. All the while, they waited for an owl that probably wouldn’t show.</p><p>George and occasionally Fred occupied the back table, often contributing to the research, but sometimes working through their own projects—like brewing for Percy or compiling resources for the massive order Harry had placed.</p><p>Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley slept on in the Burrow, and Arthur rarely left her side. Luckily, the man hadn’t been made privy to the conflict. He had enough to worry about, presently.</p><p>Charlie played errand boy, flitting between the master bedroom, the kitchen, and the shed with food, jokes, and a few well-placed jinxes when things got too stuffy.</p><p>There was something comforting about looking up from the mess of paperwork and finding George’s steady gaze there.</p><p>She missed sleeping in the same place. Even in separate rooms, there was something comforting about having him right down the hall.</p><p>Even then, she was surprised when a rap sounded on her bedroom door on Sunday night.</p><p>“Everything alright?” she asked, looking up from her book.</p><p>“You’ve a visitor,” Mr. Granger said. “Shall I let him in or would you rather I not?”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, and she flung herself from the bed, yanking her dressing gown around her pajamas. The holster slipped in her hand as she yanked it from where it hung on the bedframe and clambered for her wand. For someone to come this late, something terrible must’ve happened. “Stay calm!” she called. “I’ll sort this out—”</p><p>“Sparrow.” Her dad interrupted. “It’s only George.”</p><p>She blinked and replaced the holster in its spot. “Oh, then send him in, um, obviously.” She was still playing at everything being fine, despite both of her parents clearly realizing otherwise.</p><p>The door creaked open, and George walked through, hands in his trouser pockets. He glanced over his shoulder as Thomas shut it quietly.</p><p>“I know it’s late,” he said, looking at her with a hesitant expression. “But I was wondering if you’ve had enough time. I have, at least. I can wait more if you need, though.”</p><p>Hermione twisted her hands together. “Okay,” she said. “Now’s good.”</p><p>He motioned to her desk chair, and she lowered into it, waiting. “Would you like to start, or shall I start?”</p><p>She cleared her throat. “Why don’t we take turns, and you can go first.”</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>Then, George began to pace.</p><p>Not like Fred paced.</p><p>Slower. Socks padding quietly over the floor, watching each footfall intently.</p><p>“I’ve thought a lot about what you asked,” he said. “I tried to make a list.” He pulled a few sheathes of wrinkled, folded parchment from his Oxford’s chest pocket. “There’s so much—Hermione. So much history, and there was always the chance that with each thing I told you, it would further remove you from the memory itself.” His brow contorted, and he sighed. “But you were right. You deserved to know about our plans for children, even if things changed and they were put on hold or—” He shrugged, head jerking to the side as his tone grew tight. “—set aside more permanently—whichever the case.” He halted in his pacing and looked at her. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed and nodded.</p><p>All she wanted to ask was if he’d rather they be set aside more permanently, considering, but asking that question would mean that she might need to have an answer prepared as well, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to give that.</p><p>It didn’t seem fair to ask him to share if she didn’t have something to give in return. So, she let him carry on.</p><p>George took another deep breath. Then another. “So, um, I’ve got my list, but I think there are two, um, rather important things you ought to know, considering what happened that day.”</p><p>He glanced over, hands fidgeting together, then back into his pockets. “Um—and you can stop me if this is overwhelming or—or too much at any point.”</p><p>“Go on, George,” she said softly.</p><p>His throat bobbed, and he stopped and turned to face her.</p><p>“The first,” he said, a bit hoarsely. “Is that I am in love with you—irrevocably and unequivocally, then, now, and always.”</p><p>Hermione drew in a breath, but he’d already launched into the next thing, speaking rapidly.</p><p>“And—and next,” George’s hands fidgeted over his left sleeve. “The second thing is um—I meant to tell you this ages ago, but—” He was rambling a bit, moving through half-formed gestures in the air as he twisted his shirt’s cuff. “Shields have always been my specialty. All kinds of shields. Sometimes, I’ve not caste fast enough. Other times, I’ve been too quick with them and made a mess. I’ve had to work a lot to learn when my reflexes are helpful or hurtful, but sometimes I still make mistakes, especially if I feel like there’s a danger to you.” He swallowed. “Occlumency, you know, is a sort of shield.” He paused meaningfully. “And I used to have quite a lot of trouble with trying to protect you from my dangerous feelings.”</p><p>Hermione let out a soft “oh.”</p><p>George bobbed his head. “Right,” he said. “But, with a lot of work, meeting with Healer Marcus, and patience, I stopped.” He scratched the back of his neck. “For good, I’d thought.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Why did you start again?” She knew. She knew the answer, that it was because of her. But she needed to hear him say it.</p><p>George’s shoulders hunched further forward. “When you woke up in the hospital, you were in so much pain and, you got so overwhelmed at my reaction to your, um—memory loss—”</p><p>The shattered look in his eyes flashed through her mind.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p>She’d had him taken—dragged, really—from the room.</p><p>Right after he’d fallen to bits, and—and he’d been distraught.</p><p>“It wasn’t your fault, I mean, you had enough you were sorting—oh—” His sentence cut with a startled breath as Hermione leapt from her chair and flung her arms around him.</p><p>“I know,” she said into his shoulder. “I know it wasn’t, but still.” She hadn’t been able to help it. But George had ended up in a difficult position, and it still hurt to know that she’d played a role.</p><p>Slowly, George’s hands came up to hold her back. Halting, like he hadn’t been expecting this reaction.</p><p>After a few moments, she pulled away.</p><p>“There were more than a few times, in those early days,” he said softly. “But, I realized it was getting out of hand. You, um—” He grimaced. “You’ve always been quite adamant that I not.” He sighed. “But I’ve done a lot better, of late.” He gave a long exhale, then clicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth as he squinted at the opposite wall. “Still, if you had your memories, you’d be livid with me right now.”</p><p>She opened her mouth to answer, but he shook his head and gently prodded her shoulders towards the desk chair. “There’s more,” he said, a bit strained.</p><p>More?</p><p>George resumed his pacing, lifting his brows. “But Occlumency isn’t just a way to guard your own mind.” His eyes were urgent, searching her face. “See, you can go in, and—and protect the minds of others, as well. It’s—it’s dangerous, but in life-or-death situations, it can be helpful.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. She was mildly familiar with the experimental form to which he was referring.</p><p>But what did that have to do with George, or her, for that matter?</p><p>He swept a hand through his hair and continued. “A little over five years ago, something terrible happened to you involving Bellatrix Lestrange, and they—”</p><p>“After Malfoy Manor, you mean?” she asked. “Yes, they told me I’d required one of your Cruciatus Care Kits, along with some extra healing.” It was lucky that Bill had one laying around, really. When she woke, the lot of them had been reticent to offer further details, but she suspected Harry had played a roll with a bit of help from the older cursebreaker.</p><p>“Yes, exactly,” George said. “But, you were fading, see.” His jaw tightened. “Almost gone, and—and they needed someone to go in manually and sort the curse damage.”</p><p>Hermione paused. “Go in manually?” She stuttered over the words a bit.</p><p>George seemed to brace himself a bit. “Shields have always been my specialty,” he said faintly, repeating himself. “All—all kinds.”</p><p>What?</p><p>“You’ve asked me about this more than once, and it never seemed like a good time.” He sounded pained as his fingers plucked hastily at the buttons on his Oxford’s wrist cuff. His words rushed faster as he went on. “The night you arrived at Shell Cottage, you were being tortured still, in your head. You needed a Master Occlumens or better to—to go in and fight Bellatrix’s curse remnants, and I was the closest thing available, and—”</p><p>“You were there?” she whispered, stunned.</p><p>His face constricted. “Yes. It was the first time I entered your mind, and it’s when I got this.” George’s eyes were urgent, pleading almost.</p><p>He rolled up his sleeve, and letters appeared.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Carpe Retractum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carpe Retractum: Seize and Pull.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>Thank you so much for your patience this week! &lt;3 This chapter ended up being quite sizeable, and as such, editing took a while. (Even still, I know I've missed things. My apologies for any typos or mistakes.)</p><p>I hope you had a lovely week! &lt;3 Thank you so much for reading, or for commenting and/or leaving a kudos. Seriously. You all are so wonderful. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>This coming week, I need to take another break. I hadn't planned on doing another one so soon, but two 30k chapters in a row has left me a little tired. I hope that's okay!! I plan to upload the next chapter on March 22. (Also, I want to clarify that I am okay! I had such a fun time writing this chapter, but also sleep is important. &lt;3)</p><p>PLAYLIST:<br/>1.	“Look Up Through the Trees” by Noble Oak (Jan. 24, 7:15 a.m.)<br/>2.	“Yours in the Morning” by Patrick Droney (Jan. 24, 7:15 a.m.—when she asks about breakfast)<br/>3.	“Yellow Submarine” by The Beatles (Jan. 24, 6:00 p.m.)<br/>4.	“Really Deep Snow” by Lindstrom (Jan. 24, 6:00 p.m.—at the dinner table)<br/>5.	“Warm Tea on a Rainy Day” by Kainbeats &amp; WYS (Jan. 24, 6:00 p.m.—after dinner)<br/>6.	“The Sun Dancing in Her Hair” by Noble Oak (Jan. 25, 6:30 p.m.)<br/>7.	“Little Things Left Behind” by Noble Oak (Jan. 25, 7:27 p.m.<br/>8.	“Birthday Suit” by Cosmo Sheldrake (Jan. 25, --when the air around the trees flashes)<br/>9.	“Run Baby Run” by 2WEI &amp; Ali Christenhusz (Jan. 25, --when the previous song ends and until you see the sofa.)<br/>10.	“Leave a Light On” by Tom Walker (Jan. 25, after  you see the sofa until Jan. 26 when he goes inside the flat).<br/>11.	“Really Deep Snow” again/”Brother” by Kodaline (Jan. 26, 5:49 p.m. –after entering the flat).<br/>12.	“The Wisp Sings” by Winter Aid (Jan. 26, 8:14 p.m.)<br/>13.	“Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA (Jan. 27 –you’ll know).<br/>14.	“Fireworks” by Nicholas Hooper (Jan. 27, 5:00 p.m.)<br/>15.	“Steadfast” by Kanbeats and Hoogway (Jan. 27, 6:00 p.m.)<br/>16.	“February 18, 2021” by Sleeping at Last (Jan. 27, 6:00 p.m. –when George empties the cup).<br/>17.	“To Be Free” by Kainbeats and Project AER (Jan. 27, --after waking)<br/>18.	“I Want to Hold Your Hand” by The Beatles (Jan. 27, knitting)<br/>19.	“Yellow Submarine” by The Beatles again (Jan. 28, 3 p.m. until you see the lid flip).<br/>20.	“Cascade of Stars” by Kainbeats (Jan. 28, in charm)<br/>21.	“The Oncoming Storm” by Equinox (Jan. 30, 10:00 a.m.)<br/>22.	“Are You With Me” by nilu/“Leaves From the Vine” by Atinpiano (Jan. 30, 10:00 a.m.—when he puts on gloves until kickoff)<br/>23.	“In Your Arms” by Illenium &amp; X Ambassadors (Jan. 30—after they leave the tent and before kicking off)<br/>24.	“A Kindling of Sorts” by The Oh Hellos (Jan. 30, --after broom kickoff until next scene break)<br/>25.	“For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica/”The Dragon” by Bear McCreary (Jan. 30, 4:30 p.m.)<br/>26.	“Take a Chance on Me” again (Jan. 30 –you’ll know).<br/>27.	“Leaves From the Vine” by Atinpiano again/”Icarus” by Bastille/“In Your Arms” by Illenium &amp; X Ambassadors (Jan. 30—at the mention of tidalwave)<br/>28.	“Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling” by The Oh Hellos + “Constellations” by The Oh Hellos (Jan. 30, at the mention of unknit).<br/>29.	“Arcade” by Duncan Laurence/”Fragile” by Kygo &amp; Labrinth (Jan. 30 –at the sink).<br/>30.	“The Wisp Sings” again (Jan. 31, 12:05 p.m.)<br/>31.	“Constellations” by The Oh Hellos/”I Wanna Be Yours” by The Arctic Monkeys/”Anything Could Happen” by Ellie Goulding/”In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins/”I Lived” by OneRepublic/ “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA (Feb. 1, 8:00 p.m. –at the mention of oak and pine).</p><p> (Random note: I hope it's okay, but I'm going to be a little late responding to comments on last chapter. I want to have more braincells when I do that, and I need to sleep at this point. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3)</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters. </p><p>Alright: Grab your snack (I recommend dark chocolate), your drink (this week, I'm having a latte), and your absolute most favorite blanket. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 Let's dive in.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Thirty-Six: “Carpe Retractum”</h2><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>January 24, 1999, 7:15 a.m.</p><p>George sighed, stirring sleepily as his jaw crooked against his left shoulder. A bundle of woven cotton and heat lay against his side, wrapped in his arms, and his whole body seemed to sing with a tender thrum of magic.</p><p>He’d never been more comfortable in his life.</p><p>A little shiver quirked down his ankles, and he drew in another breath as his mind cleared. A soft tangle of curls brushed his mouth.</p><p>Lovely.</p><p>An impossible, lovely dream.</p><p>Winter’s roar was dulled by the thick plaster and stone of the brave little flat, and the wind was held at bay.</p><p>The bundle stirred.</p><p>He didn’t want to let it all go yet.</p><p>Instead, he turned his shoulders in towards her—just a bit to pull her closer. Because it was her. It was always her, in these dreams.</p><p>The motion seemed to stretch his torso, as his feet were propped further away, but it was worth it. He nuzzled his nose and cheek against her hair, letting out a contented hum.  </p><p>Sparks crescendo-ed in his palm, where a soft hand rested under his.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>George’s eyes cranked open.</p><p>Hermione Jean lay against him on the sofa in her flat, and the telly’s screen had long since died.</p><p>Godric’s blade.</p><p>He froze, then started, and his feet fell off the coffee table in a loud thunk. Hermione sucked in a breath and held it. Her face contorted.</p><p>Before George had time to say a thing, she tensed, then shouted. Her hands collided with his side, and a jolt of magic burst from them.</p><p>The knockback spell threw him from the sofa. His head clipped the table’s corner, and he yelped as a streak of fire tore through his brow as he toppled in a heap on the floor.</p><p>He hadn’t time yet to panic when Hermione’s voice emanated over his head, sounding confused, then a little breathless.</p><p>“Oh—” she said. “Oh no. Oh, George I’m so—I’m so sorry, I forgot you were here, and I—” A pause, and she burst into giggles.</p><p>Relief flooded from the center of his chest, down his arms to his fingertips.</p><p>“Are you alright?” she said, nervous sounding laughter pouring from her in short, little burst. “I’ve really done it now, haven’t I?”</p><p>George groaned. “That’s a mean right hook, Granger,” he said, playing at nonchalance as he fumbled around for his wand. A cracking headache had blossomed behind his head—one that the fading glow couldn’t quite wipe away.</p><p>“I didn’t punch you,” she cried.</p><p>“Don’t know why I ever worried about blokes breaking in here,” he muttered wryly, twisting onto his back and propping up on his elbows to face her.</p><p>Hermione brought the forest green jumper sleeve to her mouth, laughter sputtering to a halt. “You hit the table,” she said, gasping. “Oh, there’s even a mark; I’m so sorry.” But then a rogue giggle escaped her. She struggled but couldn’t quite keep it down. “I didn’t mean to. I was startled, and—”</p><p>George watched her reaction, satisfied. “You think this is funny, do you?” he asked flatly.</p><p>Hermione’s ears were red. She shook her head, still stifling the laughter with that beautiful, green sleeve.</p><p>The sight of it almost made him break, but he held character.</p><p>“Well now I’m very offended,” he said, stern. Hermione snorted. “You’ve wounded me, Granger.”</p><p>Hermione’s gaze sparkled, the jumper sleeves jumbled around her fingertips. He couldn’t see her mouth, but he’d bet his weight in Galleons that she was smiling. “I am sorry! Let me—”</p><p>He cut her off and laid it on a bit thicker.</p><p>“I mean, really, physically wounded me,” he said. Hermione rolled her eyes. He gave a dramatic sigh and collapsed back onto the floorboards. “I’m quite hurt. Shan’t recover.” He laced the words with a zip of petulance and clutched the side of his head.</p><p>The pressure did help, a bit.</p><p>The duvet fell over his legs, and suddenly, a set of hands came under his arms. “What’re you—” he started, but she helped him upright against the sofa back. He didn’t feel so much as a twinge in his left knee as he shifted his legs under the coffee table.</p><p>Granger let go of his sides and knelt over him to bring a wandtip to the skin over his left brow.</p><p>Heat surged over his neck and scalp.</p><p>George cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the soft pile of white fabric heaped beside him. “If you’re having another go, I’d rather you avoid the face,” he quipped. “It’s already seen a fair bit of—” Her magic flecked over his skin, and he stuttered at the warm, tingly feeling it spread. “—of, um, action.”</p><p>She snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. George wrenched his gaze back to her. A flicker of amusement twitched her concentrated expression, and she twisted her wand a bit closer.</p><p>Everything—her, him, the blankets—it was all Chamomile and—and other things too. Nutmeg. Cinnamon. The combination almost made him dizzy.</p><p>Hermione lowered her wand. “Better?” she asked. George lifted a hand and skated his finger gingerly to the spot. He couldn’t feel a thing under the buzz of magic her touch had left behind, but the headache was gone. Hermione watched, intent, awaiting his assessment.</p><p>Bugger, she was close.</p><p>“Appears so,” he said. Just a few more inches, and his hand could trace the curve of her face, draw her in, and—he cleared his throat again. “There you go again,” he said weakly. “Setting me to rights. Fixing things.”</p><p>“It seems only fair, considering I’m the one who broke it.” Granger’s mouth quirked up. “Besides—That’s what family does.”</p><p>Right.</p><p>But then her hands closed on his face, and she leaned in. “They take care of each other,” she said, fixing him with a silly, cheeky smile.</p><p>George melted clear away at the soft touch of her fingers over his cheekbones and temples.</p><p>“Do they now?” he asked, tilting his head with a playful confusion. Anything to keep her holding him—looking at him like this. It was—it was wonderful.</p><p>“Yes,” she said, eyes sparking. Then, in a most bemusing turn of events, she tapped her index finger on the bridge of his nose, just as he often did to her.</p><p>“Family,” she said once more, like a confirmation. Then, quite softly: “Thank you for last night.”</p><p>Oh. That.</p><p>George swallowed. “Of course,” he said. “Sorry I fell asleep. I’m afraid I didn’t see much of the film.” He winced.</p><p>Hermione laughed softly. “We both did.” And then, she rose to her feet and paced over to the kitchen. George’s forehead wrinkled as he stared at the hearth’s rugged, white stone.</p><p>What had that been?</p><p> “You know, sometimes family members also make breakfast for each other.” Hermione lilted, singsong from the other room.</p><p>George scoffed, despite the banging in his ribs. “I see how it is,” he said, shoving himself to his feet. His leg twinged, and braced himself against the sofa’s back. “You think you can butter me up to get me to cook?” He cocked a brow.</p><p>Granger peeked around the corner and nodded brightly, with the confidence of a woman who knew she was going to get what she wanted. He snorted, barely restraining his grin.</p><p>He folded his arms and frowned at the floo. “It’s a wrench, being used like this,” he said. “I ought to leave right now.”</p><p>“Please, Georgie?” she asked, grinning.</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>He’d make breakfast every day of her life. All she had to do was say the word.</p><p>He quelled the thought, but still, that dangerous, happy glow lingered.</p><p>“I never said it wasn’t working,” he said mildly, dusting a piece of nonexistent lint from his flannel. “Only you might need to try a bit harder, seeing as you did take a bit of a swing at me.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “But you always make breakfast when I ask,” she said. “Honestly, I could, I suppose, but then you’d have to eat whatever I make, and I don’t think either of us wants that.” She held the dark wood of the frame around the kitchen’s entrance, and her face pressed against it as she offered him an even cheekier smile—not unlike the smirk of a Cornish Pixie. “We both know you’re better in the kitchen.”</p><p>George pretended to mull it over. “Yes, and don’t you forget it,” he said. He snapped for his wand, then summoned his crutch from the wall to prop it under his arm before heading over.</p><p>Hermione hopped onto the counter, beaming. “Maybe French Toast?” she asked, lifting her chin with yet another mischievous smile. The very picture of a queen on her throne—only the seat was a battered set of cabinets, and the crown the most wonderful mess of curls he’d ever seen. Flattened on one side, tangled on the other. Like a ghost, George could feel where they’d pressed against his cheek and jaw.</p><p>“What are you grinning about?” Hermione asked, swinging her feet a bit. “I’m waiting on my special breakfast, Sir.”</p><p>“Nothing,” George said lightly, spinning to pull the bread from its box. “‘Maybe French Toast?’” he impersonated her crisp, petulant lilt with his back turned.</p><p>Her giggle bubbled through the kitchen, and sparks rushed from his eardrums, into his ribs.</p><p>Oh Merlin. He was so far gone, it wasn’t even funny anymore.</p><p>“It’s one of my favorites, you know,” she said, leaning forward.</p><p>George levitated some eggs onto the counter and set to cracking them into a large, glass bowl. “You should’ve told me before,” he mused. “I’d have made it for you more often, had I known.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“You’re going to spoil me rotten,” she said. Her voice was a little hesitant, but also dry with the same, usual, self-suffering humor that often accompanied it when she was indulging his more ridiculous whims.</p><p>“Someone ought to,” he muttered under his breath.</p><p>“What was that?” Hermione asked. George flicked his wand over the bowl and set to blending the eggs up with the milk and cream.</p><p>“How do you think Ginny acquired her winning personality?” George lilted as he dug some vanilla and cinnamon from her spice drawer. “Six doting, attentive brothers—”</p><p>Hermione broke into laughter. “That is absolute rubbish, and we both know it!” she cried. “I’ve heard stories, George Weasley.”</p><p>He hummed, playing at confusion as he added in the new flavorings, then tucked four pieces of bread into the bowl to soak.</p><p>“Didn’t even let her ride a broom,” Hermione chided.</p><p>“That was more Mum than us,” George replied. “But you’re right. We were thick to try to keep her from it.” He frowned a bit as he crossed to the sink and washed the residual egg from his hands. He glanced up at her.</p><p>She was smiling at him with that same, triumphant grin. Like she knew something he didn’t.</p><p>Deep in his chest, something thundered. A familiar song, swelling. Rising, and it was almost like the words played aloud as he looked into her eyes.</p><p>
  <em>“If you change your mind…”</em>
</p><p>His breath left him in a whoosh.</p><p>Then, he flung the water droplets at her. “Swot,” he muttered.</p><p>“Git,” she snapped back. He swept a hand out and pushed at her arm, and she took a swipe at his shoulder. George ducked towards the stove, laughing.</p><p>It was one of the happiest mornings of George’s young life.</p><p>The best part, however, was when she leaned around him to slice off a bit of the first finished piece with a clean fork. He waited as she chewed, then brightened.</p><p>What he hadn’t been expecting, however, was her to bring the fork back down, then lift it to his mouth. George started, almost laying his hand on the ripping hot stove in surprise.</p><p>“Careful!” Hermione chided as she caught his wrist before it made contact. Then, she safely laid it against his hip before nudging the fork closer.</p><p>“Go on,” she grinned. “It’s really good!”</p><p> </p><p>Heat prickled his face as Granger watched him, grinning. George flicked his gaze from the fluffy, crisp, golden surface, then back to her singing, brown eyes.</p><p>He took the bite. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s lovely.”</p><p>An unexplainable pink crept along Hermione’s nose and cheeks.</p><p>#</p><p>January 24, 1999, 6:00 p.m.</p><p>The late January storm roiled through the fields, covering everything in great heaps of snow. George and Hermione had emerged from the hearth to find Mrs. Weasley in one of her infamous fusses. Her ire, however, was directed at the blizzard outside.</p><p>“Now, the two of you get good and warm. I’ll just nip out to check the chickens,” Mrs. Weasley said, distracted. The older woman seemed to scurry, yanking one, grey mitten over her left hand as she troubled herself with the big, green boots near the door. “The coop could use a few warming charms, or they’ll be cold, the poor little things.” She was pre-occupied, her striped, green and pink housecoat flapping about as she thrust a knit cap over her head.</p><p>George blinked, his own hands still busy with shedding his coat. “I can do it, Mum,” he offered, but Mrs. Weasley shook her head and cracked the door open. A gust of icy flakes shoved through the threshold, and Molly’s emerald cap flung from her frizzy hair. She didn’t flinch, her focus settled on the direction of the chicken coop that would lay in the distance, beyond the shed.</p><p>“It’ll be faster if I do it myself, Dear, but why don’t you set the table?” Mrs. Weasley called, bustling into the gale with one mitten, no hat, and an admirable amount of gumption—wrapped only in a flimsy, knit project from years past. George glanced at the table.</p><p>It was already set.</p><p>Typical.</p><p>She snapped the door shut behind her, just as footsteps thudded into the living room from the kitchen.</p><p>Arthur paused, scone halfway to his mouth. “What was that?” he asked, nodding at the door.</p><p>“Mum went out to check the chickens,” George said, peering at the furious gale through the window. He couldn’t even see her outline. At his side, Hermione unwound the purple scarf from her neck.  </p><p>Mr. Weasley glanced at the pile of boots, then the jumble of coats hanging over them. His expression flattened. “What’s she thinking?” he muttered. “It’s brass monkeys out.” He rested the scone on the table before hurrying to the door.</p><p>“Is something the matter, Mr. Weasley?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Arthur grumbled under his breath as he shoved his feet into a worn set of black wellies. “Blasted woman. Told her I would handle it,” he said, pulling a plaid coat from the wobbly rack near the door, then another, thick grey one that he hurriedly wrapped around his own frame. He spun to George and Hermione, finger extended and eyes flashing. “One of these days, I’ll find her frozen solid under a brick of ice, and she’ll still have the gall to get shirty with me as I chip her out.”</p><p>“I can go out to check on her,” George offered, pausing in his efforts to shed his own boots.</p><p>Mr. Weasley frowned and flicked his gaze towards George’s leg. “No, you’re in no state.” He paused. “Besides, she won’t hear a word of it from you.” He cleared his throat and headed for the door, whipping it open. “Molly Prewett, so help me!” he yelled, then fumbled out into the cold.</p><p>The door slammed after him.</p><p>George closed his eyes and nodded sarcastically. “Oh yeah, Dad, let her have it,” he said. “That’ll go swimmingly.”</p><p>Hermione erupted into laughter as the floo roared again, and Ginny tumbled out. “Didn’t bother waiting, did we?” she said. Snow and ice coated her Gryffindor hat and scarf.</p><p>George cocked a brow. “You were late,” he said. Ginny had permission to do a visit this dinner. Even though Gin was staying in the dormitories, McGonagall let her from time to time outside of hols, claiming that visits were important to restoring the community after the war. But George suspected the old bird had actually agreed out of fondness for Harry.</p><p>Seeing as his picture rested in such a place of high honor.</p><p>She’d only been a few minutes late. But Gin’s Quidditch practices were running longer and longer of late, so he’d tooled the security charm to allow her in before flooing.</p><p>Ginny yanked her hat from her head and swatted Hermione with it. “You’ll never guess what’s happened,” she said eagerly, kicking her snow-soaked trainers across the room. They thudded into the wall. “You know that lecturer you were so excited about?” Hermione nodded slowly.</p><p>“Well, last night, apparently a seventh year overheard—” Gin paused, face blanking as she peered around. “—Harry here?” She pulled her coat from her Quidditch practice robes with the aside.</p><p>“I think we were the first to arrive,” George said, making his way to the sofa. Hermione gathered Ginny’s shoes and placed them along the row with everyone else’s.</p><p>Ginny huffed at George’s response, then launched back into her story. “Anyways, they overheard someone fighting with the guest lecturer.” She smirked.</p><p>George froze. How much had they—</p><p>“I guess it got too quiet to overhear after a few moments, but before it did, they heard some bloke yelling at him.”</p><p>George exhaled slowly and rested his crutch on the coffee table with a tired hand. Hermione tilted her head, glancing at George. But Ginny prattled on, smiling wickedly.</p><p>The prat knew exactly what she was doing.</p><p>“Yelling?” Hermione asked quietly, still looking at George.</p><p>He shrugged and lifted his hand parallel to the floor, then wobbled it back and forth as he rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah,” Ginny said, eyes sparking. “Apparently, he said something about the professor losing the ‘opportunity of a lifetime.’” She put the same cadence behind the words that George had, when he’d said it to Bailey.</p><p>He folded his arms.</p><p>It had been Ginny. Ginny was the seventh year, and now she was taking the mickey out of him in front of Granger.</p><p>And there was a whole bit about you, Hermione—” She grinned. “Being brilliant and driven and dedicated.” She sang the words as she bounded around the other girl.</p><p>“Was there?” Hermione asked mildly, still watching him. George snagged a copy of <em>The Quibbler</em> from the coffee table and lifted it, playing at disinterest as he paged through.</p><p>Ginny paused to sniff her Quidditch jersey before cringing. “I should change before Teddy and Harry show up.” She bolted for the stairs, calling over her shoulder on the way up: “Just thought it was rather interesting.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t say anything for a moment, but then she walked slowly to the sofa, where she eased onto the cushion beside him.</p><p>George cleared his throat and jolted his wrists, snapping the paper straight. “They’re tracking the Hippogriff migration over Wales,” he droned. “Wonder if Harry will let Buckbeak—”</p><p>Hermione’s hand caught on his bent elbow as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>George faltered as sparks flushed his face. “Will, um—let Buckbeak along,” he finished.   </p><p>“I could’ve handled it with time, but thank you,” she said.</p><p>George’s throat bobbed. “Haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about,” he muttered, scrunching his brows and gazing over the article that could’ve very well been upside down for all he knew. “Must’ve been some other sod.”</p><p>“Oh yes, definitely.” Hermione nodded sarcastically.</p><p>George turned the page. “Had the right idea, though, if you ask me.” Granger snorted and curled her legs at her side as she dug into her bookbag and withdrew her Herbology text.</p><p>George tried to appear nonchalant as she settled in to work before supper.</p><p>Her head had just slipped onto his shoulder when the floo whooshed.</p><p>“George, Hermione,” Bill called. A pause. “Where’ve Mum and Dad gone?”</p><p>George peeked at the Weasley clock, where Molly and Arthur’s hands rested on “<em>Home</em>,” then fumbled into his trousers’ pocket for his watch. They’d been gone just over thirty minutes.</p><p> He snorted and returned his gaze to an ad for the new Cleansweep. “I expect they’re snogging in the shed,” he said. “Seeing as warming charms don’t take the better part of an hour.”</p><p>Hermione choked back what sounded suspiciously like a laugh and shoved lightly at his arm. “Honestly,” she scolded.</p><p>Meanwhile, Bill snorted and smacked the back of George’s head on his way to the window. “Mum would have a cow if she heard you say that,” he said. He checked his watch. “Who’s going to fetch them?”</p><p>“I say we send Fred,” George drawled. Bill nodded briskly and dropped into the chair. Footsteps pounded down the stairs.</p><p>“Is that Harry?” Ginny called.</p><p>“No,” George shouted. Gin rounded the bannister, hair dripping over a black jumper and some worn denims. She slumped in disappointment before heading to the kitchen.</p><p>Bill’s fingers drummed over the armrest, and his expression was listless. “Today was long,” he said. “Fleur was supposed to meet me here.” A little sigh. “Haven’t seen her all day.” He checked his pocket watch. “She’s not usually late.”</p><p>In tandem, the lot of them glanced at the clock. Fleur’s hand was on “<em>Work</em>.” As they looked, it shifted to “<em>Travelling</em>,” and Bill’s face relaxed. The floo roared, and Fleur’s heels clicked on the floor.</p><p>“Hello Hermione,” Fleur called, and Granger smiled brightly in her direction. “George.” Fleur gave him a polished nod. He tipped his chin at her and returned to <em>The Quibbler</em>. “Are we waiting to eat?” Fleur asked, turning about as she dropped her bag near the entryway with a clunk.</p><p>“Just for a bit,” Bill said.</p><p>Fleur nodded, then flitted over and perched on the armrest. “I see,” she said, smiling down at him. Bill’s gaze flickered up to her, and he scooted to the side, leaving an empty sliver of cushion by his hip.</p><p>Fleur arched a brow.</p><p>Bill looked meaningfully at the spot beside him, then back up at Fleur.</p><p>She pursed her lips, but the smile peeked through as she turned to face George and Hermione. “How is Hogwarts?” she lilted. “I hear Minerva has—” Bill snagged her around the waist and dragged her into the seat. Fleur burst into laughter, swatting at him and ruffled his hair. A sizeable chunk slipped free from the tie, and Bill narrowed his eyes before lunging to return the favor.</p><p>George lifted the paper higher to block the view and made a gagging sound under his breath.  Hermione snorted.</p><p>“You are horrible, William,” Fleur’s reproval didn’t sound earnest as she laughed and did a rather shoddy job at fighting Bill off.</p><p>“I’m going to be ill,” George muttered, keeping his eyes stuck to the parchment. Granger laughed again at his side. “Really, truly ill.”</p><p>The floo whooshed. “Sorry we’re late,” Fred’s jovial voice filtered into the room. “Hope you didn’t wait to—” he paused. “Why haven’t we started yet?”</p><p>George turned around, bracing his forearm against the couch. Fred held Angelina on his back, his arms tucked under her knees, hers about his shoulders. Angie’s braids had snow stuck in them, and a spare quidditch arm guard was still affixed to her wrist.</p><p>She jumped down and vaulted over the couch, where she landed in the third seat beside Hermione and tossed a green duffle bag onto the ground. Fred paced behind them to the kitchen table, working at his coat buttons. He eyed Mr. Weasley’s half-eaten scone before shrugging, plucking it up, and downing it.</p><p>“Is that Harry?” Ginny called from the kitchen.</p><p>“No,” Angie shouted back. “But almost as good.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>Muttering echoed from the other room.</p><p>Bill glanced at his watch. “We should start soon. Why don’t you fetch Mum and Dad from the shed, Freddie?”</p><p>Fred paused, mouth full of crumbs and hands on the last of his coat buttons. “Why can’t you?” he asked, eyes narrowing.</p><p>Bill’s face was neutral and cool, and he stared at Fred blankly until Fred sighed and began to refasten his jacket. Angelina cackled.</p><p>He was almost over the threshold when Bill added, “Mind you knock.”</p><p>Fred’s face contorted right as he slammed the door behind himself.</p><p>Bill turned to Hermione. “More brewing this week?”</p><p>She nodded and closed her Herbology volume. “I think so. I’ve written some Runes and Arithmancy equations down that may help.” She stooped to rifle in her bag. “I was hoping you may be able to offer additional insight.” With that, Granger launched into an explanation of the horrid Rune Tap, crossing to Bill to stick the lilac journal in his hands.</p><p>Bill’s eyes worked over the notes she’d taken, and for a moment, he paused and glanced at George with an unreadable expression before looking back down. He seemed to follow Hermione’s steady stream of references—scholars, books, and articles that sounded vaguely familiar to George. Here and there, he’d catch a name or concept that he knew well, but it was hard to piece together with everything else in the mix.</p><p>Laced together into the rapid conversation, it was a bit dizzying to follow.</p><p>Charms—he could chat Charms theory all day long. And a decent bit of Transfiguration. Arithmancy and Potions weren’t lost on him either, by way of practical experience. But he’d dropped Ancient Runes too early to get the same scope of knowledge that the other two had, and his use of them in the shop was rather limited.</p><p>He ought to fix that. Maybe pick up a few more books on the subject.</p><p>For no particular reason, really.</p><p>They were good friends, after all.</p><p>He’d like to be able to understand her when she talked about the complexities, and it was a rather large part of their ventures with Winky and the others.</p><p>“—thinking if we applied the second law of Arithmantic Calibration to balance the potion ingredients with the—”</p><p>Bill nodded along, scratching a fingertip against the lower ridge of his scar, right where it cleaved the skin on his jaw.</p><p>“You will need to adjust for his height in your calculations here,” Fleur added as she tapped a fingertip to the page. “For the speed of distribution, this will be slower.”</p><p>Bill nodded, and his hand lifted to absentmindedly push a strand of Fleur’s hair behind her ear.</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head and hastily summoned a quill. She scrawled the note, and George could see the gold ink swirling in the barrel.</p><p>“That is beautiful,” Fleur said softly.</p><p>“Thanks, George made it for me,” Hermione answered, frowning at the page.</p><p>Angie leaned forward. “Oh, that’s brilliant. Fred’s always making little things for me—”</p><p>The door flung open and Fred strode in, snow crusting his coat, hat, and eyelashes. “Banged on the door until I heard an answer,” he said jovially. “Bout broke my hand in the process.” With that, he swiped his wand. The snow flung from his shoulders, darting through the room towards Bill.</p><p>Bill gave his wand a lazy flick, and the blast melted before reaching him.</p><p>Fred looked moderately disappointed, then began to toe his boots off. “It’s bloody cold, it is,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together.</p><p>Angelina propped her chin on the couch back. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Freddie,” she said. “We used to practice in far worse conditions.” She was teasing. They’d flown in sleet and storms, but never anything this horrid.</p><p>But George played along, flipping the page with nonchalance as he glanced at his sister-in-law. “Yeah, and he whinged then, too,” he said.</p><p>Angie laughed. “You both did,” she said. Fred’s face had twisted into a peevish frown, but he quickly brightened when Angelina bounded over and plucked the deep, green hat from his tousled hair.</p><p>Ginny emerged from the kitchen finally, carrying a box of cinnamon biscuits. “Can’t believe Harry’s this late,” she muttered.</p><p>George rested the paper on the table. “Did you tell him you were coming?” he asked.</p><p>Ginny’s mouth twisted ruefully. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Merlin, if he skips this week—” she huffed and rolled her eyes before shoving her hand back into the box, past the wrist. Fred loped over and nicked it, rifling his hand in. He pulled it out, glancing into the package.</p><p>“They’re almost gone,” Fred said, a bit of an accusation in his voice as he withdrew a rather sad looking, half-broken biscuit.</p><p>Ginny bit back a grin and dropped into a seat at the kitchen table.</p><p>Angelina started over, reaching for the box. Fred handed it off and backed away towards the living room.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Is that the last one?” Angie asked.</p><p>Fred glanced at the wall and shrugged. He lifted the treat to his mouth.</p><p>“Frederick Gideon, don’t you dare,” Angelina said. Fred paused, biscuit frozen in midair.</p><p>They stared at each other from across the living room.</p><p>“You’ve got to split it,” Angelina said.</p><p>Fred narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said.</p><p>“Here we go,” George said, glancing over a guide on distinguishing the age of a unicorn. There was a gasp.</p><p>Involuntarily, George looked up. Fred had taken a sizeable bite out of the biscuit.</p><p>Angelina tore across the room, shouting, and Fred burst into laughter, tripping back against the bannister as he attempted to hold the rest of it out of her reach.</p><p>Angie tackled him onto the staircase and ripped it from his hand.</p><p>The floo roared, and two men stepped out.</p><p>George stiffened.</p><p>So, Ron was still in town. He’d hoped for otherwise, but apparently, he’d been wrong.</p><p>Ron’s eyes flickered over the living room, and he turned stiffly from George and the others before making his way to the table. Harry stood, rubbing the bridge of his nose, Teddy asleep in a carrier strapped to his back.</p><p>George glanced, breath held, examining Hermione. The witch kept a cool demeanor. The only tell of her emotions was the slight tick in her jaw as she continued to scrawl notes into her journal.</p><p>Ginny’s voice broke the tension. “It’s about bloody time you showed up.”</p><p>Harry’s hand fell, and his face opened in surprise. “Gin, what’re you—”</p><p>A rather happy scene proceeded, in which Ginny hurtled over the Burrow floor, and Harry looked properly his age, rather than twenty years older.</p><p>Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley emerged, sneaking through the back door with ruddy faces and snow blasted hair. Molly hurried to the roast, which was laying dormant under a stasis charm, and Arthur ducked around her to put the kettle on, whistling.</p><p>#</p><p>They managed not to have it out over the roast, though George came close a few times. The prat hadn’t said more than two words to Hermione all night, and he’d outright refused to so much as glance in George’s direction.</p><p>In between Fleur’s delicate navigation of the conversation, Ron answered their Mum’s questions about his job in terse, clipped statements.</p><p>At his right, Hermione picked her fork through her food.</p><p>“Alright?” George ducked close to her ear to whisper.</p><p>“Just focusing,” she murmured. He nodded and returned to his own dish. As he pulled back, he caught a flicker of Ron’s icy gaze, following his movement.</p><p>Like a flash, the look was gone, and Ron went back to steadfastly refusing to turn in their direction.</p><p>#</p><p>The lot of them settled into places around the living room. George was on the left end of the sofa, Hermione in the middle, and Harry on the right end, watching Ginny bounce Teddy on her hip with a line between his brows. As Harry watched, Ginny seemed to feel his look, and raised her eyes to meet his. She gave him a lopsided smile, then returned to her conversation with Fleur and Angelina near the dining area.</p><p>To the group’s left, Ron played a round of chess with Bill at the table. Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley knit in the armchair. Mr. Weasley had fallen asleep, seated on the floor with his arms folded over his chest and head tipped against the outside of her knee. The clock lay in his lap, wand and tinkering tools littering the floor around him.</p><p>Granger had waited only a few minutes after dinner before pulling her books from her bag to return to her work. The roll of her quill against her parchment was a steady, calming undercurrent to the conversation he’d been having with Fred, who knelt near the sofa’s arm on his left.</p><p>Nasty business, but the Puffskein flu had been running amok through their Pygmy Puffs.</p><p>“The potions Charlie wrote about seem to be working, but the lot of them were turning green and grey and sneezing up a storm,” Fred said, wincing. “I think we ought to put something in the care kit for it, or—”</p><p>Hermione’s arm brushed George’s, and he instinctively glanced over. She’d leaned into him a bit, tucking her feet just beside his beneath the coffee table in distraction.</p><p>Fred pulled at his elbow, and George tore his gaze away.</p><p>Fred quirked his brows.</p><p>Heat prickled over his neck.</p><p>“Yes, um, let’s stick it in the care kit,” George said, fumbling for the conversation’s thread. “Maybe put out some mailers about it as well, since it seems to be going around this year.”</p><p>It wasn’t anything novel—the same thing plagued regular Puffskeins when it got rather cold. The care manual would instruct their clients on how to handle it, but adding a few doses of the potion to the kit wouldn’t hurt. Nor would an owled announcement. They’d do well to stay on top of it, just in case.</p><p>“We’ll include the potion recipe near the end, along with a note that we also sell it, if they’d rather not brew it themselves—” George had been halfway through discussing the wording for said mailer when Hermione leaned in close and tugged on his shoulder. He stopped mid-sentence and swiveled to look at her.</p><p>“Sorry—I think something’s off here,” she whispered, tilting the textbook at him along with her essay. “This diagram’s not quite right, I think.” The illustration she’d sketched showed a movement for lacing together a gouging charm with a fire charm. He frowned.  </p><p>“No,” George murmured, reaching over her to trace the extra upflick arrow. “Not unless you want melt your hands off in the process.”</p><p>“How would you go about it, then?” Hermione asked, tapping her wand to the parchment to vanish the drawing. George rubbed a hand over his jaw.</p><p>“It depends on my intentions for the fire usage,” he whispered. “If I’m only trying to heat it, I’d probably use a more controlled approach—like a Conflo Duo, rather than an Incendio Tria.” A creak sounded as Fred backed away, but George kept talking, tracing the casting patterns over the textbook page. “The Conflo Duo would apply a powerful, sustained heat source without the risk of blowing yourself to bits.”</p><p>Without thinking, he drew the quill from her hand. Then, he reached over her and slowly traced out a few lines in the space the other drawing had been. “Like that, maybe,” he muttered, searching over the wand directives he’d penned. He glanced up. Granger’s face was close, and she watched him intently.</p><p>He cleared his throat and backed away a smidge. “But if—if I’m only trying to blacken the gouge, like if you wanted to blast away a deeply carved rune, then I’d probably do them separately. Less reactive, that way.”</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head. “But what if you were trying to inject fire to weaken a rune while hacking it, for example?”</p><p>“I don’t know if fire would necessarily have that effect, but you’re the expert there,” George said slowly. “I’d still recommend Conflo Duo, but you’d need to refine the gouging charm. Why do you ask?”</p><p>“Considering our options,” she whispered. “We can’t very well blast the rock away entirely—that’s too risky to the elves.” She frowned at the parchment. “But, last time, the magic that I felt in the stone—it was cold. I wondered if heat might be an effective countermeasure for our future attempts. Perhaps it could weaken the enchantment, at least, to make the carving and defense less brutal.”</p><p>George paused, mulling it over and considering the events at Aunt Muriel’s. “You may be right,” he said. The flames had come out of him and eaten clear through some of the darkest parts of the defensive enchantment. It’d nearly drained him to the last spark, but it’d stopped it. He folded his hands and searched for a way to explain what had happened. “Last time, the lot of you couldn’t see it, but there was a sort of metaphysical fire I caste out of instinct—don’t know exactly how it happened, but Occlumency with old magic gets rather unpredictable.”</p><p>Hermione leaned in, tucking a curl behind her ear, and George bit his lips together as he remembered how close the cruel darkness had come to reaching her. “It seemed to work well against some of the more aggressive bits of the enchantment, but it also set off some sort of defensive mechanism, severing the connection Bill and I had to the deeper enchantments I could sense underneath.” He scratched at the scar of his ear.</p><p>Hermione bounced a little and began to whisper excitedly. “But that wouldn’t matter so much, if we’d already brought up the runes we need, and it may be possible that physical fire would have a similar effect on some of the older, darker runes.” Her eyes sparked. “This could be an important breakthrough,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s nothing, but—” she trailed off, then happily returned to her parchment, quill streaking over the page rapidly.</p><p>“It’s definitely worth a try,” George said. “We could test it on the Travers run?”</p><p>She nodded. “And while we’re on the subject,” she whispered, glancing up at him. “While we’re waiting on brewing steps this week, we should work on my Occlumency, as well.”</p><p>George nodded and leaned in to tap a finger on her book. “If that’s what you’d like, I can—”</p><p>“Move.” Ron’s voice was cold and hard over his head.</p><p>George balked, withdrawing.</p><p>Ron stood over them, staring at the floor with his hands shoved in his pockets.</p><p>George faltered, then turned.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Right.</p><p>Ron, Harry, and Hermione used to sit here. The three of them lined up, peas in a pod. For years. And George was in Ron’s spot.</p><p>Hermione stared at Ron, opening her mouth.</p><p>“I-I need to talk to you,” Ron said, more quietly this time.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth shut. George searched her face, looking for what she needed from him.</p><p>“Move, George.” Ron didn’t so much as glance in his direction as he repeated the command. The straight line of his shoulders was unwavering under the starched grey uniform, and his eyes drilled into Hermione’s with an intensity that made George’s stomach twist.</p><p>The reflex hit him hard—to slip an arm around Hermione.</p><p>Like he had some right to—</p><p>George flexed his hands over his knees and sucked in a calming breath. This wasn’t his decision to make. It was hers.</p><p>And if she wanted to sit beside Ron, she could sit beside Ron.</p><p>“Granger?” he asked.</p><p>She bit her lips together and nodded.</p><p>So, George pulled the crutch from the coffee table and pushed to his feet. Ron barely waited for him shift out of the way before dropping into his spot.</p><p>George swallowed. Fred met his gaze from across the room, shooting him a disbelieving, angry stare and gesturing at Ron. “What are you—” Fred mouthed.</p><p>George shouldered towards the table.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ron’s stilted voice echoed from the couch.</p><p>A silence.</p><p>“What for?” Hermione asked.</p><p>He couldn’t hear Ron’s reply. Wasn’t his business, anyway.</p><p>George eased into a dining chair, ignoring Fred’s continued, hard look.</p><p>Suddenly, the sofa creaked. Granger gathered her books into her bag and stood, then headed into the kitchen with quick, stilted steps. Hermione crossed to the cabinets and pulled two mugs down, then set to fixing two cups of tea.</p><p>Meanwhile, Ron stared hard at her, then glared down at his hands.</p><p>It’d be a long conversation, then.</p><p>George hurriedly busied himself with summoning a fresh sheet of parchment and one of his Mum’s quills.</p><p>He could at least get a draft of that mailer done, while they sorted it.</p><p>But every jolt of his heart carried an accompanying surge of anxiety, and he struggled to focus on his task as the worries stacked up.</p><p>Worry about the conflict between him and Ron.</p><p>Worry about the hurt Ron had inflicted on Granger.</p><p>Worry about the anger in Ron’s face that he’d seen, just then.</p><p>And, finally, worry over the small, shameful pinch of jealousy in George’s chest. Which was rubbish. Hermione had made clear her wishes, and he had to respect them.</p><p>He may’ve enjoyed sitting there himself, listening to the familiar hum of the Burrow around them, Hermione’s arm brushing his as they talked, but that was—that was hardly the most important thing right now.</p><p>He might be upset, but this was a complicated situation, and complicated situations required patience. He couldn’t make Ron’s choices for him, or Hermione’s for that matter. He could only manage his own behavior, and presently, he chose to finish a rough draft of the Pygmy Puff mailer.</p><p>The thought settled him a bit, and he scraped down a few lines about Puffskein Flu.</p><p>Soft footsteps padded behind him, and suddenly, a warm arm descended over his shoulder. Hermione settled a mug in front of him.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>Without comment, she slipped into the chair beside his and rested her cup next to the first one she’d laid down. Her book rustled as she opened it against the rough, wooden surface.  </p><p>“So, Occlumency lessons,” she said, as though nothing had interrupted them.</p><p>George hesitated. “Everything alright?” he asked quietly. “I thought you two were going to talk.”</p><p>Hermione arched a brow. “I’m not particularly interested in hearing Ron’s theories about your malintent.” She scratched out a schedule onto a blank page. “He seems to think your reasons for wanting to be friends with me are dodgy.” She scoffed a bit, but he could see the tight cord of anger in the scrunch of her shoulders.</p><p>George turned and stared at Ron. The git was already watching, glaring right at George with a silent accusation. Ron’s jaw clenched, and he shoved off the sofa, thudding up the staircase.</p><p>George turned back to Granger.</p><p>“Bugger, he’s onto me,” he drawled. Hermione paused, glancing at him with a look of reservation. “See, I’m afraid I’ve a selfish reason.” He drew his brows together and twisted his mug in a circle. “I enjoy your company far too much to deprive myself of it.” He said it with an unconcerned air as he lifted the mug to his lips and took a drink. Hermione rolled her eyes. “Even on a ‘fifth-wave,’ you’re refreshingly tolerable.” She pushed at his arm and returned to writing. “It’s absolutely spiffing, an evening with you,” he continued.</p><p>“And that’s why you can’t keep your eyes open through it?” Her tone was cheeky and taunting, and George’s face heated.</p><p>He coughed. He’d have to tease her to play it off.</p><p>George leaned closer to her, propping his elbow on the table as his voice dropped into a barely audible, wry whisper. “Right. Well, if memory serves me correctly, you are just as guilty there.”</p><p>Granger squirmed a little in her seat, lifted her quill, then set it back down.</p><p>Finally, she reached over and shoved at his arm again.</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>#</p><p>That night, George slept fitfully, his mind spinning nonsense out of the day’s ridiculous events. Suddenly, it wasn’t his parents—wasn’t Bill, Fred, and Gin in the memories. No.</p><p>It was him, chasing Hermione out into a blizzard with a coat in hand. Him, dragging Hermione into his arms to share a single seat as she playfully resisted. Him, lifting a biscuit high in the air before Hermione tackled him into the staircase. Him, feeling Hermione’s eyes on him from across a crowded room.</p><p>All the while, Ron’s hard, unforgiving look lingered in the background.</p><p>#</p><p>January 25, 1999, 6:30 p.m.</p><p>George waltzed through Hermione’s floo and propped his crutch against the wall. A vinyl spun across the room, lilting soft piano.</p><p>“Do you mind waiting to get started?” Granger asked, wincing at him from the sofa, where a large book lay open in her lap. “I need at least another hour—sorry.”</p><p>“No worries,” George said easily.</p><p>“You don’t have to wait here unless you want to,” Hermione added, glancing in his direction. “But I wouldn’t mind the company.”</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>“I think I’ll stick around,” he said, snorting. “It’s far more fun here.”</p><p>“You literally live adjacent to what’s essentially a toyshop,” Hermione mumbled softly, taking a note.</p><p>George eyed Crookshanks, who skirted around the sofa and leapt onto the sideboard, beside the record player. “Yes, well, I haven’t got a rugged beast at my place,” he said. Hermione snorted. “Or a turntable.”</p><p>Or a Granger.</p><p>He swallowed the thought back and limped over, carefully keeping most of his weight from his left foot, which was aided by a thick cushioning charm. It still twinged, but the distance wasn’t far.</p><p>“You should be using the crutch,” Hermione muttered.</p><p>George sighed and eased onto the seat beside her before stretching his legs out. “Oh, but then what would you scold me about?” he asked, face contorting as he feigned confusion. Hermione scoffed. He reached over and gave one of her stray curls a gentle tug.</p><p>He was rewarded with a quiet laugh as she swatted him away. George grinned and pulled the beaten paperback from his apron pocket. It opened to the place he’d tucked the quill, and he began to read to himself. He’d gotten a few lines in when he felt her gaze on him.</p><p>He cocked a brow and glanced over. She coughed and returned to her textbook.</p><p>“Something the matter?” he asked.</p><p>Her face was a cheery, light pink. “It’s nothing,” she said, shrugging. “The chapter you’re on is one of my favorites, is all.” George searched her for a moment, but she didn’t add anything more to the statement. He lifted the book again.</p><p>That Brooke sod was mucking about again. Surely that wasn’t the bit she was talking about.</p><p>
  <em>“‘I’ll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Not if I chose to learn it, but—’”</em>
</p><p>Absentmindedly, George stretched his left arm over the back of the sofa.</p><p>
  <em>“‘Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German,’ broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her.”</em>
</p><p>George snorted, skimming over the passage.</p><p>
  <em>“—the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious impulse, and withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, ‘I don’t choose. Please go away and let me be!’ </em>
</p><p><em>Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him</em>.”</p><p>George glanced at Hermione with a skeptical look, then pressed the quill to the margin and wrote: <em>“I still don’t get why you compare me to this fellow.”</em></p><p>Suddenly, Hermione shifted into the crook of his shoulder, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.</p><p>George glanced at her, blinking as his heart picked up pace in its usual, irksome way.</p><p>But then that lovely glow washed over him.</p><p>Perhaps she was cold, and that’s why she’d moved closer.</p><p>George held the book steady, quill in his teeth, and lowered his arm around her—not daring to look her way as heat prickled up his neck.</p><p>The book. He had to focus on the book.</p><p>Meg—Meg was now defending John, out of bloody nowhere against her Aunt March, who seemed to think the man too poor for Meg’s interest.</p><p>
  <em>“‘Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You’ll be sorry for it by and by, when you’ve tried love in a cottage and found it a failure.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘It can’t be a worse one than some people find in big houses,’ retorted Meg.’”</em>
</p><p>George breathed out a laugh at the cheek and scratched down another note: <em>“Agreed.”</em></p><p>Hermione shifted closer, making a small, contented humming sound, and then there was the rustle of a page turning.</p><p>His ruddy feet began to fidget.</p><p>#</p><p>January 25, 1999, 7:27 p.m.</p><p>After they’d worked in silence for a while, Hermione cleared away her school things and bounced to face him, tucking her legs under her on the sofa cushion.</p><p>George tossed the paperback on the coffee table and braced his hands on his thighs. She could review his notes later. “Right, so what’ll it be, Granger?” he asked.</p><p>She chewed her lip. “I’m waiting on a few more ingredients for the potion, so I thought we could do Occlumency today?” she asked.</p><p>George’s hands paused over the hem of his apron.</p><p>It was probably time to start. She should have at least the basics before they tried to free the elves at Travers Mansion.</p><p>There was a lot of room for things to go wrong, however.</p><p>He flexed his wrists and examined the apron’s seam.</p><p>The enchantment from the keystone at Muriel’s had been so intent on finding her. If something happened to him—</p><p>This was necessary.</p><p>Hermione watched him quietly as the anxiety and debate clashed through his head. She gave him time to think it through, though.</p><p>Finally, he sucked in a breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll need some ground rules.”</p><p>She bobbed her head and pulled open her journal, pencil poised over the sheet as she waited.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands over his face.</p><p>“Going into someone else’s head is always dangerous. You’ve a bit of familiarity with mind magic, due to your—your work with your parents,” he said slowly. Hermione’s lips thinned, but she nodded. He steepled his fingers and reached for a familiar metaphor. “If the mind is like a landscape, the three, dominant branches of mind magic do different things inside of it.” Her pencil tapped and slid rapidly on the paper. “Memory work—casting something like an Obliviate—it’s often like arranging things in a dollhouse, from the caster’s perspective. There’s a layer of removal.”</p><p>“I know,” she said quietly. It was tense. Tight.</p><p>George watched her for a moment.</p><p>“Go on, please,” she whispered.</p><p>Her shoulders were rigid. He flicked his gaze to the wall, considering how he could set her at ease, despite her history with the subject.</p><p>George leaned back on the sofa and tried to project an unbothered air, lifting his hand and gesturing at the ceiling as he spoke. “But, um, Legilimency and Occlumency are different. They’ve got levels of immersion, I guess. With Legilimency, for example, you can use it to speak to someone or to push them an image or memory. And with Occlumency, you can set up simple shields to protect yourself from outside intrusions—thoughts, feelings, or a nosy git.”</p><p>“Harry used to struggle with that,” Hermione mumbled. “Until he figured out he had to use love.”</p><p>“Yes,” George said, pointing a thumb at her. “That’s a deeper form of Occlumency, and I’m not surprised he needed it, with you-know-poo skulking about.” Hermione snorted.</p><p>Encouraged, George kept going. “But you can also go deeper.” He shoved his hands through his hair. “Using Legilimency and certain, hybrid Occlumency spells, you—you can, um—” he stuttered a bit.</p><p>The scar on his arm itched suddenly.</p><p>George’s brow furrowed and rubbed the skin through his sleeve.</p><p>“George?” she asked.</p><p>He winced. “—sorry, um, you can enter another person’s mental landscape, on an equal size and footing. And that’s different. Not like reaching into a dollhouse.” The beams on her ceiling were a dark wood.</p><p>Was it pine? Looked a bit dark for pine.</p><p>Hm.</p><p>That was something to think about.</p><p>The soft sound of Hermione clearing her throat snagged at his attention. When he forced himself to meet her eyes, she was watching him with an impatient expression, brows lifted.</p><p>“So, you subscribe to Luckhardt’s principles of spatial organization,” she said crisply.</p><p>George snorted. “Done a bit of reading, have you?”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, fine.”</p><p>George smiled, then tugged at his sleeve. “Well, I’m not quite in agreement with that bloke. People’s minds are organized differently, and I don’t think someone’s natural way of going about it should be altered.”</p><p>“I always thought the floorplan approach made the most sense, though,” Hermione mumbled, returning to her notes.</p><p>George shrugged. “It might seem that way, but other means are just as valid. Going in from the outside, it can appear like flashes of raw memory—like a woven tapestry, leading from one thing into another. Or, it can be as structured and separated as a tour through a museum. It depends on the caster and the mind in question. There’s nothing advantageous about having a floor plan if that’s not how your mind likes to set it up. When you try to muck about with it, you’ll do more harm than good,” he said.</p><p>Granger flipped the page and started on a fresh sheet of notes.</p><p>George watched her quietly for a moment, then began to speak more softly. “While we’re practicing, you need to keep something in mind.”</p><p>Hermione blinked up at him.</p><p>“This kind of magic is aggressive. Dangerous,” he said quietly. “If you’re not careful, you can knock things out of place and seriously hurt the other person. Things like—like a pile of shoes, or even fallen spoon—those can seem insignificant, but they’re often tied to deeper feelings or memories.” Hermione’s brow was furrowed as she wrote. He paused to give her time to catch up.</p><p>“Which brings me to the first rule for these lessons.” He braced a hand on the cushion in between them and leaned over to stare at her intently. His foot twinged as the movement made it twist against the floor, but this was important. “Don’t. Touch. Anything.”</p><p>Hermione blinked up at him. She started at his expression, but he kept it firm.</p><p>He took a deep breath. “Second,” he said, not breaking eye contact. “Do your best to not leave anything, either.”</p><p>Hermione grimaced. “I’m not going to send you ghastly visions like Voldemort, George,” she said, shoulders rigid.</p><p>George snorted. “Cheers for that, but this applies to other things as well. When the connection’s active, what you think—what you imagine—it can materialize if you’re not focused. The mind is a fluid place.”</p><p>Granger faltered, her pencil freezing mid-line.</p><p>“Alright?” he asked. She stuttered into action again, tucking a curl behind her ear as she bent further over her notes.</p><p>“Yes, of course,” she said, a bit clipped. “Continue. So, it’s a matter of focus, then?”</p><p>George heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Focusing on your purpose will keep things in place.” He tapped an index finger onto her journal page, which was covered in pencil marks. “In your case, you’re trying to work on mental shielding.” He pulled the hand back. “And I think it’ll be safest to show you in my head, rather than yours.” With the words, a nervous jitter took hold of his right leg, and it began to bounce.</p><p>Hermione’s brows knit together. “How do you plan to go about that?” she asked.</p><p>George nodded, frowning at his jogging knee. “Today, I’ll help you caste the Legilimency spell, and we’ll go to a spot that doesn’t have anything too complicated or fragile lying about,” he said.</p><p>The last thing they needed was to bump into a patch of war trauma. Merlin, this would be tricky enough.</p><p>“That way, I can teach you some basics on building defense in a safer environment,” he said.</p><p>Hermione nodded, and a determined edge glinted in her eyes as she finished up the last bullet point on the list she was scribbling out.</p><p>“So, to review and add a bit.” George ticked things off on his fingers. “First, don’t touch anything unless I tell you that you can.” Hermione nodded. “Don’t try to leave an area, unless I tell you that you can.” She nodded again. “Stay focused on what we’re there to do.”</p><p>She paused. “How dangerous is this, George?”</p><p>He bit his lips together. “More dangerous than I’m comfortable with, but less dangerous than you being left exposed to a mental attack from one of those keystones.”</p><p>He proceeded to explain the basics, what she might expect, and the area he planned to take them to—the Quidditch pitch, of course. Right in the middle of the field, he could show her how to build walls and break them down without worrying over clutter or—or anything inside the Castle.</p><p>No.</p><p>All of that would stay locked away.</p><p>After a good deal of talking, his right leg bouncing all the while, he took her wand and brought it to the center of his forehead.</p><p>A hesitant look flashed through her eyes.</p><p>“Now, be gentle, Granger,” he said quietly.</p><p>Her mouth opened, and George thought of wind, broomsticks, and family.</p><p>“Legilimens,” she whispered, and George let her in.</p><p>#</p><p>Wind ripped at his hair, and a familiar form was clutched between his arms.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted, leaning back into his chest on the broomstick. Pine trees zipped far below, under their feet. The handle shuddered, lurching in his grip.</p><p>George balked. They—they were supposed to be on the Quidditch pitch, not miles out, over the forest.</p><p>Oh bugger.</p><p>He should’ve been more specific.</p><p>“Close your eyes,” he shouted.</p><p>“Why’re we up so high,” she cried, struggling.</p><p>“I’m sorry!” He yelled. He guided the broomstick down, between the branches, trying to throttle the speed of the descent, but he couldn’t quite level it out. George broke most of the impact with his legs, but the force of it threw him onto his side. Granger, meanwhile, rolled in the opposite direction.</p><p>George spat snow—which was oddly warm—from his mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped. The trees creaked and swayed in the gale.</p><p>“I’m fine,” she managed, but she sounded a bit shaken. George righted himself, then hurried over to help her, taking large bounds through the snow.</p><p>It could’ve been worse. There wasn’t much lying about, save for the trees, and they’d have to do a great deal of damage to knock one of those down.</p><p>Still, he ought to see about transporting them to the pitch. It was safer. Familiar.</p><p>Hermione’s arms were warm and bright under his hands as she stumbled to her feet. When she tipped her chin up to face him, her eyes rounded, and she blinked.</p><p>“What?” he asked, whirling in a circle. There was nothing odd nearby. Just trees.</p><p>“You’ve—” she faltered. “You’ve got two ears,” she whispered.</p><p>Without thinking, George reached up. Sure enough, the lost one was back.</p><p>He hummed, concentrating and letting his fingers trace it. “Odd,” he muttered. It wasn’t terribly surprising. After all, he didn’t have a limp here, either.</p><p>The dusky sky flickered over their heads, and George was pulled from the distraction as a cold feeling whispered through his ribs.</p><p>Time to move.</p><p>He stretched out a hand, searching the clearing for danger.</p><p>“We should go,” he said. “I’m going to take us to the spot I intended, and it’ll move rather fast, but just try to relax and not fight it.”</p><p>There was no response. When he turned to check, Hermione had gone pale, hesitating, staring into the distance.</p><p>The air around the trees flashed.</p><p>
  <em>“I do believe we’ve snatched ourselves a weasel.” </em>
</p><p>George closed his eyes. “Don’t think about that, Granger,” he said.</p><p>“I—I’m not, well, I wasn’t—” Her voice was pinched. Panicked. “George—”</p><p>It was too late. She was already projecting,</p><p>A loud snap echoed through the trees, and he felt it as Granger flinched his side.</p><p>George sucked in a breath. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “It’s okay. You’ve got to—”</p><p>Another snap, followed by a scrambling sound, and his stomach twisted.</p><p>George’s eyes flew open, and he reeled, reaching his senses over the space, trying to pinpoint where to apply a shield to drive it out. But it seemed to come from all around them, now.</p><p>The thud boomed, followed by a sickening whimper.</p><p>Granger was pale, eyes fixed on the edge of the clearing, breathing in short, clipped gasps.</p><p>The air grew heavy and dark.</p><p>This wasn’t safe. They had to get out.</p><p>“Take my hand, Hermione.” He said it gently, insisting.</p><p>He could end the legilimency by force, but that might hurt her.</p><p>She was frozen.</p><p>
  <em>“You’ve had this coming for a while.”</em>
</p><p>And then it flickered to life, in the distance. A swatch of purple, slipping from the stooped shoulders. The speaker flung it. It fluttered through the air, landing in the snow.</p><p>A piercing, ragged scream echoed over the mountain, choked and garbled.</p><p>“George!” Hermione shouted, and she took off.</p><p>No—</p><p>He tried to follow her, but the ground stretched longer between them, and everything shook. This was bad.</p><p>Another cry.</p><p>George stumbled and hit the ground, and when he got up, the lot of them had vanished as the woods tilted around him.</p><p>Everything drummed with an overwhelming fear.</p><p>He couldn’t—he couldn’t—</p><p>“Hermione,” he yelled. “You’ve got to focus.”</p><p>He tried to grab hold, to take back control, but he couldn’t get a breath. She was lost. She was lost, somewhere in the woods.</p><p>He lurched to his feet and stumbled. “Granger!” he yelled. “Stay with me!”</p><p>A shout, on the other side of the hill. He sprinted.</p><p>The darkness thickened, and it was difficult to make anything out other than the shape of the trees as his surroundings spun, faster and faster.</p><p>A wild growl rumbled through the branches, a smattering of barking. High, swerving cries of fear. Pine branches whipped his face.</p><p>His heart hammered, and he tripped over the crest of the slope.</p><p>Hermione Jean stood, unyielding, expression stone and fire as she opened a bolt of raw lightning over the hillside. The purple scarf hung on her neck. Her curls tore from her plait, cracking in a furious swarm of golden sparks, and her eyes were-were—</p><p>The storm slammed through three, large figures in the valley.</p><p>The barking intensified.</p><p>“Granger!” he shouted, but she didn’t seem to hear him.</p><p>It’d become too real to her.</p><p>A flash, and then suddenly Granger stood beside George, boot to Flint’s neck, hand flexed over him. Flint’s robes were smoking and charred, and he hacked up blood into the snow.</p><p>“Tell me where he is!” she shouted, and the sound clanged with a cold fury.</p><p>“I didn’t do anything,” Flint gasped. “I don’t—I don’t know. Haven’t seen him—”</p><p>The wind twisted, spinning around Granger and Flint, and her eyes flashed. Other shouts echoed from the trees. Fred. Harry. But it was all spinning out of focus, and the only clear part was Granger, poised over Marcus Flint like a lion pinning its prey.</p><p>The storm drove Hermione’s hair back from her face as she leaned in. “Wrong answer,” she whispered. “Try again.” Her hand flexed, and Flint shouted, trying to twist away.</p><p>George’s eyes rounded. “Hermione—”</p><p>“He apparated!” Flint cried, struggling under her.</p><p>Something cracked in tempest that was Hermione’s expression, and the storm eased—just enough. George jolted into action, taking her by the elbow. His hand met with the solid form, and he yanked her to himself, pulling her face to his chest.</p><p>At first, she fought, shoving against him. “No, Harry!”</p><p>George had to strain to keep her in place.</p><p>“Granger!” He gritted the word out as her elbow found his stomach. “It’s me—it’s me.”</p><p>She paused.</p><p>The spinning halted.</p><p>“You’ve got to focus,” he said, blinking hard. “Focus. End the spell.”</p><p>The world flashed.</p><p>#</p><p>George tumbled over the sofa’s arm, side thudded painfully against the floorboards.</p><p>Stillness.</p><p>Then, faintly: “George?”</p><p>He wrenched himself aloft. The frigid burning flared up to his knee, but he shoved through it to climb back into his seat. “S’alright,” he said, swallowing and rubbing his palms into his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione fell apart.</p><p>“I’m so—” she cried. “—so sorry.” Her frame shook.</p><p>George’s hands dropped. “Granger,” he whispered. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”</p><p>She shook her head and scrunched inwards, and her voice was tight and pinched between gasps. “I didn’t—didn’t mean to—”</p><p>George reached for her, but when his fingers brushed her arm, she flinched away.</p><p>He recoiled, swearing under his breath.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said, blinking hard. Hermione’s speech devolved into fragments, fracturing and spiraling. Anxiety wracked him, and he searched the room as Marcus’s advice flitted through his mind.</p><p> “—and you just had to sit there, reliving it because of me and—”</p><p>The sentence dissolved into sharp, jagged breaths.</p><p>“Granger,” he tried.</p><p>No answer.</p><p>George eased from the sofa, limping rapidly around the coffee table. The frigid burning flared and twisted up his leg.</p><p>It wasn’t graceful, kneeling in this state, but he needed to get in front of her. Clumsily, hand on the table, he lowered himself down. He bit back the hiss as his left knee hit the floor, then eased the weight onto his right.  </p><p>Salazar, the bloody fire wouldn’t fade.</p><p>He grit his teeth, and grimaced at the ceiling.</p><p>Hermione hunched over, nearly hyperventilating into her palm.</p><p>“It’s—” He stopped. George swallowed, counting until the burning faded enough for him to speak normally.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>“It’s okay.” George inched forward. She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “Shh,” he coaxed, tipping his head a little closer, just enough so that she could hear him properly. But not too close. “Hermione.”</p><p>She didn’t lift her face.</p><p>“I need you to do something for me,” he said quietly. “I need you to take a deep breath.”</p><p>She pulled back suddenly, turning her contorted face to stare at the corridor. Her breath still came in rapid, shallow bursts.</p><p>George tried again. “Can you do that for me?”</p><p>A slight nod.</p><p>“Just like this,” he said lightly, then pulled in the air. She got two false starts, but on the third, it stuck. “Now hold it,” he whispered. Hermione’s hand shot out, and she gripped his shoulder. George counted to three in his head. “Brilliant, now let it out.”</p><p>She exhaled.</p><p>“Perfect,” he said softly. “Now, let’s do that again.”</p><p>He walked her through it until she could match him each time. All the while, she stared hard at her hand on his apron strap.</p><p>Even after her breathing slowed, her gaze didn’t shift.</p><p>“Everything alright?” he whispered. She nodded.</p><p>“I picked this for my focus object,” she muttered. “Hold still.”</p><p>He blinked. “Tell me about it,” he said.</p><p>“It feels sort of like canvas,” she said. “It’s purple, and the stitching along the hem is rough. It’s got metal piece just there to adjust it, and it’s a bit tarnished—”</p><p>She continued on, listing sensory traits about a square inch of matter, opening it into a galaxy of detail. It was sort of like the strategy Healer Marcus had taught him, only she was finding all those things in one place, rather than looking about the room.</p><p>Finally, her hand slipped from his shoulder, and he cleared his throat. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I should’ve been more specific when focusing on our arrival point.”</p><p>She shook her head slowly. “No, they were my nightmares, and I’m the one who brought them in,” she said. “I should’ve said something when you explained more about how it worked.” She stared at her hands with a pinched expression. “But I thought I’d be able to manage it.”</p><p>George studied her. “Your nightmares?” he asked quietly. She sighed. “Is that sort of what you’ve been, um—seeing, then?”</p><p>A short nod.</p><p>His ribs constricted.</p><p>“And what I saw—that—that happened, did it?” he added.</p><p>Another nod.</p><p>Dear Merlin.</p><p>She looked hollow.</p><p>George pushed upwards, and she started, reaching to take his forearm before helping him into the seat beside her. “Sods like that are probably best left medium rare,” he said. “But I don’t begrudge you for cooking him.”</p><p>Hermione let out a short, disbelieving puff of air. “You’re unbelievable,” she muttered.</p><p>George nodded at the hearth. “Sorry, I’m just in a state of shock.” He laced the last word with a merry lilt.</p><p>Hermione tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling with a blank face.</p><p>“Truly, a—”</p><p>“If you say one more lightning pun, I will scream,” she said calmly.</p><p>George grinned. “Not surprising. My puns are always met with thunderous applause,” he said.</p><p>“So help me,” she said. Then she breathed out a laugh, nicked a throw pillow, and flung it at his head.</p><p>#</p><p>January 26, 1999, 5:49 p.m.</p><p>“Just these.” The short, raven-haired Slytherin wouldn’t make eye contact as he shoved a package of Nosebleed Nougats over the countertop. He looked a bit young to be out of the Castle in the middle of the week. In fact, George thought he recognized him from one of Flitwick’s second-year classes.</p><p>He glanced around, checking the windows as George punched the product into the till without comment. He knew this sort. Bloke had clearly gotten into a scrape. His gaze flicked over the faint crescent of a shadow under the boy’s left eye, the crooked bend in the bridge of his nose, and the faded mark of a cut over the side of his mouth, which was still a bit swollen. His ears, meanwhile, were red and raw looking, doubtlessly exposed during the hike from the Castle into town.</p><p>Hadn’t seen Pomfrey about it either, which meant he clearly wasn’t meant to be fighting, didn’t have the level of experience yet to caste the proper healing spells himself, and had snuck out to try to sort it himself. Even if the sod had brought it on himself—he was young. Could use some looking after, probably.</p><p>George snapped for a tin of Dittany paste and stuck it into the paper bag. “You’ll need to hurry if you want to get through the gate before sundown,” he said carefully. “It’s supposed to storm again tonight.”</p><p>The boy scoffed and turned back to the till. “I know my way around,” he said. “There are passages.” George resisted the urge to roll his eyes.</p><p>The boy’s hand darted out, and he slapped a fistful of Sickles onto the counter.</p><p>George rang them into the till. “Sure thing, Mate,” he said. “By the by, Nosebleed Nougats are handy for stopping a bloody nose, but they won’t reduce the swelling or anything.”</p><p>The boy faltered.</p><p>Right.</p><p>“D’you need something to stop bleeding?” George asked quietly.</p><p>The boy shrugged.</p><p>George sighed and braced a hand on the counter, fishing his wand free of his apron pocket. He caste a quick charm, summoning a vial of Dittany essence from the potion storage under the counter.</p><p>“Paste’ll do bruises and scrapes,” George said, wrapping the vial in some parchment. “The essence works on slightly deeper cuts, but anything more substantial—say, if it hits muscle, it’s best to get seen.” He stuck the vial into the paper bag and shoved aside the images of Lupin and Percy, gushing waves of red over useless trickles of the foggy, grey essence.</p><p>“Chin up,” George said, pointing at the bloke’s nose. It came out terser than intended—he’d tensed a bit when his mind had wandered.</p><p>The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped back.</p><p>“Unless you’d rather look like a troll’s punching bag?” George added dryly. The kid’s mouth thinned, and he looked at the floor, but slowly raised his chin.</p><p>“Brace yourself.” George layered a quick Episkey into the Slytherin’s nose, and a sharp crack echoed. The boy gave a little, pained yelp, then covered his face in his hands.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“Give it a moment,” George said good-naturedly, flicking his wand towards the sweets aisle. A small box of Giggle Grams sailed over. George stuck it into the bag. The cheering charm laced into them would help take the edge off.</p><p>“I don’t have Galleons for that,” the boy said tightly.</p><p>“Free promotion,” George drawled. “What’s your name?”</p><p>It wasn’t good business, strictly, to give this much product away to someone he didn’t especially know. But the kid was a second year—even if he was a Slytherin. He swept the Sickles off the counter and into his hand.</p><p>He considered slipping them into the bag.</p><p>That might insult the kid’s pride. Best not.</p><p>“What’s it to you?” the kid snapped. “Going to report me?”</p><p>George raised a brow at the remark, then summoned a knit shield cap from the back corner and chucked it at the boy’s chest. “We both know I’ve been sneaking out longer than you’ve been alive,” he said cooly. Then, he handed the bag over and tossed the Sickles into the till. “Next time you run into a troll, see Pomfrey. She won’t rat on you, and it’s better than freezing your ears off.”</p><p>The roar of a floo echoed in the other room, and George glanced towards his flat. It could be Fred, calling. The bell jangled, and the boy was gone, traded for a pair of chattering witches with plaid capes and red cheeks.</p><p>A thudding sounded from his room.</p><p>Oh—they’d come through. Probably Fred, then. George flipped his pocket watch open. It was nearing six.</p><p>Could also be Granger.</p><p>His mouth twisted up at the corner as a little flutter of excitement swelled in his chest.</p><p>The two witches circled the aisles slowly, browsing. George scratched the back of his head and leaned against the counter, staring at the hem of his deep, purple trousers.</p><p>He glanced at the clock on the wall.</p><p>Bugger, they were taking forever.</p><p>Finally, one of them brought a glow bracelet to the counter, and George hurriedly rang them up. His crutch tapped across the floor. He flipped the sign over, then set to casting the security enchantments.</p><p>If it was Fred, he would’ve come out to the shop to check in. It was probably Hermione.</p><p>George’s mouth lifted into a smile at the thought. Maybe they’d have dinner together and work on the potion—or perhaps they’d talk more about those Occlumency lessons. He’d had some ideas about how to go about that more safely. Maybe using a Daydream charm, rather than their heads. It wouldn’t be quite the same, but it could help her build instincts, at least.</p><p>“Nox,” he murmured, then he pushed through the flat’s entry, juggling his crutch with the door. “How were your Ancient Runes gremlins?” he called. She’d taught today. With luck, there may’ve been some improvements.</p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>“Granger?” George turned from the door, slipping his keys into his pocket.</p><p>Ron stood in front of the table, a thick stack of parchment clutched in one hand, a bottle of Firewhiskey in the other.</p><p>George froze.</p><p>Ron’s grey auror robes hung open over a frayed, maroon jumper. The knitwear had a faded, gold stripe across the chest where a single, dark red letter had been stitched painstakingly into the weave: “<em>R</em>”</p><p>The one from a few years ago—the one he and Fred had nicked and laced with shield charms the Christmas that their home had been set in flames.</p><p>Ron took a swig from the bottle and slammed it onto the circular table, which shuddered and swayed under the assault.</p><p>“It’s true, then,” he said. It sounded like all the life had gone out of his voice—the only thing remaining was an edge of wrath.</p><p>Best get Fred.</p><p>“What’s true?” George said, easing towards the floo.</p><p>Ron’s eyes followed him, and he lifted the parchment stack. The paper on top was sickeningly familiar—an older copy of <em>The Resonant</em>—two forms tangled in an alleyway across the cover.</p><p>Salazar.</p><p>Was that what this was about?</p><p>A wave of exhaustion washed over him, and George rested his forehead against his hand on the mantle. He closed his eyes.</p><p>“No, you berk,” he snapped. “Those papers are rubbish.”</p><p>“You know, it all makes sense,” Ron said coldly. A flipping sound. “Must’ve moved quick. Suppose I was gone for all of five minutes before you swept in.”</p><p>George lifted his head from the mantle, grimacing in disgust. “Come off it,” he said. “That’s not what—”</p><p>Ron was holding the article from months ago, now—the one with all the photos of George and Granger.</p><p>
  <em>“Golden Girl Sets Her Cap for a Different Weasley.” </em>
</p><p>George’s stomach lurched. “Where did you get that,” he said.</p><p>“Found it,” Ron said lowly.</p><p>“That paper’s out to make her look awful,” George said. “You can’t trust a thing they say.”</p><p>Ron nodded stiffly. “Yeah, I’m aware, Mate.” His tongue was sharp over the last word, sarcasm dripping from the sentence. “We both know Mione didn’t set her cap for anyone.” His brows knit together, and a look of hurt and anger came over him. “It was you.” The whispered accusation was laced with betrayal and disbelief.</p><p>George’s mind blanked.</p><p>Ron knew.</p><p>“I wondered a few times,” Ron said, shoulders jogging in a tight shrug. “But, I thought,” Ron’s face contorted, and his voice slipped into a rough whisper as he shook his head slowly at the wall. “‘No, no—that couldn’t be. George wouldn’t.”</p><p>There was a snapping sound as the papers hurtled into the air, followed by the soft flutter of parchment, raining over the faded wooden floor.</p><p>“Mione’s not his type,” Ron yelled, going red in the face. “And he might be a git, but he’d never play around with her feelings like that—not with family!”</p><p>“I wouldn’t!” George shouted back.</p><p>“Yet here you are!” Ron roared, striding towards him. “First with the Runes rubbish, and now you’re stringing her along for fun like she’s some—”</p><p>If he thought that, then Ron didn’t know. Didn’t realize how deep George’s feelings went. Anger at the accusation and relief at its significance twisted through George in tandem loops, but Ron kept talking.</p><p>“I mean, what do you call all of this?” Ron flung a hand towards the papers.</p><p>“A load of rubbish, written by prats!” George snapped. “They’re taking things out of context and making it look different than it was. Granger and I aren’t—aren’t—” He blinked down at the nearest copy—a story about their supposed love child. “—having some secret, torrid affair.” He finished.</p><p>Ron exhaled a short burst. “What, and I suppose they just conjured the photos, then?” he said.</p><p>George shouldered his crutch and stepped towards Ron. “Hermione and I are close friends. We do hug from time to time, not that it’s any of your business.” Ron’s look went stony. George pinched the bridge of his nose, and his voice went quieter. “They’re trying to make her look bad—don’t you see that? They’re trying to make all of us look bad. It’s like <em>The Daily Prophet</em>, during the war.”</p><p>“Friends?” Ron asked, but the accusation still rang in the word.</p><p>“Yes,” George muttered. “She’s said it herself. We grew up together.” His stomach pinched. “She thinks of me as a friend—like family.”</p><p>“And what do you think of her?” Ron said tightly. George stared at him flatly and hobbled to the kitchenette.</p><p>“Think you could use some coffee or something to sober up,” he muttered. Perhaps Granger had left some during one of her visits. The cupboard door thunked open.</p><p>“Answer my question,” Ron said lowly.</p><p>“Thanks, but no,” George said, not turning from the tea tins he was rifling through. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” He looked over his shoulder at Ron with a dry stare.</p><p>“Don’t play games with me. Not about her,” Ron snapped. “I’ve—I’ve been working myself to death, making something of myself. And you’ve been here, playing around like this isn’t Hermione and I’s lives.”</p><p>George stiffened as he lifted the kettle. So, Ron still fancied that he might win her back.</p><p>“If you so much as lay a <em>finger</em> on her—” Ron’s voice became frigid over the word.</p><p>George slammed the kettle onto the stove and whirled. His foot caught against his crutch, and a line of fire streaked up to his knee. “You’re not really that thick, are you?” George spat. “Do you honestly believe I would lay a hand against Hermione?”</p><p>“Not a hand against—a hand on,” Ron said icily. “And yes. I think you would, if given the opportunity. I think you’d jump at it.” The words snapped like a whip. “You—you and Fred have always been impulsive gits, even when it comes to people you care about.” He spat the words. “So, I’m warning you now—if I find out you’re messing around with her—if there’s truth to—” He flung his hand at the mess of parchments. “You won’t live to see the next day, Mate.” Ron’s face was a bitter mask. “Do that with some other girl. Not Hermione. She deserves—” he paused, blinking.</p><p>“—better.” George finished.</p><p>Ron glanced up at him, features still contorted, then slowly nodded.</p><p>George took another step forward. “Well, hate to disappoint you, since you’re clearly rankling for another go, but I would never, ever ‘mess around’ when it came to her.”</p><p>“Prove it,” Ron said.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Make an unbreakable vow—if given the opportunity, you won’t.” Ron folded his arms. For a moment, a strange, almost desperate look flitted through Ron’s eyes, but when George looked again, it was gone. “If—if you really mean what you’ve said, then it shouldn’t be that big a deal.”</p><p>George blinked again.</p><p>Make—make an unbreakable vow to never—</p><p>He’d meant what he said.</p><p>He’d never mess around with Hermione’s feelings in the cruel way Ron seemed to be describing.</p><p> But unbreakable vows were tied by the intentions of both parties, not just the one. And Ron’s idea of “messing around” may look far different than George’s. If George was merely trying to offer support as he had a few nights before, for example, and Ron’s end interpreted it as a breach of word, that could be—</p><p>Or—or if Hermione ever did grow to—</p><p>Ron’s face hardened.</p><p>George swallowed. He’d hesitated too long.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Ron said.</p><p>“You can’t just ask someone to make an unbreakable vow out of nowhere,” George snapped. “I don’t owe you—”</p><p>Ron threw his outer robe on the floor and began to roll his sleeves.</p><p>“You mad?” George’s voice pitched upwards in incredulity. Ron’s movements were clumsy, slowed by the drink, and yet he still seemed intent on having a go.</p><p>Ron’s wand whipped, and George narrowly ducked under the splash of red sparks.</p><p>He may be drunk, but he was still an auror. One of them was going to hurt if George didn’t put a stop to this.</p><p>George palmed his own wand and eyed the room. He apparated with a crack behind the sofa, lobbing a Stupefy at Ron’s side. He only needed to get him unconscious, then he could have him moved somewhere else.</p><p>Ron knocked the stunner aside with a rough, blue swipe that staggered and cracked unevenly. His face twisted, and he lumbered forward.</p><p>George snapped for the floo bowl and hurled a fistful in. “Fred!” he shouted. He could hear the faint sounds of the Diagon Shop in the background. A clattering sound. Ron’s wand whipped, and George’s shield charm deflected an orange burst, but the edge of it hit his crutch, flinging it against the bureau with a jarring slam.</p><p>“Fred!” George repeated, bracing himself on the sofa’s end as he dodged another streak of orange. A thundering sound, and Fred tumbled out, into the flat. He took one look at George, struggling to maintain his balance, then Ron, whose wand was held in a tight fight, before lunging over the couch.</p><p>George flung a Protego between the other two, and Fred launched a quick series of disarming spells, one after the other, until Ron’s shaken shield popped out, and the magic found its mark.</p><p>Fred caught Ron’s wand, then turned to George. “What happened?”</p><p>George winced and struggled to shove himself upright on one foot. “Heard the floo go off, came in here, and he was waiting with—” He glanced at the papers littering the floor. Fred followed the look, and his expression tightened.</p><p>“What, did you sneak through the Diagon connection?” Fred spat, turning on Ron. “Do I need to rekey the wards to lock you out?”</p><p>“He’s trying to mess around with Hermione,” Ron said, tone hollow with fury. His breath was ragged, shoulders rising and falling. “Take advantage.”</p><p>Fred lifted his brows. “You’re off your trolley,” he said. With three, quick strides, Fred snatched the Firewhiskey from the table and vanished it, then took Ron by the arm. “George wouldn’t do that to anyone—especially not Granger.” He pulled Ron towards the hearth. “C’mon. I’m taking you to Bill’s.”</p><p>Ron protested, digging his heels into the floor, but Fred strongarmed him back through the floo.</p><p>After they left, George gazed around the mess of papers. The kettle began to whistle on the stove, but he couldn’t bring himself to go to it. The burning had gathered in his shin, radiating in frigid pulses that snatched the energy from the rest of his body with each strobe.</p><p>So, the eerie pitch trilled as he watched the image of Hermione on the parchment—hurtling into his embrace outside of her flat, again and again—until he could envision the way it had felt.</p><p>Until the cold went away.</p><p>#</p><p>January 26, 1999, 8:14 p.m.</p><p>The rush of floo fire called from the hearth, and George craned his head off of his pillow, blinking. Hermione stepped out and tossed her book bag on the floor. George’s head fell back. He watched her quietly. Her boots were caked in snow, and she hastily kicked them off before lighting the hearth.</p><p>Normally, he’d jump up, but he didn’t have it in him.</p><p>He felt drained, the exchange with Ron still sore under his ribs.</p><p>“Sorry I’m late, I had to finish up an essay and—” She paused as she spotted him sprawled in bed. “Oh.” She winced. “You were sleeping.”</p><p>George dragged an arm over his face. “S’fine,” he muttered. “Just tired.”</p><p>There was a pause. “Do you mind if I work on the potion, or would you rather be alone?”</p><p>“Whatever you’d like,” George mumbled. He turned onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head.</p><p>He wasn’t—wasn’t stringing her along. Wasn’t trying to mess around with her.</p><p>He was doing his best.</p><p>He could hear her despite the barrier, robes swishing as she crossed the room. A soft hand landed on his shoulder, and George tried and failed to shove Ron’s voice from his mind.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>He nodded. “Bit of a rough day,” he croaked.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Is there a reason why you’ve old <em>Resonant</em> copies all over the floor?” she asked.</p><p>George tightened his grip over the pillow, not removing it. “Ron did some reading,” he said. “Wanted to have a chat.”</p><p>The hand on his shoulder blade faltered.</p><p>“Would’ve been worse, but he was half-way through a bottle of Ogden’s and slow on his feet,” George said wearily. Hermione’s hand began to shift over him in light circles, and George blinked at the warm tide of magic that it provoked.</p><p>“How bad was it, then?” she murmured.</p><p>The tension eased from his frame, and his hand slipped from over top of the pillow. “He was worked up over the headlines and photos—under the impression that I’ve messed with his life and yours.” She gave an exasperated huff, and George shrugged a bit. “I tried to reassure him that we’re friends.” Hermione’s hand paused.</p><p>George ducked his head out from beneath the pillow to peek at her. Granger stared at her knees with a drawn expression.</p><p>“I suppose he didn’t appreciate that logic,” she said quietly.</p><p>George shoved his face back under the pillow. “Yeah.”</p><p>Her hand slipped away. She didn’t say anything else as she crossed to the workstation, and he could hear the distinct clink of pewter and glass, the hushed whisper of her casting.</p><p>He hated leaving the conversation like that. It felt like he’d dropped a heavy weight onto her, then left her to carry it alone. And maybe, if they talked it through a bit more, they’d handle it better together.</p><p>So, he pulled his head out into the open air and propped himself a bit higher on the pillow. The wardrobe obscured half of the workstation, but he could still see her, flitting around it.</p><p>“Tried to make me vow an unbreakable,” he said mildly.</p><p>Hermione paused. “About what?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder.</p><p>George bugged his eyes out. “Charmer that I am, he wanted to preclude me from pulling you into some sort of torrid affair.”</p><p>Granger’s mouth opened. “Did he honestly demand that?” she said, an indignant streak pitching her voice high.</p><p>“He was quite inebriated by that point,” George said, wincing.</p><p>Hermione huffed and spun back to the desk.</p><p>George frowned and bobbed his head, teasing. “I refused, obviously.”</p><p>Granger sputtered.</p><p>He clicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “Seeing as we’re already fully submerged in one,” he said lightly, dusting a piece of lint from his quilt.</p><p>The quip went over well. Hermione snorted, then lolled her head towards him and rolled her eyes.</p><p>George grinned. “I know you’ve got a soft spot for me, Love. Don’t try to deny it.”</p><p>But Granger didn’t laugh.</p><p>She only whirled back to the caldron. “You’re incorrigible,” Granger muttered. “You should get some sleep.” She dusted her hands on her apron.</p><p>Wait—it was his apron. She’d nicked it right off the hook.</p><p>Hermione continued on, checking the lilac volume floating near her head. “Aberforth’s got the last ingredient, and he wants to try at Hog’s Head tomorrow with the others. If all goes well, we’ll be able to test it, and you should be well rested for that.”</p><p>He watched her work until he drifted off.</p><p>He was faintly aware of the floo’s rush, hours later.</p><p>#</p><p>January 27, 1999, 6:45 a.m.</p><p>George pushed through the shelving, sliding a new set of spark bracelets onto the display before crossing to the counter and nicking a box of supplies. The extra sleep from the night before had helped. He’d felt a bit odd, sleeping while she worked, but she hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d left the caldron under a stasis charm, along with a scrap of parchment telling him not to touch it.</p><p>So, he’d gotten an early start on the morning, and now he was almost through tending to the inventory.</p><p>It was always interesting, considering how things sold differently here in comparison to Diagon. For instance, most of their Snackbox sales were sold in Diagon, by mail order, or on Hogsmeade visiting days. But when students weren’t in town, sales slowed on school-related products in the village. Some of the newer oddities seemed to move faster here—like the spark bracelets. It turned out that a lot of the locals appreciated the sparkle of fireworks without the loud blasts.</p><p>Not surprising, given the last year.</p><p>Furthermore, the clientele at Diagon tended to involve more browsers and impulsive shoppers, and they moved a great deal more Blaze Boxes from that location. Hogsmeade, though, had a steady stream from the local community and surrounding area in addition to the students. He sold a good number of sticky shoes to the older crowd. Apparently, the stabilizing and sticking charms helped with balance issues. And the Fever Fudge—people had been asking for the cure-ends alone, just to save themselves the effort of casting a healing spell on a trivial matter like a temperature. He’d started separating the treats into bins with bulk options, and the second halves sold much, much faster.</p><p>Older Hogsmeade denizens had an appreciation for whimsy, but they were by and large more focused on the pragmatic. It wasn’t the same glitter and flash of shopkeeping in Diagon, where amidst the excitement, he and Fred had to shout to be noticed. But, it was equally as exciting to see how people used their inventions in ways that they didn’t predict.</p><p>He’d never get tired of it.</p><p>Regardless of location, however, almost all of their customers liked a good show and laugh. So, George did his best to carry that on. This morning, that meant arranging a new sign over the Wonderwitch products, promoting Crush Blush for the upcoming holiday.</p><p>The potion was simple, really. It didn’t have any effect, other than making the drinker’s face go red when they looked at someone they particularly fancied. A good bit of fun. It’d been one of Fred’s earliest brews, and it sold consistently.</p><p>He plucked the paints and supplies from the box, arranging them over the counter, then lifted the prepared sign onto the work surface. As he leaned his forearms over the cherry red tabletop, the song that wouldn’t ruddy well leave him alone began to spill off his lips, into the early morning stillness.</p><p>“<em>If you change your mind, I’m the first in line</em>,” he mumbled distractedly, taking the brush and dipping it into the white paint.</p><p><em>“Honey, I’m still free. Take a chance on me.”</em> The bristles scraped along the wood. He followed the faint sketch lines, outlining the shape of a bottle.</p><p>A quick Tergeo on the brush.</p><p>Then into the red, which he pulled together with the white to make a pastel pink, comparing the color on the palette with the color of the liquid on the shelf. He made small adjustments, going back and forth until it seemed close enough.</p><p><em>“If you need me let me know, gonna be around,”</em> George sang a bit louder, filling in the white outline.</p><p>A whoosh echoed from his flat. He paused his hand.</p><p>No sound.</p><p>“I’ll floo you back in a minute,” he called.</p><p>He couldn’t hear the answer, but the roar of flame had cut.</p><p>Part of him prickled, remembering how Ron had shown up the day before. But the Diagon location wasn’t open yet, and the only direct connections he had were in Granger’s flat and the other shop.</p><p>After a moment or two of waiting, he relaxed back into the routine, humming the song until it built back into words.</p><p><em>“If you got no place to go, when you’re feeling down,”</em> he sang, brow furrowed as he applied the color along the sign’s border. The wind rushed against the windows, and George continued, louder, over it. <em>“If you’re all alone, when the pretty birds have flown, Honey I’m still free—”</em></p><p>Granger’s face popped through his mind.</p><p>
  <em>“Take a chance on me.” </em>
</p><p>As if.</p><p>A drop of paint splashed outside of the lines, and he gritted his teeth, refocusing on the task at hand.</p><p><em>“Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie.”</em> George kept going, cocking his head and staring at the design. He caste a quick charm to wipe away the mistake he’d made a few moments before.</p><p>It hit him in a strobe.</p><p>Hermione Jean, curled up in his arms—the glow from the telly flickering over them.</p><p>George sucked in a breath and sang through the image, as though he could crowd it out.</p><p>
  <em>“If you put me to the test, if you let me try.” </em>
</p><p>Bugger. That didn’t make the thought go away, nor the wistful ache that accompanied it.</p><p>He paused.</p><p>A faint giggling echoed from the other room. George balked, darted for his crutch, and hurried to the flat door.</p><p>The rush of fire sounded just before he made it through.</p><p>The only thing remaining of her was the faint trace of Chamomile, lingering.</p><p>And—and a record player.</p><p>It was beautiful.</p><p>The dark wooden lid lay propped above the box on a brass arm, and the unit rested on four, spindly legs along the wall on the far end of the kitchenette.</p><p>He hobbled over, frowning in confusion. Had she left it here to show him? Another brass piece affixed to the front speaker’s wire mesh read “<em>HMV</em>.” It rather looked like a table, except better.</p><p>Tables didn’t play songs.</p><p>A small slip of parchment laid inside, with a familiar, shimmering, golden scrawl. He plucked it up and read slowly.</p><p><em>“I stopped by to check the potion and to address your </em><strong>pressing</strong> turntable deficiency.<br/>
(This is an antique. Take it apart, and I hex you.)<br/>
-Hermione Jean”</p><p>Near the bottom, there was one more line scratched in a hastier, black ink:</p><p>
  <em>“Ps. Nice singing”</em>
</p><p>George dropped the parchment, face afire.</p><p>Dear Merlin.</p><p>#</p><p>January 27, 1999, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>George stepped through the floo, Winky lecturing at his side. He caste a stabilizing charm then shook the soot from the Lavender as he peered around.</p><p>Right as planned.</p><p>Granger’s flat was dim—she’d be in classes still.</p><p>“Seems a strange prank for the Wheezy to pull,” she said. “That is all Winky is saying.”</p><p>“She started it,” he said flatly.</p><p>After all, she couldn’t just sneak something—multiple somethings, really—into his flat without expecting retaliation.</p><p>“Does not seem very funny,” Winky said, following as George limped to the kitchen.</p><p>“It is,” George said, looking over the countertop. The elf helped herself into Granger’s pantry, pulling a handful of granola from a sealed jar. With a tap of her finger, the jar re-sealed itself.</p><p>“You’ve got to teach me that one,” George muttered.</p><p>“No,” Winky said, but the corner of her mouth quirked a bit. George placed the sprigs on the middle of the counter. Then adjusted them.</p><p>No. That wasn’t quite right. He shifted them again.</p><p>“And Winky does not understand. The Wheezy has yet to explain himself,” Winky said. The elf stared, calculating, and her gaze prickled over George’s neck.</p><p>George coughed into his fist and then lowered his hand to continue straightened the two stems.</p><p>“It’s funny because Granger thinks she can sneak things into my flat,” he explained, tone distracted as he twisted the soft, purple blooms. “She’s getting what’s coming to her.”</p><p>He slipped a brightly wrapped Honeydukes bar from his pocket and stuck it beside the plant. It was the darkest chocolate they sold.</p><p>Finally, the scrap of parchment.</p><p>
  <em>“Breaking and entering is a crime, Swot.”</em>
</p><p>“They are waiting at Hog’s Head,” Winky said.</p><p>“I know,” George said, staring at the Lavender.</p><p>“Wheezy was only to take Hermione Granger’s books and notes,” Winky said shrewdly.</p><p>George lifted his brows. “Going to tell on me, Winkster?” he asked.</p><p>Winky folded her arms, and her dark, woolen coat rumpled in the front. “Not if the Wheezy buys Winky sweets on the way to the meeting.”</p><p>George gasped. “The extortion,” he said. Then he flashed her a grin. “Fine.”</p><p>Winky snapped, and a stack of volumes piled into her arms. She shoved them towards George, but faltered, eyeing his crutch.</p><p>“I can manage,” he said, taking them from her and slipped them under his other arm. With luck, he wouldn’t need it much longer anyway.</p><p>His heart drummed as he glanced back at the flowers.</p><p>It was only a plant. A bit of greenery.</p><p>That was all.</p><p>#</p><p>January 27, 1999, 6:00 p.m.</p><p>George hovered over the makeshift brewing stand and took a long sip of his Butterbeer. He wasn’t a poor potioneer, but Aberforth, Winky, and Bill insisted on double, then triple-checking every step of the process, lurking around his elbows.</p><p>He didn’t blame them, but he and Hermione had brewed the first half of the potion multiple times, and he had it down by now. It included many of the same, standard elements that were included in a good number of common healing brews.</p><p>The second half, however, was a different matter.  The directions devolved into a complex scrawl, runes and numbers interspersed between words. Bill had taken over reading off the steps so George could focus on getting the stirs and temperature exactly right.</p><p>Some of the ingredients were rather rare, after all, and they couldn’t be wasted on a silly error. Aberforth lifted a tiny vial.</p><p>“Three flakes,” Bill read, squinting at Hermione’s notes. Aberforth removed the flakes using a delicate levitation charm, one at a time with a slow precision. The grey pieces pulsed red and gold.</p><p>“Blimey,” George whispered. “What is that?”  </p><p>Aberforth grunted. “Quiet.”</p><p>Bill seemed to find this quite amusing and snorted before glancing over an Arithmancy equation on a separate sheet of parchment. Winky stood on the tabletop, behind the caldron, pacing back and forth.</p><p>“That’s a bit fast on the clockwise stirs,” Bill muttered. George huffed, handed over the ladle, and crossed to one of the rough, wooden chairs surrounding the book-littered table between the brewing station and the door.</p><p>When Hermione and Luna finally pushed through the Hog’s Head entryway, the sun had disappeared behind the jagged roofline. A wicked cold thrust through the crack in the door, and the lot of them contorted in unison, despite their position close to the fire.</p><p>The only unaffected party was Aberforth, who merely glanced up from the caldron at the other end of the tables with the same grumpy, drawn expression that he always wore. “Close it,” he said.</p><p>Hermione shoved the door shut and returned her hands to her mouth, blowing into them. At her side, Luna shook the ice from her powder blue cloak. Granger hunched, wincing at the group as she blew into her red fingers.</p><p>She was plastered in snow, and George bit his lips together, pushing from his seat.</p><p>“How’s it going?” Hermione asked.</p><p>“Alright so far,” Bill murmured, flipping a page.</p><p>George’s crutch tapped across the floor. “Here,” he whispered, gesturing for her to spin. She did. George pulled her coat off and hung it on the hook beside his own, then removed the familiar, purple scarf. He shook the snow from it, pausing.</p><p>It was soft and thick in his hands. But she seemed rather attached to it still.</p><p>He swallowed, then placed it over her coat.</p><p>Underneath, she had on a thick jumper and denims. They must’ve stopped at her flat on their way to the meeting.</p><p>“Don’t worry, George, I can manage my things,” Luna said cheerfully.</p><p>George’s cheeks went hot.</p><p>“You sure?” he asked, turning to Luna as though he had fully intended to offer the same services, but she was smiling at him as she removed her matching gloves.</p><p>“I think so,” she said. “It’s quite a furious storm out there.” Her light observation seemed odd against the blizzard’s howl.</p><p>Hermione threw her arms around George’s middle. “Merlin, you’re always so warm,” she said, sounding both tired and amused as she pressed her cheek into his striped flannel.</p><p>George coughed in surprise and lifted his brows.</p><p>Luna drifted to the tables, leaving the two of them near the door.</p><p>“Runs in the family,” he said. “Fiery red hair and all that.” He reached around himself and gathered her hands in his before bringing them to his chest.</p><p>Salazar, her skin was ice.</p><p>He studied her fingers with a rueful expression. “More importantly,” he whispered, fixing her with a stern look as he glanced from the red skin to her face. “Where are your mittens?”</p><p>Hermione winced. “Right, um—I haven’t gotten another pair yet,” she said. “I might’ve lost the others that day at the pond.”</p><p>George dropped her hands, startled.</p><p>“Bugger, Granger, you can’t go out in this without—” he started in on her, but she rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “Oi, I’m not through,” he hissed, hobbling after her.</p><p>She took his seat. “Any updates on the keystone’s location?” she asked.</p><p>Bill nodded at some of the texts spread over the table. “Travers Mansion is a larger estate, and they’ve got a proper wall built where there isn’t steep cliff. It’ll almost certainly be there. I’ve commissioned a set of portkeys for Saturday—just to scout. We only have to follow the perimeter, but I’m not sure how long that’ll take. Depends on the conditions.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” Granger said, blowing into her hands again. “And the potion?” George glared down at her, but she didn’t so much as acknowledge him.</p><p>The nerve.</p><p>“We’re nearing the end of your notes,” Aberforth said. “Nothing’s exploded yet.”</p><p>“Lovely,” Hermione said. The corner of her mouth tilted upwards, and she slipped her hand into a large pocket on the front of her grey jumper.</p><p>She drew out the Honeydukes bar, unwrapped it, and took a bite. All without sparing him a glance.</p><p>The cheeky—</p><p>“Are you going to stand there gawking, Weasley, or will you deign to take a seat?” Granger asked. Her tone seemed bored as she reached for the parchment of equations Aberforth handed over. But he could hear it—the faint chime of amusement, peeking through her words.</p><p>When she said “Weasley,” Bill lifted his head. Then he noted George, hovering over the table, snorted, and returned to his book.</p><p>Hermione studied the equations. “And it’s reacting as planned?” she asked. Aberforth nodded. “Brilliant.” She smiled a bit wider. Then, without a look: “Weasley?” She pulled her wand from her plait and flicked it. A chair zipped over, stopping just shy of him.</p><p>George scoffed and dumped his crutch against her lap. She started, but George only blinked innocently as he lowered into the new chair. Hermione tossed the crutch onto the floor, and it clattered.</p><p>Rowena. She was in rare form.</p><p>Her chocolate bar snapped as she took another bite, that same, curious smile playing at her mouth.</p><p>Winky whispered something unintelligible to Luna and Aberforth on the other side of the table, and Luna’s laughter drifted through the room like a bell chime. Aberforth, meanwhile, muttered over the caldron as he summoned a cup from the bar top.</p><p>“That’s a rental,” George whispered, glancing at the crutch. Hermione tilted her head and lifted her brows, but she didn’t acknowledge the remark. Instead, she reached out, nicked his pint—<em>his pint</em>—of Butterbeer and took a sizeable sip.</p><p>He sputtered. “You’re a proper riot today,” he said.</p><p>In response, she snaked a hand over and shoved lightly at his arm. George snagged her hand and lifted it before her face, giving it a little jolt there. Her skin was still frigid, and the sparks seemed dulled in comparison to the blunt, icy sensation.</p><p>“Anyways, as I was saying,” he hissed. “There’s nothing funny about—”</p><p>Aberforth shoved a flask between them, and a sparkling liquid sloshed inside. Hermione darted forward.</p><p>“Wait—” he started forward, but she was already taking a sip.</p><p>She grimaced and coughed. “Merlin, no.” Her voice was a pained squeak. “That’s far too hot.” Suddenly, the skin of her hand burned so hot it hurt in his, and he dropped it, alarmed.</p><p>Her eyes flickered white, and sparks snapped over her mouth. She jolted forward, clutching her ribs.</p><p>“Granger?” George lurched to help, but she shook her head, wheezing.</p><p>Aberforth thunked down a flagon of dark, blue liquid, and Hermione drained it. The red in her face receded.</p><p>“I-I think,” she said, gasping. “Less Phoenix ash.”</p><p>George whirled. “Phoenix ash?” he shouted. “Why the dickens are we brewing with—”</p><p>“Because it’s the only thing strong enough to drive that out,” Aberforth snapped, shooting a pointed look at George’s leg.</p><p>The fireplace cracked, and a log toppled in the grate. George blinked. Hermione took a sizeable bite of the chocolate bar.</p><p>He pinched the bridge of his nose. They’d been laboring over that caldron for days—all that time, all those Galleons, for the sake of his ruddy left foot.</p><p>And now Phoenix ash.</p><p>What if it didn’t work?</p><p>“I told you we were working with some rare ingredients,” Hermione said, shrugging.</p><p>“Yes, but I didn’t think you meant this,” George said, aghast. “Where did you even get Phoenix ash? That’s a Class A Non-Tradeable.”</p><p>If you think I’m about to tell the owner of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes about my Phoenix ash supplier, you’re mad,” Granger said dryly. Then, she snorted, rose, and crossed to the brewing stand, where she began to help Bill dilute the mixture. “Besides, I didn’t buy it, so it’s perfectly legal.” She added the last part in a quiet, distracted tone, brow wrinkled in focus.</p><p>“Yes, but—” George started, mouth agape.</p><p>“She got it from me,” Aberforth cut in tersely. “Unfortunately, I’m a Dumbledore. Now shut it.” He plucked the glass from the table and returned to the workstation.</p><p>George grimaced. “Seems like a waste,” he muttered, glancing at his feet.</p><p>“If this works, you won’t be the only one to benefit. The auror office will be able to use the recipe, otherwise, I’m sure,” Hermione said. “And I’ll be grateful for a well-earned high mark in Potions.”</p><p>Before he could form a reply, she pulled a corked vial from her robe. Bright, golden sparks flowed inside of it.</p><p>The whole room seemed to get a bit warmer, and George found himself leaning in.</p><p>“That’s a bit much,” Bill said, eyeing the glass. The liquid nearly hit the stopper.</p><p>“We don’t have enough supplies for a second batch,” Hermione said. “And too much won’t throw off the calculations. Too little, however, and it won’t move fast enough.” She glanced over the parchment, then the caldron, then the vial. “I don’t want to risk undercharging the reaction.” The mixture glowed over her face as she studied it. “I still have plenty left, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Granger tapped glass with a fingernail, and the light ting it made chimed, knocking into him like a song.</p><p>At the sound, two, simultaneous emotions jolted through him.</p><p>One was awe. Wonder. A faint sense of longing. The other was anxiety—sharp and brutal under his sternum. The longer he stared at it, the stronger the feelings got.</p><p>She drew the stopper out.</p><p>Suddenly, everything in him seemed to reach for it, every nerve throttling to be closer, and the strength of the urge yanked the breath from his lungs.</p><p>“What is that?” George shot out of his chair, his voice clipped. The wood legs thumped against the dusty floor, and fire surged up his knee. He gritted his teeth and braced a hand on the table, but it was no use. He’d thrown too much weight onto it, and bugger, it was threading up to his hip.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him, concern flickering over her features as she tucked the stopper into her pocket. “Magic,” she said.</p><p>She tipped the vial, and the mixture poured like honey into the potion. Something deep under George’s ribs snagged, and his torso seemed to tilt towards the light of its own accord. The potion took on a bright, golden sheen.</p><p>“Whose magic, Granger?” he asked hoarsely.</p><p>“It’s my project, so it’s mine,” she said, distracted.</p><p>George faltered. He hadn’t seen anything about that in the notes, but he’d been focusing on the first half of the brew. She was lacing it with a raw infusion of her own magic, and—</p><p>Without warning, she lifted the ladle and took a small sip. Aberforth and Bill watched carefully, while Luna twisted her Dirigible Plum earring in her hand.</p><p>This time, Granger didn’t wince. She nodded, slow. A little smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “That’s rather nice,” she whispered. She gave another, firmer nod, then turned to George. “It’s ready, I think. So—”</p><p>George balked, anxiety building higher, up his throat.</p><p>He—he wanted to drown in that caldron, just about, which meant that he probably shouldn’t come anywhere near it.</p><p>“Well, let’s wait just a moment,” he said faintly. “There’s a lot of rare bits in there, and I mean—seems like a waste.” He glanced at his foot with a slight frown and a shrug, trying hard for nonchalance. “This’ll heal on its own. You—you mentioned the auror office, maybe someone there could—”</p><p>Hermione blinked slowly.</p><p>The door banged open, and two new figures hurried through. “Shut the bloody door,” Aberforth roared.</p><p>“Calm your Quaffle, it’s only a flurry,” Fred’s voice called, but the door snapped shut nonetheless. “How’s it coming?”</p><p>Granger twisted. “George is being difficult.”</p><p>Fred rolled his eyes and helped Angelina out of her coat. “About what?” Fred asked. He strode, practically springing as he approached George and threw an arm around his shoulders. “I mean, sure, he’s not as brilliant as I am at Potions.” Fred jostled him a bit, then let go. “But he’s not totally helpless, either.”</p><p>George firmed his jaw. “We should save it for someone who actually needs it.”</p><p>“Ah, yes. The noble act,” Fred drawled. His tone flattened. “Don’t be a git. You lot have been working on this for ages.”</p><p>George dragged his free hand over his face. “Yes, and that’s exactly why—”</p><p>Hermione ladled the potion into a clean glass, and George stiffened, speaking louder. “—why we should think about—” but Granger was already advancing towards him. “—might be someone at Mungo’s who needs it, or—” George tripped, wincing as he backed towards the bar.</p><p>Hermione stepped up, right before him.</p><p>“—no really—” George said, clutching the bar top behind him.</p><p>“George,” she said firmly. “It’s for you. It’s been formulated exactly for you. Your height, weight, and the intensity of the Stringos Verbero damage all went into the calculations.”</p><p>She pressed the glass into his chest, and he could feel the heat through his shirt—the magic swirling, soft, and wonderful. It seemed to seize him. Tugging him in.</p><p>And Granger was looking at him, waiting.</p><p>Oh, Merlin he wanted it.</p><p>But it wasn’t safe.</p><p>His knuckles went white on the bar top.</p><p>He sucked in a breath a stared at the ceiling. It did nothing to dim the pull he felt.</p><p>“How’s business been, Aberforth?” Angelina asked a bit loudly, and faint conversation sparked across the space.</p><p>George glanced at the group. Aberforth looked truly bored, and Winky was studying one of the defensive magic volumes while Luna and Angie chatted. Fred, while watching the conversation between the others, had inched back, close enough to hear anything from the bar.</p><p>The git.</p><p>But, then again, if—if something went wrong, Fred would intervene. Surely.</p><p>“Think of it like a hug potion,” Hermione whispered, and a small smile slipped over her face. “Remember?”</p><p>How could he ever forget?</p><p>Her eyes searched his, clear and bright. “Or another product for your shop. It shouldn’t burn too badly—I diluted it to fix the intensity, and it won’t hurt you. At the worst, it just won’t work.” She spoke rapidly, trying to reassure him. “And I promise it doesn’t taste awful.”</p><p>George hesitated, then took the cup from her. “I trust your calculations and everything, Granger,” he said. “I-I just don’t know that I’m the best use for it.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous; we’ve been working towards this for weeks,” she said, rolling her eyes. “All in one go. It’ll be most effective hitting at once, so drink fast.”</p><p>He bit his lips together and stared into the liquid, then back up at her.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>“And you should probably sit down, I’m not certain how it will—”</p><p>George sucked in a breath and knocked the cup back. The first wave of the potion hit, warm and sparking as it washed down his throat. He sputtered in surprise but kept going. It flowed slowly, and as he finished the second swallow, he could feel the rest working gradually down his throat.</p><p>A third swallow.</p><p>He’d emptied it. He rested the cup on the bar top, blinking.</p><p>“How do you feel?” Granger asked quietly.</p><p>He furrowed his brow. “I don’t—”</p><p>And then it hit.</p><p>“Oh,” George breathed.</p><p>Like an earthquake.</p><p>His knees buckled, and he stumbled into the bar. His ribs caught on one of the round, wooden stools while his hand slapped against the thick, pine counter. “I—” George’s palm squeaked as it failed to seek purchase. He was going down, but for the life of him, it felt like he might float away. It was the sensation of his feet, sliding out from under him on the icy pond, over and over in slow motion. But there was no landing. Only</p><p>Tender</p><p>Falling.</p><p>Surely, this wasn’t supposed to happen. “Hermione, it’s—” The draught reached his chest with a tidal wave of glow, and his words garbled into unconnected sound.</p><p>Someone had grabbed him, and they were helping him onto the floor, but he couldn’t—couldn’t think straight.</p><p>“George?” Hermione’s voice echoed over his head.</p><p>The wonderful, wonderful tide settled in his stomach, then branched out, and the world was sewn of light and heat as it surged from his scalp to his heels, rushing up and down his leg.</p><p>His own magic hummed, swirling around his middle, chasing after the faint traces of something undeniably <em>Granger </em>that lingered there. The steady thrum built as his magic circled the strange feeling, almost mingling, melding, but it was just out of grasp.</p><p>Close, but so far.</p><p>He didn’t have time to linger over this before the next wave of glow hit. He was lit with a buzz, and his head rolled to the side as he sucked in a breath that tasted like honey and Chamomile.</p><p>“Godric’s Hollow,” he whispered.</p><p>Someone laughed, but the sound was distant.</p><p>“Georgie?” Hermione’s whisper was clear, close to his head.</p><p>He cracked his eyes open, but his vision was washed out with a brilliant, golden light, and he could only faintly make out the shape of her face through it—upside down over his.</p><p>“Hi,” he breathed.</p><p>The laughter continued.</p><p>“Feeling good, Mate?” Fred’s voice lilted.</p><p>George nodded slowly, a stupid grin spreading over his face as he drew in another breath. “Like carrot cake,” he said, and the words slurred together.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Carrot cake?” she asked.</p><p>Bill appeared over her shoulder, brow drawn as he searched George’s face. “We used to have it often when we were little,” he muttered. “George.” He snapped his fingers in front of George’s face. “Does anything hurt?”</p><p>George shook his head, slow and clumsy. “I feel <em>wonderful</em>,” he said.</p><p>“I bet you do,” Fred said, and in the back of his mind, George could detect a faint, mocking ring, but he couldn’t summon the clarity to investigate it further.</p><p>His hand tremored on his chest, and George blinked at it, smiling.</p><p>“It shouldn’t have caused this strong of a reaction,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“Might’ve been that extra magic you threw in,” Bill mumbled.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth in her hands. “Should we floo Pomfrey?”</p><p>“He’ll be fine,” Bill said, sounding a bit amused.</p><p>“His eyes are glowing,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“I’m—” George blinked. “I’m fine.” Then, he started laughing, for no reason at all, other than he felt unexpectedly delighted.</p><p>“What’s so funny, Georgie?” Fred asked, crouching. Another wave of elation crashed through him, and George’s laughter climbed higher before it slipped away, replaced with a deep, satisfied sigh as his insides beamed steadily.</p><p>He tilted his head, trying to get Hermione to be right-side-up over him, but it didn’t seem to work. “You’re upside down,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling oddly. “I’m the one who’s upside down.” But she shuffled, and then she was facing the right direction.</p><p>George reached a hand up, and it wobbled as he poked the bridge of her nose. “You’re right lovely, you are,” he said, grinning.</p><p>Granger broke into laughter.</p><p>“So, so—” George’s words slipped into each other as he shifted his hand over the back of her neck and drew her in.</p><p>“George.” Fred’s concerned voice was faint and distant.</p><p>“Ridiculously lovely,” George breathed, and his mouth closed on Granger’s forehead. Another wave, smaller this time, and he shivered. Then, he released her, smiling. Granger was still laughing, but her face was a bit pink now as she watched him.</p><p>“Hug potion?” George mumbled, grinning.</p><p>“Hug potion,” Granger whispered back. She shrugged as she smiled back at him.</p><p>“That’s quite the hug, Granger,” he said, breath hitching as another wave hit. “Helga’s sweet, sunny garden.” Granger burst into giggles, and the noise washed over him, warm and wonderful. His eyes slipped closed.</p><p>#</p><p>When they opened, he was on his sofa, and Fred, Angelina, Bill, and Granger’s voices drifted over his head. “So, Mum follows these muddy footprints, right? Getting more and more furious all the while. They trail up the stairs, along the wall, and over the ceiling, until we find the three of them eating dirt in the attic,” Bill said, and another wave of laughter rang out.</p><p>Faint Chamomile filled his nose, and George blinked. A head of tousled curls leaned back against the sofa.</p><p>Fred and Angelina were crammed into the armchair, and Bill sat backwards on a kitchen seat beside them. And—and Hermione rested on the floor, just beside his arm, which was draped over the cushion’s edge.</p><p>As though to reassure himself that she was really there, George lifted his hand to the top of Granger’s head. She was warm and solid, and not a thing hurt.</p><p>At the touch, Hermione twisted, watching him.</p><p>“Oi.” Fred darted forward, dropping his mug on the table.</p><p>George lifted his hands to his head, confused. Then his ribs. Then his leg.</p><p>It didn’t hurt. Not even a little.</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>“How do you feel?” Granger asked, eagerness zipping through the words. George searched over his leg, blinking.</p><p>“It’s—it’s not—” He faltered, sitting upright. He swung his legs down, and the cold fire remained silent as his foot as it met the floor. He pushed it into the rug. Harder. Not so much as a twinge. He blinked up at Granger. “Merlin’s Beard.”</p><p>Hermione shrieked and crashed into him, throwing her arms about his neck. “It worked!” she shouted. “I wasn’t sure, but—” She pulled back, eyes already distant as she rambled at the coffee table. “Some unforeseen side effects, but all that seems to have settled.”</p><p>“Side effects,” Fred snorted.</p><p>George colored violently as it came back to him.</p><p>“Granger,” Fred sighed. “Oh, you’re so very lovely.” Angelina smacked Fred across the stomach.</p><p>“I’ve bottled the remainder of it and put it under stasis,” Granger said, ignoring Fred’s antics as she pointed to the Potions rack on the table. “You’ll need to take one vial every day for the next month. The smaller doses will keep it from flaring up again.” Gold swirled in the glassware.</p><p>George peered at the Potions rack, then at Hermione. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, swallowing.</p><p>Hermione gave shy, little smile. “Why don’t you try walking?” she asked. George shoved to his feet.</p><p>The first step felt a little awkward. He flinched a bit, instinctively expecting the pain, but then it didn’t come, and the next several were far smoother. Hermione studied his movement as he paced, then, apparently satisfied, she began to gather up the mugs.</p><p>She crossed in front of him on the way to the kitchenette, and Bill, Fred, and Angelina’s voices were soft by the fire.</p><p>George headed after her, and his stride didn’t catch or stumble.</p><p>She settled the dishes in the sink and pulled out her wand. And George?</p><p>George stood on two feet, lump growing in his throat.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said. She blinked up at him. He snagged her wrist, then pulled her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Slowly, hers came up around his middle. “Thank you,” he said quietly.</p><p>She shrugged.</p><p>“I mean it. This is incredible. Brilliant,” he said, jogging her a bit. “<em>You’re</em>—you’re brilliant.”</p><p>She gave a small snort against his shirt, then launched into a stream of prattle. “It wasn’t all that complicated, I mean, muggles use controlled burning all the time, so when Aberforth suggested we fight the fire symptoms with other fire, it made sense, and I only had to sort how to control the one we brewed, and—”</p><p>“Hermione?” He mumbled her name into her curls.</p><p>“Hm?” she asked.</p><p>“Accept the compliment,” he said.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“If you insist.”</p><p>#</p><p>After the lot of them went home, George poured himself a cuppa, fell into his armchair, and summoned the knitting basket with a snap. He eyed the soft, gold project that was rapidly becoming a sizeable blanket.</p><p>The color was nice, though.</p><p>He pulled an extra skein of it into his lap, then two needles. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d begun to caste on.</p><p>He knitted late into the night, face growing warmer and warmer as he considered the precise shape and feel of her hand in his, when they’d fallen asleep during the film.</p><p>#</p><p>January 28, 1999, 3:00 p.m.</p><p>George snuck through Granger’s floo, whistling a nonsense tune as it came to him. The flat was dark, and the window did little to help. The storm outside was still raging.</p><p>George tapped his wand to his boots to Scourgify the soot before lifting it and casting a Lumos. A short trill echoed from the corridor, and Crooks trotted into view. George stooped to give him the obligatory pat. Then, he stood and hopped lightly over the kneazle before heading to the counter.</p><p>On his way, something caught his eye on the sideboard.</p><p>She’d placed the Lavender in a small, yellow-gold vase.</p><p>George paused—nonsensical, happy sparks shooting through him.</p><p>Crooks mewled, and George shot him a stern look. “I’m afraid I’m not here to feed you, sir,” he murmured.</p><p>Then, George nodded along to the sounds of Crookshanks’s ire as he pulled another Honeyduke’s bar from one pocket, and a pair of thick, gold mittens from the other. He’d followed the same principle as the socks—opting to go a bit larger, rather than having them be too snug.</p><p>But, well—this time, it’d been easier to guess.  </p><p>Whistling, he arranged them on her counter, slipping the chocolate bar inside one, then slotting the other over to cover the remainder of the sweet.</p><p>Like a little, yellow submarine.</p><p>The thought hit him, ridiculous and silly, and he found that the words sort of fit the tune he was whistling.</p><p>Odd, that.</p><p>#</p><p>January 28, 1999, 6:45 p.m.</p><p>“You git,” Hermione cried, laughing as she fumbled out of his fireplace. George swiveled his head from where he lay stretched on the couch. She had the mittens on.</p><p>He grinned and turned back to his blueprints, shifting to brace a hand behind his head. “Haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about,” he said.</p><p>“As if,” she said, and a golden wad of stitches sailed through the air, hitting him in the face. His grin stretched a bit wider as she neared, and he cocked a brow at the blue parchment in his hands.</p><p>“Truly, I’m innocent,” he said. “Have you asked Aberforth, or maybe—”</p><p>Hermione lifted his feet and flopped into the place they had been.</p><p>“I think Aberforth would move overseas if I asked him something so ridiculous,” she said.</p><p>“Really?” George said, squinting at her. He cleared his throat. “I mean, he’s always seemed the sort to enjoy a good yarn project.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed.</p><p>“What, he’s never shown you his collection of potholders?” George carried on, and Hermione cracked up. “Oh, Granger, they’re magnificent.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “And on Sundays, he puts the fancy, lace doilies out on the tables. It’s quite posh.” He pointed his thumb at her to emphasize the words.</p><p>She smacked his shin. “You’re ridiculous,” she said.</p><p>George tossed the blueprints over his head. “And don’t you forget it,” he cried. He darted upright and tapped a finger to the bridge of her nose. Her giggles erupted, and George cracked into quiet laughter at the sound.</p><p>Once she’d settled, he broached the subject. Gentle, not pushing.</p><p>“So,” he said. “About, um, Occlumency.”</p><p>She shut down—the whole of her mirth snapping out. “I don’t know that I want to try that again,” she mumbled.</p><p>He nodded. “You don’t have to,” he said carefully. “But I thought of a safer way to walk you through the principles, if you’d like.”</p><p>Hermione chewed her lip.</p><p>George tilted his head to keep eye contact. “Daydream Charms sort of mimic the mind’s landscape, but they don’t have the same risks,” he said softly. “If things get moved about, nothing bad happens.” He traced the top of the sofa’s back as he watched her. “And, if something goes wrong, it’s easy to shut off.”</p><p>Hermione twisted her hands. “But would that experience transfer?” she asked.</p><p>“There are some differences,” he said, halting. “It’ll be more like playing around with something dressed as Occlumency, rather than doing it in actuality.”</p><p>Hermione’s brows knit together, and she lifted one of the mittens, turning it over in her hands. “Like when Lupin taught Harry the Patronus charm, using a boggart?”</p><p>George watched the mitten, then her face. “Yeah.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>He winced. “And it bears mentioning that casting in a Daydream Charm is fairly easy. Fred and I designed them that way on purpose—it makes them more fun, but whatever you do inside can be far more difficult in reality.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. “Okay.”</p><p>“Yeah?” he asked. She nodded.</p><p>“Brilliant,” he said, bounding to his workstation to pull out a crate. The little cubes of white and red cardboard were layered inside. “I’ve some extra stock, so—”</p><p>“George?” she asked.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Why did you first get into Occlumency?” The question was quiet.</p><p>“Always liked the idea. Not sure why,” George mumbled, searching through the little, red boxes for a suitable one. “Something about guarding the mind felt important, I reckon. Didn’t get much practice with it until fifth year, though.” He waffled between two options, then peeked over his shoulder.</p><p>“What d’you fancy—ship or ice castle?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Castle,” she said.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George plucked it up and strode back to her. He vaulted over the couch and landed at her side. Hermione took one end of the box, and he held the other.</p><p>He winked, then flipped the lid open.</p><p>#</p><p>It pulled them in, dropping them in the center of the long chamber. Icicles dangled from the high, vaulted ceilings, and lights twinkled up and down the walls in little, blue specks. Large, circular tables were grouped in the background, and at the front of the room, there were three massive pines.</p><p>Hermione turned in a slow circle. “This is Yule Ball,” she said.</p><p>George paused in his efforts to roll his sleeves up. “Yes?” he said.</p><p>Hermione laughed, and the sound ricocheted over the tile. A smokey figure stepped from behind the entry and bowed low.</p><p>“What’s that?” she asked, gaze twinkling.</p><p>George snorted. “A dancing partner,” he said. “But we won’t be needing him, I think.” He waved the bloke away, and the man retreated with Fred’s familiar, springing gate.</p><p>Then, George cleared his throat. “Now.” His voice boomed louder over the hall. “We’re going to think of this in terms of walls or barriers, alright?”</p><p>As he spoke, he focused a thin, clear boundary between him and Granger. Like glass.</p><p>“Visualizing it helps most people,” he said. “This took less effort, but it’s also more fragile.” She nodded. “Go on,” he said. “See if you can knock it down.”</p><p>She should be able to, with some effort.</p><p>Hermione raised an index finger and tapped the glass.</p><p>It shattered.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>George faltered. “Right, great,” he said, staring at the little, crystalline pieces all over the floor.</p><p>“So, do I need to use a wand, or will it know?” she asked. George blinked.</p><p>“You can do either,” he said faintly. “In reality, it’s best to start with a wand in hand, but once you’re practiced, the magic is focused by the refractions in your head.”</p><p>She’d just given it a little tap.</p><p>And the whole thing—</p><p>“Occlumens,” she whispered.</p><p>Nothing happened. Hermione’s face scrunched.</p><p>George strode to her and plucked her wand from her plait. “Here.” She took it. “Where are you trying to place it?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth twisted. “Do I look at the ground, or the space it will be?”</p><p>“It’s best to be specific, especially as you’re first learning, so ground,” he said.</p><p>Hermione turned. “Show me,” she said.</p><p>George shrugged a bit, then stepped closer. “Okay, um—” He took her casting arm, fitting his hand around hers. “First, you should widen your stance a bit. Try to balance, every part of yourself.”</p><p>It wasn’t necessary, but focusing on balance would increase her odds of success.</p><p>She stepped back, into his chest. An odd light-headedness took him.</p><p>He cleared his throat.</p><p>“Perfect,” he said. “And now, we point right where we’d like it to go, like casting a shield.” She shifted her wand down to the floor just in front of them. Then, Granger glanced up at him, questioning, a look of hesitancy coming over her face.</p><p>George nodded. “Before you caste,” he said, a bit quieter. “Consider yourself immovable.” Hermione straightened her shoulders. “Unshaken.” He murmured as he gently brought her left arm to extend parallel with her right. He shifted, flattening the palm of her hand towards the spot she was aiming at.</p><p>Like a wall.  </p><p>“Protected,” he continued, whispering over her ear as he held her steady in place. “And most of all—loved.” He stepped away, and she held her stance. “That’s where the strongest Occlumency comes from.”</p><p>Hermione took a deep breath.</p><p>A wall of gold thundered into view, climbing from the floor to the ceiling.</p><p>#</p><p>January 30, 1999, 10:00 a.m.</p><p>George’s fingers clung on the large, copper pot as the portkey’s magic flung them hard in a circle. Bill bashed against his right shoulder, and Granger his left. He could faintly make out the sound of her yelp over the torrent of wind and snow. The torrent pulled her, then flung her back. Fighting the current of gravity, George wrapped his free arm around her waist to hold her steady.</p><p>The centrifugal force cut, and the lot of them went flying. The ground slammed into his back, something heavy impacting his front, and they rolled in a heap.</p><p>“Alright?” Bill shouted over the wind. Clouds swirled around his legs, and George could faintly make out the forms of Aberforth, Luna, and Winky, righting themselves across the clearing.</p><p>Granger sprawled over him, wincing. She lifted a hand to signal Bill, then pulled herself to her feet. “Thanks,” she called. Snow and sleet pounded over them, and the rocky surface of this particular stretch of the Black Mountains’ Peak District was slick with ice.</p><p>Unfortunately, the Travers family hadn’t found the flatter moorlands or the more forgiving parts of the Dragon’s Back to be desirable location for their estate. No. They’d gone for Plymiaswn—the magically veiled monstrosity that towered over them. On either side, the land looked as though it had been pinched and pulled from the earth into a jagged crest that leapt in a sudden climb towards the summit. The muggles couldn’t see it or the several, other large pinnacles that dotted the skyline, protected as they were due to the magical creatures that inhabited them.</p><p>Plymiaswn was the tallest of them all. George had to crane his neck and strain to see the cliff top, where a frozen, flowing river cascaded and rushed over the lip of rock, until it dropped into a steep plummet in the canyon between their clearing and the mountain.</p><p>The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he watched it fall.</p><p>Like fear, in the shape of water.</p><p>Perfectly ideal landscape for raising a family. Who wouldn’t want to live here?</p><p>George scoffed.</p><p>Bill worked quickly, erecting the tent and waving them in.</p><p>George let the others enter first. As he ducked beneath the flap, a faint, harrowing roar shook the ground like song made of thunder.</p><p>“That’ll be the Welsh Greens,” Bill muttered, flicking his gaze toward the window. “Charlie says the cold makes ‘em fly off the handle.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>The magical barrier of the tent wrapped around him, and instantly, the outside’s frigid teeth released him. The canvas material shifted into a dark wood past the entry, where the charms provided thicker insulation. Aberforth kicked the hearth, and a small fire sprung from it, sputtering.</p><p>This tent was smaller than the one they’d used at the Quidditch World Cup, but it had a little kitchenette, a rough, wooden table in the center, a loo, and a set of solid, oak bunkbeds in the adjoining room.</p><p>Apparently, Bill had used it in his Mastery days, cursebreaking alongside the other apprentices.</p><p>It was rather cozy. Like being in a tiny log cabin.</p><p>A tiny log cabin that happened to be positioned beside an evil precipice.</p><p>Granger spread a roll of parchment over the table.</p><p>“Wish the storm had calmed,” Bill muttered. “But I hate to waste a portkey.”</p><p>“We’ll be careful,” Hermione said, gazing over the rough map Bill had made. Luna hummed softly, opened the fridge, and glanced over the stock of food George had thrown in before departure. She rifled through the items, only to pull a musty looking bottle from the very back. The liquid inside was a rusty, dark brown.</p><p>Bill winced. “That might be older than you are,” he muttered. Luna reflected over it for a moment before cracking it open.</p><p>“Yes, it smells older than I am,” she said mildly.</p><p>Aberforth nabbed it from her hand, took a swig, and nodded. “Fifteen, give or take,” he said. “Beyond rancid.” He took another drink.</p><p>George rifled through his bag and threw Luna a pumpkin juice. Luna smiled and popped the lid. Winky tugged her sleeve, and Luna handed it down without remark.</p><p>“We’re just trying to find the stone, today,” Hermione murmured, studying the parchment.</p><p>Bill nodded. He dropped the copper pot onto the table. “This one leaves at sundown—just before five, here,” he said. Then, he withdrew a second, tin pan, and placed it to the side. “And this one leaves at noon tomorrow, in case we need a bit of extra time.” He circled around.</p><p>“It’d be faster if we split into two groups and searched half the route each,” Bill mumbled, leaning over Granger’s shoulder to examine Plymiaswn’s rough perimeter on the map. “One group can take brooms, the other can go on foot.”</p><p>George crossed to Hermione’s other side and pulled up a chair before dropping into it and resting his arms over the back. “I’ve got my broom with the others, but if we’re not all flying, I’d rather go on foot.” he said. “I’d rather we not separate the group.”</p><p>Hermione glanced at him, and her eyes flickered over his expression. “I don’t disagree,” she said.</p><p>George propped his chin on his arms. “It just seems like a good way for something terrible to happen,” he said.</p><p>Winky nodded, popping onto Aberforth’s shoulders.</p><p>“I agree. Let’s take the brooms together, then,” Hermione said. “Hopefully, that will speed things along.” She stood and rolled the parchment.</p><p>Bill cleared his throat. “You sure you’re up for that?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “I’ll be fine if I ride with George,” she said distractedly as she tucked the parchment into a small shoulder bag.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>George blinked and straightened in his chair. She paused and turned to him, coloring. “If that’s alright with you?”  </p><p>Behind her shoulder, Bill’s brow cocked the slightest bit before his face resumed a mask of neutrality.</p><p>George shrugged and bobbed his head. “Of course,” he said. Unbidden, excitement flared in his ribs, and he tried to tamp it down, but it—it wouldn’t go. “If that’s what you’d like.”</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>He sounded too eager. He was always doing that.</p><p>But Hermione only nodded rapidly, then crossed to speak with Winky. She hadn’t seemed phased by his reaction. That was good. He sucked in a calming breath.</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll be fine if I ride with George.” </em>
</p><p>Merlin. She’d said it so matter-of-factly.</p><p>A sobering, second thought hit him: He was about to fly in a blizzard, up a mountain, with Hermione’s life in his hands.</p><p>Aberforth peered out the window. “We’ll be able to make it to the ridge with care, but I don’t care to fly much higher.”</p><p>Bill pulled open the hutch in the back. Two shelves were packed with rough, wool blankets, but underneath, his brother had stashed the group’s brooms so they wouldn’t have to keep hold of them while working with the Portkey.</p><p>George plucked the familiar, worn wooden handle out from the rest. He still used the same one he’d had on the Quidditch team.</p><p>He could afford a nicer model at this point, but there was something about the old Cleensweep that felt right in his hands.</p><p>He turned, searching Granger for signs of anxiety as she began to sort out the other gear. There was only a sheer grit in her expression.</p><p>First came the extra jumpers, hats, and gloves—dragon-leather, on loan from Bill and Aberforth, enchanted to fit like a second skin to make casting in the inclement weather less cumbersome.</p><p>They built the layers slowly, lacing warming and shield charms into each item. Magic cracked softly amongst the rustle of fabrics</p><p>Then, the cloaks.</p><p>At some point, Luna had enchanted hers, and a shimmering, silver thread now lined the hem. Aberforth’s looked like it hadn’t been unfolded from its wad since November. Winky had already been wearing hers, but now she was preoccupied, layering a pair of Bill’s Puddlemere United socks over each ear, then a hat on top.</p><p>George tugged his gloves up, under the sleeves of his cloak, and the magic hissed through the dragon scales, shifting the wool to fit him.</p><p>Suddenly, Hermione reached for his cloak’s clasp, and George’s fingers fumbled on the glove buckle. He felt it click, like a key in a lock, right over his heart. But her hands didn’t fall. Instead, she set about straightening and fastening the collar to shield his neck. Her touch flitted over the skin there, soft and flickering with the same, golden light that he’d taken from a vial, earlier in the day.</p><p>He exhaled a little, searching her face.</p><p>She didn’t notice his assessment, busy as she was with helping.</p><p>Then—then she moved on to the hood, and her hand brushed the base of his scar as she pulled it up and over his head. George blinked, heat flooding his face.</p><p>Next, Hermione set about fixing it in place to his knit cap with a series of sticking charms.</p><p>Maybe Granger would like a hand as well.</p><p>“Um—” George hesitated. Then, he nodded at her hood a bit awkwardly before letting the impulse take him.</p><p>He reached up, working around her arms as he began to do the same for her—clasping the fastener, fixing the collar, and arranging the hood. The others’ soft murmurs filtered through the room as George and Hermione worked in silence.</p><p>Her curls were all tucked away, tamed into a plait that was covered by the familiar, grey knit of a WWW shield hat. He stuck the hood in place along the top and sides, giving it a small tug to make sure that it would hold.</p><p>He searched the hemline for gaps between the hood and cap, hands pausing atop her ears, wrists hovering near her cheeks. She’d flushed pink from the cold or perhaps worry. He couldn’t tell which.</p><p>At some point during his perusal, her fingers had stilled on the hem of his hat, and her thumbs fluttered over the fabric covering his ears.</p><p>His breath hitched. “Alright?” George asked, grappling for a brotherly tone.  He didn’t quite manage it. Her lashes fluttered, and then her eyes met his. Warm, brown, and wide.</p><p>She had a raw look about her. “Yes,” she said, a bit thickly.</p><p>She didn’t look alright.</p><p>“George?” she whispered.</p><p>He lifted his brows.</p><p>“Stay safe,” she breathed.</p><p>Oh, Hermione.</p><p>He slipped his palms down and gave her a lopsided smile as he cradled her cheeks.</p><p>“Stay warm,” he replied.</p><p>#</p><p>Bill left the tin portkey in the tent before shrinking and pocketing the copper one. Outside, the wind howled terribly, and the snow came up to his mid-shin.</p><p>They were to look until they found it, or until sundown. If they lucked out, they’d mark the location, return to camp to pack, and take the first portkey back to Hogsmeade. If they didn’t, they’d stay the night and finish the perimeter sweep in the morning, then take the second portkey.</p><p>George threw a leg over the broom, then extended an arm in gesture.</p><p>Granger seated herself in front of him. He reached around her arms to take the handle, and her back eased into his chest.</p><p>Despite having braced for it, George’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Chamomile, wool, and light. Her arms, running the line of his from wrist to shoulder. Her heart, tucked close to his own.</p><p>In the middle of a blizzard, awash in glow.</p><p>He could see it on her now, faint, golden, wisping into the air around her.</p><p>Sound seemed to fade, and when she whispered, it was the only thing he heard: “Are you cold?”</p><p>“No,” he breathed.</p><p>“Your arms are shaking a bit.”</p><p>“Nerves.”</p><p>
  <em>“I, George Fabian Weasley—” </em>
</p><p>His magic rushed, shoving the words towards his tongue, but he gritted his teeth and bit them back.</p><p>He had to focus.</p><p>He—he needed to Occlude.</p><p>But before he could, Granger spoke, wiping the intention from his mind. “You’re going to do brilliantly,” she said, twisting in his arms to speak near his ear. “Don’t worry. I’m a bit intimidated as well, but we’re ready for this.”</p><p>He blinked hard as the words hit him and his mind took him to cruel places—places where she meant that about—about them.</p><p>“You sure?” he asked, swallowing back the lump in his throat.  </p><p>Those places weren’t meant to be.  </p><p>Here he was, holding her close, and she was still as far as ever.</p><p>She eyed the mountain, the sheer rock, the spires crawling into the distant fog. “Positive.”</p><p>Did she know that she was surrounded in faint light? Could she see it? Or was it just him?</p><p>He dragged in a breath.</p><p>Another.</p><p>The sounds of the storm crept back to him slowly, Granger warm in his arms.</p><p>Luna and Aberforth were mounting their brooms in front, and Winky had strapped herself into a harness on Aberforth’s shoulders. Bill was already hovering over the snow, waiting on the rest of them.</p><p>“Are you ready?” he said against her ear. He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him over a sudden gust, as she didn’t respond initially. But then she nodded and brought her hands to hold the broom just under his.</p><p>Bill gestured and pointed to a spot along the ridge overhead.</p><p>The rest of them nodded. George kicked off, and despite the winds, despite the storm, despite the heavens raining punishments of ice and snow and all manner of nightmares onto their fragile heads—Hermione Jean and George rose.</p><p>And it was easy as breathing.</p><p>They seemed to click into place. When he veered to accommodate a gust, she moved with him. When he leaned forward, to hug low to the ground—if that’s what one could call the terrain that often twisted into an almost perpendicular slope—she seemed to anticipate it and shifted into the proper stance. When the gales knocked them about, Hermione didn’t let go of her hold on the broom, and George didn’t let go of his hold around Hermione. Two sets of eyes fixed on one, singular purpose.</p><p>#</p><p>January 30, 1999, 4:30 p.m.</p><p>A rain of ice tumbled past behind them, and George grimaced.</p><p>The conditions had improved a few hours ago. The blizzard had stopped, save for the wind, but the terrain was still difficult to navigate.</p><p>The Travers mansion loomed at the top of the peak, and the ledge they’d seen from below looped all the way around the mountain in a ring, save for a few locations. In these places, it broke away into steep drops that were covered by a series of stone bridges—the largest of which spanned the waterfall. The rocky ledge had an outcropping near that same place, which appeared to spiral up, along the mountain’s face, leading to the house. But the keystone would be further out, positioned near whatever the family had designated as “wall” for the sake of the ward enchantments.</p><p>And the ledge was the closest thing to a wall. It was the only closed circle that clearly encompassed the property. It acted effectively as one, too—prohibiting all but the most determined of visitors. It was their best, most likely bet. But, as the day had gone on, the lot of them had grown less and less sure of their success.</p><p>“It’ll be dark soon,” Bill mumbled, checking his watch. They’d looped almost all the way around, and had come upon the last, largest bridge.</p><p>Water rushed loud in George’s ears.</p><p>How was the water running when it was this cold?</p><p>Winky had gone to speak with the elves inside, then returned, looking exhausted, withdrawn, and downcast. It rattled him.</p><p>Somewhere, along the way, Winky had begun to open up a smidge. He hadn’t realized how much, until she suddenly closed off again.</p><p>“Slowly,” Aberforth muttered, snapping a hand out to halt Granger’s elbow. Hermione nodded stiffly.</p><p>Save for Winky (who needed to conserve her energy), they weren’t able to apparate anywhere on the mountain’s face, and it was putting them all on edge as the risk of ice or rock fall was high.</p><p>While the ground on the ledge was mostly flat, the slopes on either side of them weren’t, and they’d moved carefully and quietly to avoid provoking the mountain’s wrath.</p><p>Bill caste another detection spell. Any rune at all would trigger it.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Just like all the other times.</p><p>A few sighs, and they crept forward another several yards.</p><p>Their feet cut through the thickly packed snow layer, into the fluffier contents beneath. Until their boots scraped the jagged rocks.</p><p>A distant roar.</p><p>Aberforth grimaced and flicked his gaze towards the summit. They might respect the threat of avalanche, but the Welsh Greens didn’t.</p><p>Bill muttered, approaching the bridge. He slashed his wand.</p><p>A jolt of red sparks flared on the underside of the archway.</p><p>Right.</p><p>In.</p><p>The middle.</p><p>Bill swore.</p><p>Hermione clambered over to the bridge’s edge, where she craned towards the ledge, straining to see more in the direction of the red splash. George crossed to her side. Water pounded down the rock face behind them, and the noise was suddenly overpowering.</p><p>“I can’t see it from here,” she shouted over the roar, glancing at George. “Can we take your broom?”</p><p>“It’s rather windy, still,” he shouted back.</p><p>“Please?” she asked. “Just for a moment to check.”</p><p>He pulled it from the semi-permanent sticking charm from his back and threw his leg over.</p><p>“Make it quick,” Bill called. “We’ve got less than twenty minutes, and if we hurry, we can pack up and take the first portkey.”</p><p>Granger settled in front of him, and George guided them up. A gust slammed them, knocking them off course. He leveled the handle and directed them around the bridge’s rocky wall. Down.</p><p>Then under.</p><p>The frigid spray nipped at their faces, and both of them flinched. The warming charms laced through his layers had faded hours ago. Hermione, thankfully, still felt warm. But they were both tired.</p><p>She had to be, even if she didn’t look it on the outside. She tipped her chin up, mouthing silently as she examined the spot Bill’s spell had flared.</p><p>The “Beneath” rune, lines unlit.</p><p>“We found it,” Hermione whispered. She lifted her wand, pointing it at the mark. “It’s the same marking as—” a blast of wind hit, knocking the broom higher, and Granger’s wand collided with the rune’s center.</p><p>It flashed with a pale green, all at once.</p><p>A grey fog billowed out, and George yanked the broom away as the smoke spun through the air, filtering onto the bridge.</p><p>It materialized into a ragged, gaunt man. His face was obscured by the wisps, and he held a jagged wand in his left hand, a small bell in his right. In both style and condition, his robes looked old—older, even, than the ones on the most Nicolas Flamel wore in his Chocolate Frog card. More like the drawings in George’s old <em>History of Magic</em> textbook.</p><p>Its jaw dropped, coming unhinged, and the wispy skin seemed to stretch thin as the mandible hit its chest.</p><p>
  <em>“Pay the toll.” </em>
</p><p>The voice rumbled loud and cold, and the projection extended its hands. Bill and Aberforth were already in motion, blue cracking out from their wands.</p><p>George, however, had to keep hold of the bloody broom.</p><p>“Mudblood,” it hissed, and the wand shifted to Hermione.</p><p>No.</p><p>A jet of black flung from the mist.</p><p>George whirled the broomstick away. Hermione tried to caste a shield, but it missed.</p><p>Luckily, Aberforth’s hadn’t, and the whip cracked against the blue light.</p><p>The phantom raised its other arm and shook the instrument.</p><p>A loud, eerie bell clanged, like metal, smashing on metal. Fear’s icy tendrils squeezed in around his ribs as the world shook.</p><p>The roaring in the distance grew louder.</p><p>Another bolt of darkness.</p><p>
  <em>“Pay the toll.”</em>
</p><p>The figure’s arm flung back, then it shot off another bolt of darkness.</p><p>“Hang on, Granger,” George shouted, yanking them upwards, folding her under him as he plastered them to the broom to pick up speed.</p><p>It chased them. Higher, higher.</p><p>Aberforth’s spell found it and knocked it away. George whipped the broom back down. Hermione’s hand fell on his forearm like a vice.</p><p>“Hold the bloody broom!” he shouted. “Now!”</p><p>She ripped her hand away, pointed her wand, and threw an Ignis Fulgure down as they circled over the mist.</p><p>The lightning spell cracked, ripping through the fog, but it seemed to charge the enchantment. The figure strobed, and the grey mist spun out, covering the whole of the bridge.</p><p>It swirled, spinning and building into a vortex.</p><p>“We need to go!” George yelled.</p><p>“Land!” Hermione cried. “They need our help!”</p><p>Winky, Bill, Aberforth, and Luna were casting shields as fast as they could, but the storm of dark ate through them. Winky’s face was drawn as she balanced on Aberforth’s shoulders, directing additional strobes of lighter blue to keep the trembling rubble overhead in place.</p><p> George brought them to the ledge, and the ground slammed his heels. Hermione was off the broom in a flash.</p><p>The smoke twisted up the mountain side, then flanked them.</p><p>No.</p><p>George sucked in a breath and threw himself into the shield. It wouldn’t touch her.</p><p>At his side, Hermione shifted from a defensive form to one of attack. Her cloak snapped as she carved a flat line through the air with her wand. Fluid. A spin on her heel, and she flowed seamlessly from the nonverbal Impedimenta to the darting jab of an Expulso. The fog’s roil slowed, then staggered back. George stepped in tandem with her, pushing the shield.</p><p>A roar like an uncanny, wild melody rocked through him—louder than anything he’d ever heard, maybe. Seconds slowed, sputtering to a hault as a jet of flame blossomed through the mist.</p><p>And they were right in its path.</p><p>George snapped, and an arc of purple spun from his fingers.</p><p>Not an Accio. That wouldn’t be fast enough.</p><p>It was a Carpe Retractum.</p><p>It snagged Granger in the chest.</p><p>Her surprised exhale lit his veins, and he yanked her in.</p><p>Hermione’s back slammed into his ribs, and he flung his wand up and over them.</p><p>Please—</p><p>“Protego Horribilis!”</p><p>The spell tore from him as he shoved her into the ground and covered her body with his own.</p><p>Teeth</p><p>Grinding</p><p>Earth</p><p>Shaking</p><p>Fianto</p><p>Duri</p><p>Fire, blistering, pressing around the small, blue orb.</p><p>Hold</p><p> </p><p>The</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Line.</p><p>Silence as the jet stopped.</p><p>Then, Bill’s choked, plaintive cry: “No, George—”</p><p>He sounded young.</p><p>Frightened.</p><p>Not like Bill.</p><p>Not like Bill at all.</p><p>“Watch yourself, boy!” Aberforth’s shout boomed.</p><p>George blinked. The blue shimmered over them, and Granger stared up at him, round eyed as the smoke furled around them. His spell cracked out, and he shoved to his feet. At first, he couldn’t see through the polluted air, but as it cleared, he could make it out. The mist—creeping back, retreating towards the bridge.</p><p>The ground shook.</p><p>Why was the ground shaking?</p><p>Aberforth, Bill, and Winky flung magic at the grey over the bridge, fighting back the dark cords that snaked out.</p><p>But Luna stood, eyes fixed on something behind George.</p><p>Two things happened at once.</p><p>The sound of Hermione’s sharp breath, and her panic-ridden tone as she cried his name: “George!”</p><p>And the sight of Luna, lowering her chin and unclasping her cloak in a deft movement. The silver trimmed wool rippled to the ground. White-blonde hair, streaming through the grey as she took one bound. Two.</p><p>Hermione’s hand yanked his elbow, and George spun.</p><p>No more than ten yards away—</p><p>A Welsh Green towered, heaving smoke, four legs tense and gripping the mountain side. Its neck snapped back and forth. Furious, brown-green eyes narrowed on them. It flung its head in an agitated jerk before cranking its jaw.</p><p>Razor teeth, the length of George’s body.</p><p>He threw an arm in front of Granger.</p><p>And then a new sound rang from behind them: a low, brutal growl that exploded into barks.</p><p>A massive form cleared the air above their heads.</p><p>The dire wolf landed between them and the dragon.</p><p>As it touched down, its front paws collided first with the snow and then the back two landed gracefully after. Power thrummed from its stance. Despite the falling sun, it was a brilliant white—so bright it was almost silver.</p><p>Merlin’s Beard.</p><p>
  <em>Luna.</em>
</p><p>Then time sped.</p><p>Luna bounded up the slope, drawing the dragon’s attention from them. She opened over the landscape like she’d been born on it, leaping and twisting with precision. The dire wolf wove back and forth, attempting to drive the dragon off. Herding it, almost.</p><p>He could see it in the way she moved. An effort to startle—not harm.</p><p>At first, it seemed to work. The dragon stumbled backwards a few steps, blinking and snapping. But then its vision locked on Luna’s form.</p><p>
  <em>“Welsh Greens aren’t very aggressive, usually. But they’ll snack on the local sheep—sometimes the dogs, if they’re left to wander—”</em>
</p><p>Charlie’s voice clanged through George’s mind a moment too late.</p><p>He shifted his wand, shield spell spinning off his lips, but—</p><p>The dragon’s claw slammed into Luna’s body, and a sickening yelp rent the landscape. White, tossed like a rag overhead.</p><p>Hermione screamed.</p><p>Luna shrank in the air, her silhouette curling.</p><p>A loud crack.</p><p>Winky, grabbing hold, and another crack.</p><p>George’s shield surged into view, blocking off the Welsh Green.</p><p>It launched, spinning through the sky, then landed between George, Hermione, and the others.</p><p>He could see them through the spiny tail’s furious swipes—Winky, folding Luna’s cloak over her as Bill’s wand danced around her middle. Aberforth hurled blue at the grey mist, grimacing.</p><p>The dragon drew its head back, and Bill flung a stunning spell. It glazed right off its scales.</p><p>It would cook them.</p><p>George hopped onto the broom and shot over the precipice. “Oi!” he shouted. He flung the Conjunctivitis curse at it, like he’d seen Krum do ages ago.</p><p>It lifted its head, eyes gooping up.</p><p>Faintly, he could hear Granger’s scream: “George, no!”</p><p>The roar almost toppled him. Wings beat gravity into submission, and in a massive thrust, the Welsh Green hurtled towards him.</p><p>And so began a most dangerous game of chase.</p><p>Oh, Bugger.</p><p>Bugger bugger bugger.</p><p>He fought through the wind, and the dragon’s snout never seemed to be more than a few seconds away. George drew it, out and away, over the spiny ridge of the Peak District, fire and fury following in his wake. Away from Bill. Away from Aberforth. Away from Winky. Away from Luna.</p><p>Away from Hermione.</p><p>The sun dropped lower, and George did a good impression of a Wronski Feint as he dove under another blast of fire. Again. Again. Spinning—a sloth grip roll to dodge a tail swat.</p><p>How was it—bloody—following him so well?</p><p>He’d gunked the eyes out!</p><p>
  <em>“Brilliant noses, those Welsh Greens.”</em>
</p><p>George hissed. Right.</p><p>He zipped along a moor, then launched high, just as the sun disappeared below the horizon.</p><p>The portkey.</p><p>His stomach lurched. The distraction cost him. He didn’t dodge the next wave of fire fast enough, and a smolder caught on his tail sticks.</p><p>No—</p><p>He put it out, but it’d eaten through a few, and his broom felt more wobbly. A bit off-balance.</p><p>He wouldn’t last much longer.</p><p>“Charlie!” George yelled, even though Charlie was miles and miles away.</p><p>What would Charlie do?</p><p>
  <em>“Their calls have a sort of song, and they fancy music. Only thing that calms ‘em down when they’re wound up, really.”</em>
</p><p>The Welsh Green opened its maw, and the same roar shook the sky—pitching up and down slowly.</p><p>Oh, this was mad.</p><p>He’d have to calm it.</p><p>First things first—the Conjunctivis wasn’t doing anything but making it more cross. George shot of a Finite to end the hex on its eyes.</p><p>He cranked the handle up, leaning hard to escape another burst of fire.</p><p>Okay. Okay.</p><p>If he died doing this—</p><p>He shouldn’t think about that just now.</p><p>George flicked his wand at his throat and cast a Sonorus.</p><p>He opened his mouth, and the song that was always there—always waiting, came out in panicked, breathless shouts that rang over the hills.</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t want to hurt me, Baby don’t worry—” </em>
</p><p>The dragon breathed a surge of fire, and George spun away, swearing as his broom sputtered. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes would have a field day with this one.</p><p>
  <em>“I ain’t gonna let you.”</em>
</p><p>He banked against a torrent of wind and switched directions. <em>“Let me tell you now, my love is strong enough to last when things are rough—it’s magic—”</em></p><p>Another fire blast, shorter, and George ducked low. It was working. The Plymiaswn loomed over the rock formations. The rest of the group should be gone, by now, taking Luna to safety.</p><p>He’d need to get a bit closer so he wouldn’t be too far from camp, should his broom fail. He leaned in.</p><p><em>“You say that I waste my time, but I can’t get you off my mind,”</em> he shouted, peeking over his shoulder, gasping. <em>“—no, I can’t let go—”</em></p><p>Another roar.</p><p>
  <em>“Cause I love you so—” </em>
</p><p>A flurry of flame—more like sparks, really, and the wing beats slowed. George faltered as the dragon stopped short in mid-air, watching him.</p><p>So, he stopped to, and kept singing. <em>“If you change your mind, I’m the first in line—”</em></p><p>The Welsh Green and George regarded each other, and a quiet awe stole over him.</p><p><em>“Honey, I’m still free, take a chance on me.”</em> His voice dropped to a whisper.</p><p>The dragon tilted its head, then folded its wings together, taking off in the opposite direction.</p><p>Something crackled. George spun down to his broom.</p><p>No—the sparks, they’d caught on the wood again, and—</p><p>He began to drop. George muttered a freezing charm to stop the damage, but it was too late, the broom could only sputter against gravity as he spun, wheeling towards the Plymiaswn. He shoved his wand down his shirt for safekeeping, in the event of a rough landing.</p><p>He’d meant to aim for the camp, but as he approached the ledge, the broom’s magic gave a sickening jolt. He pointed the handle for the cliff and leaning forward with everything in him.</p><p>He dropped into a free fall several yards above the ground.</p><p>His broom—his trusty, wonderful broom—splintered to pieces, and George rolled into the snow.</p><p>It was silent.</p><p>No Dragons.</p><p>No clanging bell.</p><p>No people.</p><p>He pushed on his hands, groaning. Far over, across a stretch of rock and snow, he could make out a faint, grey mist swirling over the bridge.</p><p>He bit his lips together.</p><p>They’d made it out. Relief flooded him.</p><p>All he had to do now was sort how to get down to the portkey, then—</p><p>George froze.</p><p>A familiar silhouette darted out from behind a nearby outcropping of rock, sprinting over.</p><p>Oh, she hadn’t.</p><p>Hermione Jean slid to the ground beside him, breathing hard and pressing her back against the slope that towered over them.</p><p>“You didn’t,” he hissed.</p><p>“Come off it,” she said. “Did you honestly think I’d leave you here alone?”</p><p>“What about the others?” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>“Aberforth took a hit from the keystone, and Bill and Winky had to support him and Luna while they portkeyed,” she whispered, peeking around the wall at the fog in the distance.</p><p>“And what about you,” he said, glaring at her.</p><p>“I’ve been a bit preoccupied trying to save your life,” she snapped. “Now be quiet, or it’ll hear us.”</p><p>Frustration blossomed under his ribs.</p><p>“You should’ve taken the portkey,” he bit back. “I’d have been fine.”</p><p>“Pardon?” She whirled on him, eyes flashing. “You were being chased by dragon, George!” Her voice climbed.</p><p>“I sorted it!” he said, ducking closer, the words a hiss of steam and anger over his mouth. She was stuck on a mountain, no broom, no apparating, and old, dark magic waiting to find her. “You’re the last person who should’ve stayed.”</p><p>The hurt flickered through her eyes, and she stepped away from the wall, blinking.</p><p>“I—I didn’t mean it like—”</p><p>“Then don’t say it like—” Her voice went high and pinched.</p><p>In the distance, the fog swirled. Oh no. George grabbed Hermione’s elbow and pulled her in.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I only meant there’s greater danger for you, due to how the enchantments target you for—”</p><p>
  <em>“Pay the toll.”</em>
</p><p>The voice boomed.</p><p>A loud, eerie clang.</p><p>George started, and his elbow whipped into the crisp layer of snow behind them. It punched through.</p><p>The soft layer beneath tumbled out around their ankles. George blinked.</p><p>Thwoom.</p><p>The snow on the rock face over them capsized, and it hit like a tidal wave.</p><p>It ripped Granger over the cliff edge, then pummeled into his back.</p><p>They plummeted.</p><p>The steep slope crumbled and billowed.</p><p>Granger.</p><p>It dragged him under.</p><p>Granger.</p><p>The dusk’s light looked blue through the cracks in the drifts. Flung, head over foot. Tumbling.</p><p>Granger.</p><p>It threw him, hard, and he picked up speed. The crumbled sheets of snow snatched the gloves from his hands—first the left, then a flip, then the right. The force of it tore his hood back.</p><p>Granger.</p><p>The blue cracks turned a darker purple. Snow up his nose and in his mouth.</p><p>
  <em>Granger.</em>
</p><p>He should’ve taken the chance.</p><p>Granger.</p><p>A jolt of magic zipped through his frame, and he was lifted by the cloak, up through the top of the current. His face broke the surface, and he sucked in a breath. A hand caught his, before the surge of white tore them apart.</p><p>No—not again—George reached for the familiar spell, and the bolt of purple burrowed deep into the drift. He struggled, reeling to keep his head above the avalanche.</p><p>Granger—</p><p>He couldn’t see her hand. Her—</p><p>The stars were beginning to poke through the dark, peeking from behind the cloud cover.</p><p>It was odd, seeing them so clearly when the world roared around him.</p><p>He felt the charm catch, and Granger’s body collided with his.</p><p>This time, it stuck. They clung to each other, through the flashes of white and color, and he couldn’t get a solid thought in.</p><p>Until they slipped over the precipice at the base of the mountain, leaving its surface. Gravity dropped out, and the canyon yawned beneath them.</p><p>George apparated.</p><p>#</p><p>They popped into the clearing before the camp. On the other side of the gap, the billow of white settled. From here, it almost looked soft.</p><p>But it hadn’t been.</p><p>It had been—</p><p>Their breath came in short gasps as they tripped through the protective enchantments and stumbled into the tent. He couldn’t breathe. She was covered in snow. They both were.</p><p>The world had almost unknit them.</p><p>“You’re—you’re—” He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>His boots tangled on the edge of the floor with a series of clumsy thuds. The heat hit, slowly thawing. But George didn’t feel its prickle as he clutched Hermione’s forearms in his hands, staring at her wildly.</p><p>Her face was contorted, brown eyes wide as she wheezed and gripped his shoulders.</p><p>“You’re—” He sucked in a breath. Took her face in his palms. “You’re—” He pressed a searing kiss to her forehead.</p><p>Oh. Oh, she was alive. She was here.</p><p>“You’re—” Another. His eyes squeezed shut. Another, faster above her brow. “You’re—” Again. Again. Heart, drumming. Magic, thrumming. Breath, fracturing.</p><p>The false, frozen layer broken to the mercy of the chaotic, softer parts beneath.</p><p>He pressed the kisses into her like an avalanche, and her hands, halting, came up to hold his wrists as sparks flared over his mouth. “You’re—” he gasped.</p><p>Rapid, one beside her eye, another on her cheek bone.</p><p>Again, on her nose.</p><p>Her jaw, below her ear.</p><p>Her cheek, his nose skating over her soft skin.</p><p>Further down.</p><p>His brow furrowed.</p><p>Another on her jaw, beside her mouth.</p><p>His hands slipped up, thumbs brushing her ears and fingers tangled in her frozen plait.</p><p>Again—just—just there, beside her lips—and—</p><p>He sucked in a breath.</p><p>Suddenly, George found his mouth suspended, inches from hers.</p><p>In the midst of a storm of decidedly un-brotherly kisses.</p><p>The warmth of her face pulled at the tender place under his ribs.</p><p>And Hermione was frozen, cheeks a brilliant crimson.</p><p>Oh—oh no.</p><p>Pulling away was physically painful.</p><p>The pinch clamped hard in his chest, but he spun rapidly on his heel and made his way to the hearth.</p><p>As though nothing had happened.</p><p>But it had.</p><p>“Bit of tricky business,” he said, a bit wobbly. “Hard to caste when things are so chaotic.” He sent a bolt of fire into the grate.</p><p>“George—” she said, halting.</p><p>“Bill might’ve stashed some Dittany paste or something in the loo,” he said rapidly. “I’ll check.” He didn’t look at her as he sprang from the room.</p><p>The lock clicked behind him, and he caste a Muffliato.</p><p>His wand clattered into the sink, and he wiped a snow-streaked sleeve over his mouth. The cold ate through the residual flutter of sparks.</p><p>George dropped his hands to either side of the sink, then slammed himself forward, lurching against it.</p><p>“Stupid—” he hissed. “Stupid—” he jolted against his hands again. “Ruining everything.”</p><p>Georgie fell apart. The tears came before he knew what was happening, and he choked out a sob. He folded over the surface, quaking. His foot slammed against the cabinet. Again. Again. “Bastard.”</p><p>He’d been</p><p>
  <em>So</em>
</p><p>Careful.</p><p>And he’d just thrown himself at her, without a word of encouragement. She was probably mortified. Probably felt uncomfortable, now. The precious, wonderful comradery they’d built seemed to wisp away before his eyes.</p><p>What if he’d hurried along the end of it, just by being a git?</p><p>He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.</p><p>A knock sounded on the door.</p><p>“George?” Hermione’s voice was hesitant and soft.</p><p>He cursed under his breath and swiped his sleeve over his eyes again.</p><p>“I—” she paused. “I need help.” George faltered. “I’m hurt.”  </p><p>He whipped the door open, and the Muffliato broke. Hermione stood in the threshold, clutching the shoulder of her casting arm with a queasy look on her face. Red soaked her fingers.</p><p>“It’s not life threatening, but—” she said faintly.</p><p>“Good Godric,” he said hoarsely. “Alright.” He drew her over to the table and pushed her into one of the chairs. As he watched, the red came faster.</p><p>“Here—” he rasped. “Let me see.” He held his wand to the gash, where the cloak’s fibers had torn clean away under the blow of some passing, jagged rock or branch, perhaps. It was deep. He stared, focusing the room down into two words: “Vulnera Sanentur.”</p><p>This time, it worked.</p><p>Hermione’s skin joined back together. First the deeper parts, then the surface break, until there was no mark left at all. When he finished, he went about checking her other arm, her face, her scalp, and then her legs, patching up the little scratches as he came upon them.</p><p>All the while, snow melted off of them into puddles on the floor.</p><p>When he was through, he stood without a word, then crossed to the kitchenette. He pulled a wool blanket from the cupboard, returned, and wrapped it snugly around her frame.</p><p>He didn’t have a clue as to what he should say, but taking care of someone—that was simpler. So he kept doing that. Searching for little tasks, anything to make her more comfortable.</p><p>Anything to avoid the inevitable conversation where she gently distanced herself.</p><p>So, a cuppa found its way to her elbow. Then some tomato soup. Another ruddy blanket, just for her legs. Back and forth, never pausing long enough for the reality of what he’d done to catch up with him.</p><p>Until it was well and truly dark through the window.</p><p>“D’you need anything else?” he asked, staring out the glass.</p><p>“No, um, I—”</p><p>“Brilliant, well, let me know if you do,” he said rapidly, then turned on his heel and headed for the top bunk in the adjoining room. He flopped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling.</p><p>After several minutes, there was a sigh. The sound of a chair, dragging across the floor. Footsteps into the room.</p><p>She took the bottom bunk under his.</p><p>George forced himself to breathe like he was asleep.</p><p>But rest didn’t find him all night.</p><p>#</p><p>January 31, 1999, 12:05 p.m.</p><p>George locked the shop door behind himself and strode rapidly to his flat. She’d taken his excuse about feeling poorly. He’d barely ground it out, frowning at the cobblestone, tin pan still clutched in his fingers.</p><p>She’d nodded. Said something about meeting with Harry to check on Luna.</p><p>He shoved through the door, tossing the pan into a corner.</p><p>“George—” Bill gasped, and suddenly, his eldest brother surged across the floor, pulling him into a firm embrace.</p><p>George blinked. “Alright, Mate?” he asked.</p><p>Bill huffed, then stepped back and took his shoulders. “Thought for minute, the dragon fire had—” His voice dropped off.</p><p>George paused. “Oh,” he said quietly. He pushed a hand into his pocket and gave Bill a grimace. “Well, it didn’t.”</p><p>Bill nodded. But then his cool exterior fractured, and he exhaled in a whoosh from his nose. “That was a good bit of casting, there,” he said. “Probably saved your skin.” He gave George an assessing look. “Shielding away dragon fire isn’t easy.”</p><p>A pause. “Charlie would be proud,” Bill said. “I’m sure he’d love to hear about it.”</p><p>“Maybe.” George shrugged.</p><p>“You okay?” Bill asked.</p><p>George shrugged again.</p><p>Bill nodded. “Want some tea?”</p><p>“Yes please,” George said.</p><p>Bill didn’t pry. He offered up some updates on Luna and Aberforth—both appeared to be recovering. But, apart from that, he let George enjoy the drink in silence.</p><p>Bill was nice like that—content to simply be there.</p><p>#</p><p>February 1, 1999, 8:00 p.m.</p><p>She kept her distance for a day. When he didn’t hear from her before or after classes, George regrouped, keeping the shop open a bit later than usual as he considered things.</p><p>He knew he should probably apologize. Hear her out, if she wanted to say anything. Explain that he’d lost himself in the danger’s aftermath—what with the adrenaline and all. Assure her that it wouldn’t happen again.</p><p>Maybe, things could return to a sense of normalcy. Maybe, he hadn’t ruined all of it. She hadn’t seemed terribly cross when they parted, but she might’ve been hiding how uncomfortable she’d felt.</p><p>He went back and forth over it for hours.</p><p>Therefore, when the bell jangled and Granger finally swept into the shop like a hurricane dressed in mismatched knitting projects, George was half-relieved, half-worried.</p><p>Until he saw the rigid set of her shoulders and the angry tick in her jaw.</p><p>Then, his mind went blank.</p><p>Awkwardness—he’d expected. A clearly uncomfortable demeanor—that, he’d attempted to brace for. But she was neither of those.</p><p>She didn’t say anything.</p><p>“Galleon for your thoughts?” he asked slowly. Hermione dropped her textbooks beside the till, and they slammed onto the counter.</p><p>She laughed, but the sound wasn’t mirthful. It was sharp and tinged with an edge to which he wasn’t accustomed. “No, George, I think I’d rather pay a Galleon for yours,” she muttered, flipping the top volume open.</p><p>“Pardon?” he asked, blinking.</p><p>She shook her head in a tight swivel, and her jaw worked as she stared at her books. “You’re the confusing one,” she said. “Not me.”</p><p>George’s face contorted, and he strode over. “I’m confusing? About what?”</p><p>Hermione snapped the volume’s cover shut. “I’m not here to play games,” she said.</p><p>“Is this, um—” George faltered as the words froze on his lips. He tried again. “Are—are you alright?”</p><p>“No,” she said, and the word was tight and clipped. His ribs constricted. She shifted through the pile and stacked one textbook on the other with a bit more force than necessary.</p><p>He waited.</p><p>But she didn’t add anything to it, and broaching the subject himself was—</p><p>Panic flared. Anxiety, cold and sharp under his sternum.</p><p>“I don’t understand what you want from me, Hermione,” he said, his tone weary. He scrubbed his hands down his face as he grappled for the words to speak next. Everything he’d thought through had turned to a jumble in his head, and he couldn’t sort it.</p><p>There had to be something he could say—a way to explain, or—</p><p>She paused. Her look went stony.</p><p>“I see,” she said. Something hurt flickered in her expression, and she turned to gather up her books. “This—this was a bad idea. I need to, um—” Her voice pinched as she scrambled to shove her things back into her book bag. She paused for a moment, not looking at him. “If you’d rather not talk about it, then I guess there’s nothing for me to say.”</p><p>She pushed past him, heading for the door. “I’m going home,” she mumbled. “I’ll see you.”</p><p>No—</p><p>“Granger, wait,” George said. His fingers brushed her sleeve, but she didn’t stop.</p><p>He was losing her, and he hadn’t even—hadn’t even—</p><p>“Hermione Jean—” He called out, desperate, and his voice bounded loudly off the cherry red displays, the potion racks, the carefully erected walls of shelving that he’d built with his own two hands.</p><p>He’d opened this shop to get away from her, and now here he was, begging her to stay.</p><p>Hermione’s fingers had paused on the entry’s handle.</p><p>A mighty rattling of oak and pine thundered in his head. Familiar fire, throwing itself against the battered and barred doors of the Great Hall.</p><p>He could let her leave. Let her slip away, hope by some miracle it might blow over. Hope that they could gradually return to normal, with him being more careful to keep the necessary distance.</p><p>He could escape whatever awaited him on the other side of the question.</p><p>Because he could lose her.</p><p>Could lose the wonderful camaraderie they’d built. The relaxed routine. The familiarity. The mugs, the slippers, the little smiles, the adventures.</p><p>But also—George wanted to know. Needed to.</p><p>Needed to see, at least once, if there was a possibility.</p><p>She turned, and the look in her eyes blasted the Great Hall’s doors wide, freeing what lay inside.</p><p>The song almost seemed to play aloud, with how loudly it thrummed in his head: <em>“Take a chance on me.”</em></p><p>So, he did.</p><p>“I’m sorry. You’re right,” he said. “We should talk about it.” He stared at her, shoulders back, hands at his sides. “I need to know, Hermione. What do you want? What am I, to you?”</p><p>Her eyes widened, and she lowered her hand.</p><p>“Please be clear,” George said. His voice was even, commanding, and urgent despite the pounding heat in his face.</p><p>Hermione paled, and she turned her head, glancing furtively around the shelving before finally looking back at him. “Well, you’re—” She stammered, and her hands flexed around the stack of books in her arms. “You’re my—” She halted, turning a bit.</p><p>“Yes?” George prompted, folding his arms.</p><p>Hermione let out an exasperated sounding breath and whirled on him. “Well, you’re my George!” she cried.</p><p>“Your George?” he asked faintly, arms falling to his sides.</p><p>She swallowed and seemed to steel herself. “<em>My</em> George,” she repeated simply, softly, scuffing the toe of her boot along the worn floorboard. “And maybe I’ve misunderstood how you’ve—”</p><p>Godric’s Hollow.</p><p>He crossed the battered wooden slats on the floor in three strides and seized that infuriating scarf by either end. Hermione’s books tumbled between their feet.</p><p>She blinked up at him. George watched, transfixed as a deep, pink flush spread over her cheeks, dipping into a darker and darker red the longer he looked.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>She glanced at his mouth, then back up, into his eyes, and the motion went through him like lightning.</p><p>“I can be your George,” he breathed.</p><p>Then, he pulled her in by the purple stitches, reeling her closer, not breaking eye contact as he shoved the forgotten books on the floor aside with a swift kick.</p><p>George took the scarf back, hand over hand, working slowly up the fabric until he found where it lay flat against her neck and shoulders. Then, he gave one, final, gentle tug, and Hermione Jean fell into his arms.</p><p>There was nothing left between them but a couple of precious inches, the tangled chorus of their rapid breath, and George’s common sense.</p><p>George Fabian Weasley had never had much common sense.</p><p>“This is my scarf,” he whispered fiercely, gaze flickering over her flushed, startled expression.</p><p>“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it,” Hermione said quietly. Then, she bit her lips together, lifted it up and over her head, and settled it around his shoulders with a little smile. Her touch lingered there, just over his collarbones.</p><p>George let out a breath as he took her in. He tried for playfulness, nodding and frowning little as he tilted his head to the side. But when he tried to say teasingly, “Oh, but I do,” his voice came out wobbly.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes went a bit round, and George lifted a hand to her face, reveling in every detail. The sparks under his fingers, the pink tint of her skin, the curls slipping free from her plait—falling along her temple and a bit frizzed from the snow. But most of all, the way she felt so, so very real and warm and wonderful just now, in a moment that he had always presumed to have been impossible.</p><p>His rebellious thumb trailed a path along her cheekbone, then down, skating over her bottom lip. Hermione tilted her chin up, closer. George had to force himself to still, pressing his forehead to hers as he studied her face. “This alright?” He couldn’t keep his voice steady, the whole of him was flickering embers of magic.</p><p>Hermione let out a small, choked noise that sounded halfway between a sob and a laugh as she nodded. “Yes,” she said.</p><p>“Oh good,” he breathed, tilting his jaw, and his nose bumped hers as he closed the distance and finally, finally, finally—</p><p>The tension in his shoulders went limp as his mouth met hers, and George fell to bits. His eyes were closed, but</p><p>George</p><p>Saw</p><p>Galaxies.</p><p>Found his place in the whirling constellation around her—it was—it was here, with her hands taking him by the shoulders. Slipping his left arm around her waist, forearm fitting neatly against the curve of her back, right palm trembling along her cheek. Kissing her—<em>really</em> kissing her—clumsy and tangled and drowning in an ocean of light and Chamomile.</p><p>It was uncoordinated and unpracticed, and oh, he hadn’t the foggiest what he was doing, but she didn’t seem to mind, and he couldn’t back away because this couldn’t end yet. Not with the way his insides were swooping high—high—high—</p><p>Oh <em>Heaven</em>—star shards seized from the sky, pulled into his shaking, freckled hands.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Invisible Strings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Twine, shadow, and light.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>I hope you all had a lovely couple of weeks! &lt;3 First things first, thank you so much for the kindness and encouragement on the last chapter!! &lt;3 &lt;3 Thank you so much for reading and/or commenting or leaving kudos.<br/>[Keeping my mouth shut about the end of Carpe Retractum was quite difficult. :) ]</p><p>Next: For the foreseeable future, I may need to switch to biweekly/once every two week updates. I am so, so sorry, but I've had some things crop up in my personal life during the last week that will likely require me to take more time with these chapters. </p><p>I'm working to resolve these issues, but until I find a solution, it's probable that I will need that extra time. I'm hoping this may not be an problem for long, but I've no way of knowing how long it will take me to find a solution, as there are numerous factors outside of my control. This is sort of difficult for me to write, as I really really want to keep LUMOS on a once-a-week schedule until its completion. </p><p>This coming week, I'm going to play it by ear and try to keep my regular posting schedule while handling this other stuff. There will be an update at the end of this author's note by Sunday night. I'm very sorry to leave it up in the air like that, and I'll do my best to keep you all informed. </p><p>As always: I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters.</p><p>Playlist:<br/>1. "A Little Bit Yours" by JP Saxe/"Dusk Till Dawn" by Kurt Hugo Schneider and Kirsten Collins (May 11)<br/>2. "Rest Well, Love" by Kainbeats (May 12, 2:12 a.m.)<br/>3. "Grasping, Reaching" by Kainbeats (May 12, 7:00 a.m.)<br/>4. "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis &amp; The News (May 12, after 7:00, for most of the content until 10:00 a.m.)<br/>5. "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by The Beatles (May 12, 10:00 a.m.)<br/>6. "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel (May 12, 10:30 a.m./you'll know)<br/>7. "Glass Room" by Kainbeats (May 12, 11:00 a.m. --at the intricately carved door)<br/>8. "Molly" by John Denver (May 12, 12:00 p.m. --When you see Mr. Weasley/you'll know)<br/>9. "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles/"Asleep on the Train" by Tom Rosenthal (May 12, 4:00 p.m.)<br/>10. "Somewhere Only We Know" by Lily Allen (May 12, 4:00 p.m. --the pantry)<br/>11. "Smoke on the Water" by 2WEI (May 13, when their name is called)<br/>12. "Invisible String" by Taylor Swift (as a more general song)</p><p>Please forgive any typos or errors, of which I'm sure there are many. I've been editing for quite some time, but I'm certain I've missed some. </p><p>Alright! Grab your snack (this week, I recommend oranges or any fruit that's potentially coming back into season near you--maybe let me know in the comments? I'm quite excited about the return of good produce after a long winter), your drink (I had coffee with cashew milk, and it was excellent), and your most favorite blanket.<br/>Let's dive in. &lt;3</p><p>EDIT POSTING SCHEDULE UPDATE (3/26):<br/>I have good news and bad news.<br/>The bad news: I will need an extra week for this chapter. You can expect the next update on April 5th.<br/>The good news: The personal stuff I discussed above appears to have been resolved far sooner than expected (thank you so much for the prayers/support/friendliness on that). While much of the last week was spent handling that situation, it should be less of a problem moving forward. That being said, due to dealing with the problem, I am behind and do not expect to have a chapter ready by the 29th. Thank you so much for your understanding and kindness. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Thirty-Seven: “Invisible Strings”</h2><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>May 11, 2003</p><p>He rolled up his sleeve, and letters appeared.</p><p>
  <em>B</em>
</p><p>
  <em>l</em>
</p><p>
  <em>o</em>
</p><p>
  <em>o</em>
</p><p>
  <em>d</em>
</p><p>
  <em>T</em>
</p><p>
  <em>r</em>
</p><p>
  <em>a</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i</em>
</p><p>
  <em>t</em>
</p><p>
  <em>o</em>
</p><p>
  <em>r</em>
</p><p>“It never seemed like a good time.” He barely got the words out, and his shoulders were rising and falling rapidly as he stepped closer. “I didn’t mean for it to become something I kept from you, but there was—there was always something. Work. Curses. Attacks. The Remembrance Ball.” He slowly closed his eyes then opened them again. “Last time, you sort of—sort of figured most of it out yourself, and—”</p><p>He stilled at the look on her face.</p><p>Hermione had both hands pressed to her mouth, sucking air through her fingers as she stared at the place they’d marked him.</p><p>They’d marked him.</p><p>Anger, raw and blunt, coursed through her veins.</p><p>How <em>dare</em> they?</p><p>And in the same handwriting as—</p><p>Her gaze blurred, and she shot out of her seat. The chair’s plastic side banged against the desk, and she tripped over, hands outstretched.</p><p>George sucked in a breath as she took his forearm in her hands—one holding his elbow, the other under his wrist—and stared.</p><p><em>Blood Traitor</em>.</p><p>She shoved her own sleeve up—terrycloth and cotton bunching around her arm. Put them side by side, his hand to her elbow.</p><p>
  <em>Mudblood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Blood Traitor.</em>
</p><p>Like a warped reflection off the surface of a pond.</p><p>They’d marked him.</p><p>The memories of that night were little more than shrapnel, blurred between stretches of darkness. Sand. Crying. Flashes. Bill’s face with fresh scars.</p><p>Screaming and Bellatrix.</p><p>The lowest she’d ever been—the most helpless, most afraid. Most alone.</p><p>An event that only existed in fragments. Perhaps, at some point, the other Hermione had pieced them together. But that clarity and context had been fractured by the Obliviate. She’d only been left with traces. Steeping in her mind for months—creeping out when she was afraid.</p><p>All this time.</p><p>And as she looked into his eyes, the other half of it came to her—travelling the years and miles to take her right back to March of 1998.</p><p>She’d seen and heard flashes of it, but hadn’t assembled it all together, and suddenly, it all made sense.</p><p>The flashes of copper. A warm hand on her forehead.</p><p>The voice, saying, <em>“Get up, Hermione.”</em></p><p>It was George’s voice.</p><p>The realization circled, gentle and soft through her mind.</p><p>It hadn’t been made up out of nothing, as her mind struggled to toil under the weight of the Cruciatus.</p><p>No. It’d been real.</p><p>“It’s you,” she breathed. “You’re the man that shows up at the end of the nightmare.” Her voice caught.</p><p>Her—her head ached, and a dull ringing filled her ears.</p><p>George’s brow had a deep furrow, and his eyes were warm and brown. “Yes, Love,” he said. A pause. “Have you been having nightmares about it again?”</p><p>Of course. Of course, it was George. It had always, always been George.</p><p>The marks had even aged the same—turned the same, pale white.</p><p>“Sometimes,” she whispered. “Continue, please.” Her throat tightened, and her hands crept up to her scalp as she began to hurriedly tuck her curls into a plait in an effort to give herself something to do.</p><p>He rubbed his right hand down his face, and his tone went strained. “When the spell sucked me in, I tried not to touch anything. I only looked through the shelves long enough to see if there were any curse traces—please know that. But she—”</p><p>The strands twisted together, over her shoulder.</p><p>“—wasn’t in the library,” he was saying, gaze following Hermione’s hands as she took a hair tie from her wrist to fasten the plait. “I found her, um, in the center of your mind at the time—in the Gryffindor common room.”</p><p>She’d always thought she’d been alone.</p><p>“I caste a shield to block her off from reaching you,” he said.</p><p>But she hadn’t been alone.</p><p>Not really.</p><p>“And as she tried to fight through it—” His breath hitched as she lifted his arm. “—um, the curse carved into my—”</p><p>He stopped short and blinked as she slowly reached her fingers towards it, watching him with a silent question.</p><p>At his pause, she drew her hand back.</p><p>George’s brow wrinkled as he studied her. “It’s—it’s fine, you can,” he said quietly.</p><p>Crickets sang outside her window in a lulling song.</p><p>Hermione trailed her index finger over the “<em>B</em>,” and George glanced away, jaw working as he inhaled a quick stream through his nose.</p><p>“Right, well, I think that’s when it happened, as she was trying to fight through the—” He stilled as Hermione took his hand in hers and lifted his palm to her mouth. “—Hermione?” His voice went odd and uncertain sounding.</p><p>For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she shifted his arm, crossed the expanse of the years-old hurt, and kissed him. Right in the center, on the “<em>T</em>.”</p><p>Sparks.</p><p>The tension seemed to snap in his shoulders—like some resolve, weakening. “You don’t have to—”</p><p>“Keep explaining,” she whispered, sidling up to him. His Oxford wrinkled against her dressing gown, but she could still feel that familiar, warm pulse between them.</p><p>“Um, well—okay—” He took a steadying breath as she slid her right hand down his elbow, all the way to the back of his hand, where she slipped her fingers between his. George stared at their hands and swallowed.</p><p>“It was the curse’s residual strength against mine, and mine snapped first,” he said, clearing his throat. “She was—was going to kill you.” This part seemed to be harder for him to get out, and his voice went more hesitant and halting. George bit his lips together. “And—and that would’ve been—” he faltered. Then, he coughed. Ducked his chin and watched the letters on their arms, side by side. “—rotten luck.” He shrugged casually.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows. “Rotten luck,” she deadpanned. Her insides were a mess of soft, melting ache, but it was clearly difficult for him to talk about, and if playing into his jokes helped, she could do that.</p><p>George nodded, brow furrowed, and began to speak faster. “Real swift kick in the teeth to the Order, you know?” His mouth twisted and he nudged his elbow into hers. “So, I ‘stepped in front of the knife,’ as you like to say.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the marks, blinking rapidly.</p><p>“Curse died out just before it hit,” he said quietly.</p><p>“George,” she whispered.</p><p>“I couldn’t keep the shield up,” he said softly with a shrug.  “There was nothing else to do.” He blinked as she took his face in her hands.</p><p>George’s expression was lined with worry, and his hands crept over hers. “We’re connected in loads of different ways, but this one?” He grimaced. “It’s something that was forged in darkness. I don’t care to have a reminder of one of the worst days of your life on my skin.”</p><p>“Is that why you waited so long?” she whispered.</p><p>George sighed. “Well, later on, life got so chaotic that it completely slipped my mind. I forgot you didn’t know. Between the attacks and the curses and—” He pulled away and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But, earlier, well—for the first several days after your returned home from Mungo’s, I sort of hoped you might, um—” He shrugged and frowned. “—wake up and remember everything.”</p><p>The hurt lodged in her center intensified, like a steel edge pressing up and against her chest and throat.</p><p>Because she should’ve. She should’ve woken up and remembered things. But that wasn’t how things had gone. No. She was one of the few who had complications after Obliviate reversal, and it wasn’t fair.</p><p>George scratched at the scar of his ear, trying to push through with a casual tone that didn’t quite ring true. “And when you didn’t, I reckon I got a little overwhelmed.”</p><p>“Overwhelmed?” Hermione prompted, her voice a hoarse whisper.</p><p>George winced and paced to the tall bookshelf on the other side of the desk, where he absentmindedly began to run a fingertip over the spines. “I didn’t want to dump a load of unpleasant stories on you, and I was worried you’d think it was your fault.”</p><p>“But it wasn’t?” Hermione cut in. “Bellatrix is the one who did it.”</p><p>George blinked at her in surprise, his finger halting over the spine of <em>A Botanist’s Guide to the West Country</em> before he turned back to the bookshelf and nodded firmly. “That’s what I’ve always said,” he murmured, searching over the titles. “But besides that, I wasn’t sure if you could still feel our bond, and—” He folded his arms, and his eyes were fixed on the floor as he stood stationary before the volumes Hermione used to read before bed. “During that time, I didn’t know if you’d want to—” His voice hitched, and his expression tightened before he cleared his throat. “—stay.” He lifted a hand, gesturing blankly into the open air on the last word, still not looking at her.</p><p>Hermione blinked slowly. He’d been worried that she would leave.</p><p>Would she have left?</p><p>She hadn’t been thrilled to accompany him home, certainly. She’d been terrified, really. It seemed hard to imagine sharing a flat with him at the time. But then he’d been so careful to provide her with space and privacy that it’d been far less difficult than she’d anticipated.</p><p>That tender, confusing time seemed like it had happened both yesterday and a lifetime ago.</p><p>He was still speaking. “Your mind was already under a massive amount of stress. I wasn’t keen to add to it. Least of all, I didn’t want you feeling like I was expecting something from you, in return.” He stopped and turned to contemplate the opposite wall.</p><p>Then, George crossed in front of her yet again to approach her corkboard. “Can you imagine how poorly that would’ve gone?”</p><p>He sounded amused, but his face twisted into a sarcastic smile. “‘Hi, Hermione, I’m your husband. You’re not the least bit interested in me, but you should be because remember that one time you were tortured? Well, I saved your life then, I did.’” George lifted a hand, as though staying an imaginary figure. “‘Oh, don’t feel bad, Granger, don’t cry. I swear, I didn’t only do it because of my unrequited love.’” He scoffed. “Putting aside the fact that at this point, we’ve saved each other’s lives more than a few times during the gap, I wasn’t going to bring up that instance in an effort to garner favor. That would’ve been manipulative and cruel. It wasn’t the way to earn back your heart.” The furrow between his brows deepened, and he traced a finger over an unfamiliar ticket stub in the top, right corner of the corkboard.  “At least, not in the way I wanted to.”</p><p>But he shouldn’t have had to earn back her heart at all.</p><p>Hermione worked to suppress the hard lump in her throat as he thumbed the ticket stub. “You know, you’ve still got bits from ages ago on here.” His voice lightened with amusement, and he shifted his hand down to skate along the edge of a program from the theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue.</p><p>“So, what? You were prepared to let me leave?” she asked tightly. “What would you have done, if I’d asked to go?” she said. George lowered his hands until they slipped into his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels, staring over the corkboard.</p><p>“I’d have helped you find a new place and made it clear that you were welcome to return whenever you wished,” he said firmly. “I want you to be with me because you want to. Not because you feel trapped into it.”</p><p>Noble, but completely misguided.</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and breathed out a rush through her nose. “Yes, well I would’ve doing so without the proper context or information needed to make the choice mindfully.”</p><p>George’s brow went up, and he glanced at her over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have given up, mind. But you can’t grow love in a cage.”</p><p>“And explaining this to me would’ve caged me?” Hermione said, her tone going a bit icy. George’s mouth thinned.</p><p>He said this next bit carefully and slowly. Like he was following a complex Arithmancy equation. “See, when you save someone’s life, or they save yours, it creates a sort of connection between you—like, like a string. And it gets stronger when both people know.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and nodded. Harry had mentioned something about it a long time ago, after third year, then again, after their encounter with the Malfoys in the manor. “Like with Harry and Pettigrew,” she said.</p><p>George made a face like he’d bitten into something rotten and turned back to the wall. “Surely, you can think of a more flattering reference point.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “That’s where I learned about the concept,” she said.</p><p>“Fair enough.” George sighed. “It’s another sort of old magic, like the bond, but different.” He rolled down his sleeve slowly. “If something were to happen to that person, your magic might compel you to try to intervene—in regular circumstances, at least.”</p><p>“I think I’d have been motivated to intervene regardless of that,” Hermione said. She would for any of her friends. She would for a stranger.</p><p>He rubbed his hands down his face. “Yes, but our relationship isn’t regular circumstances,” he said tiredly. “Aside from the stress and the other emotional baggage raising the subject would’ve introduced to you—I had no way of knowing if, due to some of the other old magic we have between us, it might influence you rush into things in a way that removed your agency.”</p><p>Rubbish.</p><p>“But that’s just a theory, George,” she said.</p><p>George’s shoulders tightened. “It’s not the key reason I withheld the story back then,” he replied. “But it was a worry that I entertained.” His voice went quiet. “I’m just trying to be transparent. I didn’t know if it’d make you to prioritize my happiness over your own feelings of comfort or safety, and I wasn’t comfortable with that.”</p><p>Her head pounded.</p><p>“You mean like you’ve been doing for the past four months?” she snapped.</p><p>George spun on his heel and tipped his head back to stare flatly at the ceiling. “Even if that was true, which it’s not—I’m not the one who’s missing five years, Granger.” He didn’t snap back at her, not quite, but there was a hard edge in his tone. “I didn’t suffer through a traumatic brain injury. I wasn’t the one who felt out of place when we came home from Mungo’s in January. I didn’t have to relearn where we keep the soap and what we eat for breakfast and the fact that we were a ‘we.’” He emphasized the word. “I didn’t have to make peace with loads of massive choices that I didn’t remember making.”</p><p>Hermione blinked in surprise.</p><p>George pulled his gaze from the ceiling and fixed it on her. There was a blazing, determined look on his face as he took two steps in her direction, leaving less than a foot between them. He gestured between their chests. “This?” he said lowly. “This has always been a matter of looking after each other. That dynamic expresses itself in a number of different ways, but when one of us is down, the other does their best to keep things steady.”</p><p>He waited a moment, to give her time to respond. Hermione swallowed. “It—it still feels like you’ve been casting an Incendio on yourself, just to keep me warm. That’s not sustainable. That’s not keeping things steady.”</p><p>He took a deep breath. “It may’ve been a bit like that back in January—me prioritizing things in that way. But not now.” George searched her face. “Surely you realize that.” He swallowed and looked at her hands. “You’ve taken care of me too.”</p><p>This wasn’t like fighting with Harry, who yelled and then shut down, or with Ron, who talked over her and didn’t listen.</p><p>This was different.</p><p>She swallowed.</p><p>Cricketsong echoed as he took another step, a small one. When the back of his fingers brushed hers, she didn’t pull away.</p><p>“I was trying to give you a choice,” he said. “When you love someone, taking care of them comes naturally. But I didn’t want you to care for me because anything—whether it be personal guilt or unpredictable, ancient magic—compelled you to. I didn’t want you to get rushed into things—into relationship dynamics that you weren’t ready for.”</p><p>“But that’s not what you did,” Hermione said, swallowing and pulling her hands back. George faltered. “Not telling me, that’s another form of removing a choice. I mean, this was before the gap. You—you could’ve told me. Maybe not right away—I can at least understand your reasoning there.” She folded her arms. “But surely after I expressed that I was ready to pursue things. Or at least after April. Surely.”</p><p>There was a long pause.</p><p>George’s head ducked low between his shoulders. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you far sooner.”</p><p>Hermione let out a breath.</p><p>George continued, softly. “But by then, we had a lot on our minds. Rotten explanation, but I was neck deep in shop accounts and rogue portkeys, and then the blasted knife incident, and—” Hermione nodded. He grimaced. “And, covering the scar each morning did nothing to help. I mean, I do that without thinking when I’m half-asleep. I’m so used to it that it’s routine. But when something would happen to remind me, we were always preoccupied. I wanted to talk it through with you properly, and it never seemed to be the right time.” He bit his lips together. “It’s an explanation, not an excuse.”</p><p>Hermione turned to the desk and braced her hands on the edge. The throbbing in her skull drilled deeper, funneling along her temples to pinch at her eyes. “It’s not fair to expect you to juggle everything you’ve been handling without making mistakes,” she said. “But it’s also not functional for you to make choices like that on my behalf when I’m capable of making them myself.”</p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, she could see George nodding slowly. Then: “Is there anything I can do to make it better?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “I guess, next time, ask.” She pushed her thumbs into her temples. “If you remember something you think I may need to know, but you’re not sure if it’s safe to tell me because of my injury, explain the predicament, and let me help decide.”</p><p>“Okay,” George said, gaze tracing over her features. “I can do that. I will do that.”</p><p>Rats—the migraine wasn’t fading. She didn’t want a headache right now. They were talking about something important.</p><p>She soldiered on, intent on getting her side across. “It’s—It’s one thing if I were in a coma or something, or if things were still as they were right after I woke up. If I was still confused and scared and trying to come to terms with the fact that the war was over.” Her thumbs did nothing to help the ache, and she gave up, dropping her hands and spinning to face him. “But I’m capable now, and I expect you to treat me as such.”</p><p>George nodded. “I will treat you like you’re capable,” he said. “You always have been, and my actions didn’t reflect that.”</p><p>Hermione dropped into the swivel chair and breathed out in a rush. “Thank you.”</p><p>George had a habit of repeating her requests back to her, and it made it easier to follow to make sure they were on the same page. It was a small practice, but it made tense discussions easier—especially now, when she was in pain.</p><p>“I appreciate you saying that,” she said. She propped her elbow on the desk and braced her forehead on the heel of her palm, disguising the counter pressure she was applying as a casual posture.</p><p>George crouched. “As for the rest,” he said quietly. “You and I—we’ve got loads of strings. All different sorts. The bond, our shared history, all the—” He gestured to his arm. “—life saving.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair and continued more lightly with one of his playfully-serious-but-not-truly-serious nods. “Not to mention our shared interests like inventing and music and the Agency and, um—good food.” He paused and tilted his head, glancing at the ceiling. “Snogging.”</p><p>Hermione raised her brows tiredly but managed a wry smile at the remark, and George grinned.</p><p>Then, he dropped his gaze to the floor and nudged his knuckles against her kneecap. “Truthfully, we’ve got so many of them that we’re sort of…knit together at this point.”</p><p>The metaphor brought to mind the shed wall, all the intersecting strands. “Like a stringboard,” she said quietly.</p><p>“Or a scarf,” George said, with another faint, lopsided smile. “It’s just another thing that ties us together.”</p><p>Hermione’s head lurched, and she blinked hard.</p><p>George’s fingers played over his sleeve cuff as he proceeded to fasten the buttons back into place. “How much did Dad tell you, when he explained sharing magic?” he asked, sounding slightly distracted.</p><p>The pressure in her skull built with a sharp <em>thwum</em> sound as blood rushed through her ears. She bit down, hard.</p><p>Only to find George glancing up at her, waiting for a reply.</p><p>What had he said? Something about sharing magic.</p><p>“This is a lot to take in,” she said. “I’m having trouble processing it all.” The ache behind her temples took on a sudden, sharper tilt, and she placed her other hand on her head. “George, I’m tired. I—I want to finish this conversation, but I’m not thinking clearly right now.”</p><p>“Oh, um, okay—” He scratched his head and glanced at the door. No—she didn’t want him to leave.</p><p>Not with her head hurting like this. Not with the way they were finally feeling back on the same page.</p><p>“You can stay, if you like,” Hermione said softly.</p><p>George stilled. “You sure?” He turned back to her.</p><p>Hermione nodded. She rose and pulled her dressing gown from her shoulders, then dumped it over the chair. George watched with an unreadable expression as she took up a pillow and tossed it into the middle of the mattress to divide it into sides, just like before.</p><p>George’s gaze settled on the pillow, and he blinked. “You don’t have to—”</p><p>“It’s fine, Weasley. I’m too tired to deal with overly chivalrous George,” she mumbled in a half-hearted attempt at a joke. “Tell him to come back later.” George flushed a deep red and knelt to untie his shoes.</p><p>Rats. It’d come out far harsher and more waspish than intended, tinged with the pang in her head.</p><p>“I’m sorry; I—I actually do appreciate it, though,” she said, sounding wearier than intended.</p><p>George cleared his throat and shrugged, gaze fixed on his laces. But then, there was a small snort, and she could hear him muttering her words to himself with amusement. “Overly chivalrous George. Merlin’s beard.”</p><p>She reached under the shade of the white table lamp on the right side of the bed. It snapped off with a click, and the room was lit with a cooler glow from the almost full moon. George placed his shoes by the door, then paused.</p><p>Blue, faint light spilled over him, finding the valleys under his eyes, the rough texture of his stubble. The flicker of what looked like concern in his gaze. And also—his clothes. Which were not suitable for sleeping in.</p><p>“Stand still,” she said quietly, pointing her wand at George’s form. “Multicorfors.” The transfiguration spell swirled out, and she changed them into a set of pajamas.</p><p>The magic was a little off. She was tired, after all. One of the buttons was missing on the top of the collar, and the flannel print faded into a plain grey on the left sleeve.</p><p>But it would have to do.</p><p>Pain threaded through her temples, and she dumped her wand on the side table, exhausted. At the sound, George started towards her. She’d just sunk to sit on the edge of the bed when he crouched before her.</p><p>“Hey, that’s not regular tired,” he whispered, studying her face. “Is it bad?”</p><p>She nodded and shoved the heels of her hands into her forehead, then reached to undo her braid.</p><p>“Let me,” he said, reaching slowly towards her. Hermione paused at the unexpected move. George’s hands stilled. He blinked at the floor. “I’d like to take care of you.”</p><p>The statement hung in the air for a few moments, until he softly added: “Please.”</p><p>“Okay,” she said.</p><p>George bobbed his head and took her plait from her, gradually freeing the intertwined strands until the pressure eased off her scalp. He watched his hands working in concentration, and his movements didn’t pull or exacerbate her headache at all. It was nimble. Practiced.</p><p>Like he’d done it a thousand times before.</p><p>But this was a first, for her, and she decided to let herself appreciate it as the contact pulled the migraine’s tight claws away.</p><p>“There we are,” George murmured, and his eyes flickered over the top of her head as the last of it came free and curls spilled over her face. Sparks splayed from his fingers, dancing over her scalp.</p><p>Dissolving the hurt.</p><p>It was Heavenly.</p><p>Hermione blinked heavily.</p><p>George studied her quietly, then scooped his left arm under her knees and his right under her arm. Gravity lost its hold as he lifted her to his chest. She felt his wrist tense with a soft snap, and the covers shifted back with the wandless magic.</p><p> The bed creaked as he settled her into place on the right side, then drew the blankets over her. She expected him to retreat then, taking his touch and all of its glimmers away, leaving her to face sharp pinch again.</p><p>But he didn’t.</p><p>George braced his hands on the mattress’s edge and got to his knees on the floor, beside her shoulder. His right hand came to rest on her forehead, and he smoothed back her hair.</p><p>The only sound in the room was George’s slightly rattled breath and the chirp of crickets.</p><p>She missed the crickets, in Diagon. Diagon had bustle and roar and magic, but a sad shortage of her favorite chorus. The familiar, muggle magic of one thing staying the same as the rest of the world turned. Slowly, George reached his other hand for her left, taking her palm perpendicularly.</p><p>The world went fuzzy.</p><p>He had an almost gravitational pull around him. Without quite meaning to, she found herself turning into it and reaching her other hand over to where the two of theirs were joined. She dragged his knuckles up to her cheek, tucking the back of his forearm against her chest.</p><p>With her movement, George stilled. But, after a moment, he leaned over the mattress, bracing on his elbow. She couldn’t keep her eyes open for more than a few moments at a time, but every time she blinked, she found him watching her with the same gentle, concentrating expression as his thumb continued to stroke a little line over the bridge of her nose and up her brow.</p><p>Fuzzy, fuzzy light.</p><p>“George,” she whispered, overwhelmed.</p><p>“It’s alright, Love. I’ve got you.” He sounded kind, albeit slightly amused as she clutched his arm tighter. Faint crescents of magic and light seemed to dance from his knuckles, against her cheek, and the whole world was shine.</p><p>Everything melting away, fading under the light touch of magic and safety, colors and shapes and sense slipping to nothing with the last vestiges of the headache.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “You’re wonderful,” she mumbled, voice thick and slurred. Her eyes slipped shut.</p><p>And even then, George knelt, unmoving at her side.</p><p>Moments passed, and her awareness untwined as the rise and fall of her shoulders slowed. Just as she faded, she could’ve sworn that she heard a soft, belated reply—breathed almost inaudibly with a slight catch in the tone: “I love you too.”</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 2:12 a.m.</p><p>Hermione blinked. Cool moonlight filled her room, and the horrid ache in her skull had all but dissolved to light and glow.</p><p>How much time had passed?</p><p>She pulled in a sharp breath, then looked to her left.</p><p>George’s head had tipped forward, resting against the mattress. His hands hadn’t moved from their stations—on her forehead and holding her palm.</p><p>The steady, familiar thrum swirled in both spots.</p><p>And George—George was asleep.</p><p>Her brain whirred slowly, before she dragged in another breath and kicked the pillow in the center of the bed back. “Georgie,” she whispered, releasing her hold on his arm.</p><p>His breath stuttered.</p><p>“Come to bed,” she said. She gave his wrist a small tug. George pulled his head aloft and his face contorted.</p><p>“What?” he mumbled.</p><p>Hermione scooted over and tugged his hand into the empty space she’d left along the mattress’s edge. “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor,” she whispered. “Come on.”</p><p>Perhaps half asleep, George nodded a little, then stumbled from his knees and crawled into the place she’d been moments before.</p><p>Faintly, she considered the merit of retreating further away, onto the other side of the bed. But he was quite warm, in the best way. And the pulse of magic seemed to be helping her headache.</p><p>It wouldn’t do to wake up with a migraine that she could’ve prevented, really.</p><p>And—and he smelled like cinnamon.</p><p>Hermione found herself brushing the common sense aside and slipping under George’s arm to snuggle close.</p><p>George hummed out a low sigh of appreciation, and his hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her curls.</p><p>He was back asleep within moments. Perhaps never truly out of it, fully.</p><p>She drifted off to the steady thud against her ear.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 7:00 a.m.</p><p>Glow, and she was slowly rotating in it. Arms over her head, curls splayed, spinning slowly like a record on a turn table.</p><p>The tranquil whisk of tires on rainy blacktop whispered through the reverie.</p><p>She blinked and adjusted against the softness beside her.</p><p>Oh. George’s right arm was wedged between the back of her head and the mattress, and his right lay over her shoulders, hand buried in the mess of hair on the back of her head. Her left arm, meanwhile, had curled between their sides, and her right had evidently found its way to his flannel collar.</p><p>The light on her digital alarm clock read 7:00 a.m., and her head felt light and clear.</p><p>She’d—she’d never slept so well in her life.</p><p>She’d woken in his arms.</p><p>Again.</p><p>But this time, she didn’t panic.</p><p>After all, it was out of necessity, really, that they’d shared the bed. She wasn’t certain that she’d be ready to permanently shift their sleeping arrangement any time soon.</p><p>That felt like a rather large step.</p><p>But—</p><p>But it was lovely, sleeping beside him.</p><p>She hadn’t had a single bad dream.</p><p>Hermione contemplated their position, the lovely mundanity of it, and the empty space to the side. If she wanted, she could slide over. Pretend it hadn’t happened.</p><p>She bit her lip and glanced over the man beside her.</p><p>George was still out, clearly exhausted, and Hermione’s brief look stretched into something longer as a fascination took hold. All the lines, the weariness on him—it had relaxed in the night, and his breath pulled slowly. In and out. In and out.</p><p>In the light of morning, she could see that her hasty transfiguration had also missed some of the fabric on the back of his collar—where the oxford’s original weave clashed against the flannel.</p><p>George’s cheeks were flushed pink, and his fringe was swept to the side, a few strands sticking to his forehead with sweat. As he slept, he seemed to thrum like a vintage car—like the Anglia, when the key was turned and the engine hummed with life. Unimpeded by his notice, Hermione propped her chin on his chest and committed herself to learning every detail on his face.</p><p>The little, faded freckles. The bump on the bridge of his nose. The ridges of his right ear. The soft curve of his lower lip. The way his eyes darted under his lids. The tiny, almost unnoticeable flexions of his muscles as whatever dream he was immersed in played through his head. His arm that had looped under her tightened in place around her shoulders, and his hand clutched her deltoid, warm through her sleeve.</p><p>He was beautiful.</p><p>Tentatively, Hermione reached her hand up to trail a fingertip over his nose. She traced the line down, then up and over the ridge of his cheekbone. George’s brow knitted together, and his face tipped into the small glimmer of magic that played between her finger and his skin. But he didn’t stir.</p><p>He must’ve been quite worn out by the week’s events.</p><p>Worry pinged, like a plucked cord under her ribs. She exhaled slowly.</p><p>His breath was warm over her wrist as she continued to map the landscape of his features. From the edge of his cheek, up to the flattened indent of his temple, then back over the ridge she’d already travelled, alongside his ear, into the valley below his cheek and above his jaw, where faintly emerging, reddish stubble began to scritch against the pad of her finger.</p><p>Down, over the angle of jawbone, along the line to the center of his chin, then up—up—up, ghosting over his lips, which were slightly open, along the divot above his mouth that trailed up, into the planes of his nostrils. As she returned her touch to the bridge of his nose, George’s breath hitched. The slow, steady inhale cut through with a shorter, shaken one. Hermione stilled her hand.</p><p>George’s face relaxed.</p><p>Cautiously, she proceeded, up, along his eyebrow. She was contemplating the slightly darker tint of the hair there when there was another sharp breath in, and she was caught, red-handed, fingers trailing over his face as George stared at her with round eyes.</p><p>Heat flushed her ears.</p><p>She hadn’t thought that he would mind, as he’d always encouraged her when she’d asked to touch him in the past, but perhaps this was too strange.</p><p>What was she to do? Instinct prompted her to snatch her hand back, but that might make things worse. So, in a bolt of genius—really, the most clever she’d ever been—Hermione opened her mouth and said nothing at all as her hand froze over his brow.</p><p>George’s gaze flicked between her face and her hand, seeming confused, then, finally, over their entangled forms, and by the time he found met her eyes again, the confusion had been overtaken with hesitancy.</p><p>There was a stilted pause.</p><p>Then: “Hello,” he said thickly, if not a bit awkwardly. Hermione bit her lower lip. George glanced at her hand, then back into her eyes. “Everything still there?” he asked.</p><p>The tension eased, and Hermione ducked her chin as she breathed out a quiet laugh.</p><p>“Better check again,” he said, merriment creeping into the rasp of his early morning mumble. “Just to make sure.”</p><p>Hermione flattened her hand against his brow and nose and pushed gently, shoving his face away. “You’re awful,” she said. She could feel his grin shift his features under her palm. “If you must know, I was trying to learn you—I hope that’s okay.”</p><p>A spurt of breath as he laughed into her skin. “Learn me?” he asked, turning his head against her hand to face her. Hermione propped her chin back up and twisted her mouth.</p><p>“Yes,” she said resolutely. “I want to know your face as well as you know mine.”</p><p>George’s eyes twinkled. “Would you like me to call for Fred? Give you twice the material?” His tone was playful, but Hermione spotted the opening he’d left her, and she dove into it without hesitation.</p><p>“That would hardly be helpful, seeing as there are differences,” she said. George’s eyes crinkled, and she bit back a self-satisfied grin at having said precisely the right thing. “And besides, presently, you’ve an unfair advantage of five years.”</p><p>George closed his eyes and settled back into the pillow, flat on his back. “Have at it,” he said. “I present myself as your willing subject.”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “Well, you’re awake now, so—”</p><p>George cracked an eyelid and peeked at her. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he said. The pink in his face shifted to a deeper red.</p><p>Hermione studied him.</p><p>“Very well then,” she said crisply. “But you’re not to distract me.” With that, she approached the right side of his face, which had been mostly hidden against the pillow during her first perusal.</p><p>His mumble was soft as she started up her exploration again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”</p><p>George made a poor sleeper when he wasn’t truly asleep. For one thing, he wouldn’t quit fidgeting—and not just his feet. The hand that’d slipped free from her curls after he woke kept twitching over his chest, his thumb sweeping back and forth over the stack of his fisted knuckles as she looked him over. And his face—every time she shifted her fingers from one place to another, he’d fight the smile back, more often than not biting down on his lips to keep from breaking.</p><p>Hermione hesitated, then leaned in and pushed a kiss into the corner of his smile. George’s brows shot up. “It’s all part of the process,” she whispered.</p><p>George schooled his expression and nodded. “Of course,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s nose ghosted over his cheek. George’s face tilted towards her the slightest bit, but Hermione stopped his movement as she shifted closer to his ear, between his temple and the pillow. “So far, the findings support my hypothesis.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>Hermione nodded happily and slipped her hand up his scar, skating her fingers into his hair.</p><p>His frame tensed for a moment, and his cheek scraped along hers as he ducked his chin and cleared his throat. “And what’s this theory, Dear?”</p><p>Hermione pulled back and propped her head on his chest. He was staring at the ceiling with a look of nervous concentration. When she came into view, he lifted his brows in question, waiting. That is, until she scratched her nails lightly along his scalp, and then his face went slack and his eyes fluttered shut. The words came easily. Confidently. “You’re the most darling man alive.”</p><p>George’s eyes popped open and his look shifted—his brow furrowing slightly as he studied her. He tilted his head, expression serious. His tongue clicked over the roof of his mouth. “Well, now I’ve got to kiss you,” he said apologetically, as though he’d backed into her vehicle in a car park. He summoned his wand with a snap and caste a nonverbal cleaning charm over his mouth. “No getting around it, I’m afraid.” He offered the wand to her, and Hermione laughed.</p><p>The purple sparks danced about before fading.</p><p>The charm tasted like spearmint.</p><p>That was her last thought before George’s wand hit the carpet and his ever-fidgeting hand took her cheek to pull her up to him.</p><p>The kiss came in three movements. The first was hurried, jovial, and grinning. The second found both of his hands buried in her curls as her other came up to join her first in his hair. And the third? The third was a waltz, stealing the smile from his face, the breath from their lungs, and the gravity from the room in slow, tender sweeps.</p><p>And not in a metaphorical sense.</p><p>The faint crackle of accidental magic stirred, and Hermione’s brow furrowed as she lost control. But—but George emitted a small, delighted laugh as their bodies came free from the bed, sheets cascading off of them as they floated—her cuddled into his side and the air like a gentle hug beneath them.</p><p>Another car purred by outside on the street, but George and Hermione were held aloft from the slipstream of early morning commute. Muggles packed into vehicles to go to work, unaware of the quiet laughter and tender magic at play over their heads and through the vine covered window.</p><p>The fourth kiss was the best yet—melting the world into spearmint and light.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 7:25 a.m.</p><p>Rising into midair had been easy. Getting down, apparently, was a bit trickier. She’d allowed herself to relax and enjoy the moment as George layered sweet, warm kisses into her, but now that they were seeking solid ground, she was a bit put out at her own magic’s doings. They likely looked ridiculous.</p><p>A tangle of flannel and limbs, halfway between the ceiling fan and the bed. They’d found a wobbly purchase in the air, and they reclined there, propped on elbows and facing each other on their sides. Every time she tried to shove her hand or foot through the magic, it bounced right back up.</p><p>George was all hushed laughter and hands steadying her forearms as he tried, through broken gasps to explain how they usually got out of the predicament.</p><p>“Descendos don’t usually do it, so it’s a simple matter of a—” He paused and cracked into laughter again at the look on her face. She groaned. “I’m sorry,” he managed, wheezing.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione whispered flatly. “You really look terribly sorry.”</p><p>A sudden rap sounded on her bedroom door, and Hermione started in mid-air, clapping a hand over her mouth. The sudden movement spun her out of balance, but George’s hand snapped out once again to take her wrist.</p><p>“Sparrow?” Her Dad’s voice sang through the door. “I’m making up some breakfast before I head into work.”</p><p>That was odd. Good, though. Her father hadn’t gone to the practice since Hermione started staying with them.</p><p>“Sparrow?” Thomas prompted again.</p><p>Hermione looked furtively around the room—at the clearly magical nature of their predicament and bugged her eyes out at George. He winced. “Stay calm,” he mouthed.</p><p>“Wasn’t sure if you’d want any, Darling.” Her Dad was still talking through the door. “Thought I’d make some extra.” A pause. “So, would that be one or two waffles?”</p><p>Hermione raised her brows and snorted at George. Clearly, her father was trying to determine if George had spent the night.</p><p>George nodded eagerly.</p><p>“Two, Dad,” she called. “Thank you!”</p><p>“Brilliant!” Mr. Granger’s voice took on an excited bounce, and footsteps echoed down the hall.</p><p>George pulled her to him, face set in a more determined expression. “Right,” he said, all business now that there was food to be had. “So, I’ll caste the silencing charm, and then the cushioning charm on the area below, and you can do the Finite on me.” He paused at her arched brow. “What?”</p><p>Hermione shook her head and pushed him. George grinned and snapped for his wand before summoning hers. The charms zipped out, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she caste the Finite Incantatem. George landed with a dull thud on his back.</p><p>He proceeded to dust himself off as his pajamas morphed back into the outfit he’d had on the day before. Then, in a straightforward motion, he stepped onto her bed and pulled her down through the thick layer of magic, first by the ankles, then the waist. She popped free as the spell evaporated, bracing her hands against his shoulders.</p><p>Her feet dangled around his shins.</p><p>George’s smile was lopsided, and it pulled at the space under her sternum.</p><p>He was too bloody charming, sometimes.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“Goo, I tell you,” George quipped, eyeing her quickly warming face with an air of satisfaction. But before she had time to formulate a reply, he’d lowered her gently to stand. “It’s been a while since you caste one of those accidentally.” He grinned towards the ceiling. “Least it happened indoors this time.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes rounded.</p><p>But George was already heading for the door. “You wash up,” he said, as though he hadn’t just shared something wildly concerning. “I’ll thank your dad for the food.”</p><p>The door clicked shut.</p><p>
  <em>“You’ve always turned to goo the moment we leave the ground.”</em>
</p><p>His taunt from before sang through her mind, and she pressed her hands to her face.</p><p>Alright. Maybe there was a small, teensy bit of truth to it.</p><p>But, not to the extent he’d claimed. No.</p><p>Definitely not.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 8:45 a.m.</p><p>After a quick stop by the flat to give George a chance to change and shower before they headed for the Burrow to work.</p><p>Calliope swooped in with an envelop as the water ran in the loo, and Hermione pulled the parchment out.</p><p>“<em>Mione,</em></p><p>
  <em>Wizengamot’s agreed to give us a court date. We’ll know the precise scheduling soon. I’ve started on the most recent Ministry records looking for “Merlinsguard,” and haven’t found anything yet. May be time for a library trip?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You were always best at finding things like that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thanks for all your work,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Harry</em>
</p>
<ol>
<li><em> Ron would also like to thank you. He’s insisted I add this part, rather than just signing it as well.” </em></li>
</ol><p>There was a splotch of ink below that point, as though there had been a tussle. Hermione snorted. At the very bottom, there was one, final line:</p><p>
  <em>PSS. It’s Ron now. Harry forgot to add that there’s still no word from Auntie Muriel, but I’d imagine it’s only because she’s still sore over Mum yelling at her in March. </em>
</p><p>Hermione laid the letter down and mused over what might’ve given Molly cause to argue with Muriel.</p><p>After a while, George emerged from the loo, and she quite forgot about Harry’s note. He was in rare form. Whistling, darting around the flat with wet hair, spinning her under his arm every time he found an excuse to pass by the spot where she leaned against the counter.</p><p>She could’ve moved to a less trafficked zone to escape his route between the study and the mess of equipment and parchment he was building over the kitchen table. But that would’ve been less fun.</p><p>He was smiling an awful lot, as well. It seemed like every time she caught his eye, he already had a grin on his face.</p><p>Just now, he was doing precisely that as he strapped the brown, leather wand holster over top of his white button down. “Easiest to keep hands free when I’m brewing more than one thing at a time,” he said. The comb floated over his head until he fastened the last strap, when he nabbed the handle out of the air and began to drag it through his copper strands.</p><p>With a wand flick, George banished the comb back to the loo before reaching back through the study door to nick a belt from someplace out of sight. He threaded it through the loops of his denims and buckled it.</p><p>There was a strange intimacy in watching someone else get ready for the day.</p><p>The thought popped into her mind, and her cheeks flushed. George’s mouth quirked up on the left side, and he eyed her as he blasted a drying charm through his hair. The carefully combed style went slightly tousled, and he raked a hand through it before setting to rolling his sleeves to the elbow. All the while, he glanced back and forth between his shirt cuffs and her, seeming more and more entertained.</p><p>Finally, he finished with the second sleeve and winked. “You can take a picture, if you’d like,” he said, then popped his wand in his teeth—forgetting about the holster as he reached for a pair of worn trainers.</p><p>Hermione sputtered.</p><p>George’s eyes crinkled as he fumbled into the shoes.</p><p>“Those look like they’re about to fall apart,” she finally managed.</p><p>George shook his head, jovially slipping the wand into its holster and standing upright. “Haven’t gotten a pair of replacement boots yet, and my dragon leathers don’t have the arch support I need for brewing.”</p><p>In between helping with the case, he’d been working on building Percy’s wolfsbane stock, in addition to starting on the massive load of Snackboxes that would be due for Harry’s order and the end of semester rush.</p><p>He strode to her and reached over her shoulder, onto the counter, leaning perhaps a bit closer than necessary to retrieve his waiting mug of tea. He drew it back slowly, then stayed crowded into her space as he took a long sip.</p><p>He studied her face with that same, cocky grin while he drained it. “That’s a good cuppa,” he said roguishly.</p><p>Then, he sent it to the sink, where the washing charm set to work on it. For a moment, she thought he might lean in and—</p><p>But then he spun rapidly to the table. The brown, leather shoulder bag’s top lay flipped open, and George set his wand to shrinking and packing up the parchments, the cherry-red cardboard slips, and the non-reactive ingredients.</p><p>“I meant what I said. Camera’s in my second desk drawer,” he offered dryly. Hermione scoffed.</p><p>But then her feet spun, and she made her way into the study.</p><p>A hamper full of rumpled clothing lay beside the loveseat, which was presently folded away to hide the bed. A quick peek proved that the mattress inside was bare of sheets.</p><p>Odd.</p><p>Hermione frowned towards the living room. The only signs of occupancy lay around his work area. A thick, golden knit blanket lay draped around George’s desk chair, and a pocket watch rested, face open on the wooden surface. Just beside it, a muggle phone was flipped wide, screen dark atop the spread of a familiar, black, leather-bound journal. The page on the right-hand side had been torn out, and the sheet under was blank.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip and glanced toward the living room.</p><p>Gently, she took up the phone and snapped it shut, then flipped the journal closed. They went on the corner of the desk, while the pocket watch found its way into her hand as she straightened the blankets out.</p><p>At the extended silence, George poked his head into the study.</p><p>“Oh,” he said. “You don’t have to—”</p><p>“Camera’s in the second drawer?” she asked brightly, heading for the other side of the desk. George nodded and folded his arms. Hermione slid the drawer open and pulled the device out. When she turned back around, fiddling with the black, leather strap affixed to either side, George was contemplating the fold out bed.</p><p>He bit his lips together. “I’ve been staying at the Burrow,” he said. “In case you wanted to be here.”</p><p>Merlin, they’d both been avoiding the flat out of consideration for the other. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.</p><p>He sighed. “If you’re planning on remaining at your parents, however, I may come back here?” he said it lightly and casually, but his hands were fidgeting in and out of his pockets. “It’s a bit awkward with everyone gawking at me when I come downstairs in the morning—” he trailed off.</p><p>He hadn’t said the critical part—when he came downstairs, <em>alone</em>. Hermione’s ribs tightened. He’d been dealing with this under the eyes of his entire family, and while they were mostly supportive, the entire conflict had been rather on display.</p><p>She hadn’t even thought about how that might feel.</p><p>“I don’t terribly mind it, though, so if you’d rather be here instead, I can manage,” he added quietly.</p><p>Hermione paused. She hadn’t imagined they’d be in separate places again, after last night. But perhaps it would be best to think it through and then talk about it over thoroughly, rather than presuming.</p><p>“No,” she said. “That’s fine. And besides, the whole time, I—I sort of assumed you’d be here, actually.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Have you been—” she glanced around the room, and the overcrowded laundry hamper and the cluttered desk. The signs of slight disarray that, while not bothersome, seemed abnormal. “—managing?”</p><p>George shrugged and headed for the desk. “Let’s see about that camera, shall we?” he asked with a bright grin. “It’s been out of use for a while, with everything.” He pulled it from her hands and proceeded to check the shutter button and the lens in a nimble routine.</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“It’s been hard,” George admitted in a soft tone, turning the device over and removing the lens cover. “But today’s a new day, yes?” He glanced up and met her eyes.</p><p>Today could be a new day.</p><p>Hermione nodded firmly.</p><p>George exhaled a little and broke into a bright smile before he cleared his throat and flicked his wand. The camera floated before them in midair. “Here.” He turned towards the lens and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’d be a shame to waste a pretty face like mine.” He flicked his wand to set off the camera’s capture, then grinned down at her. Hermione snorted. George smirked and his voice took on a casual lilt as he glanced at the camera. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been gawking all morning.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed. “Honestly.”</p><p>George’s grin widened.</p><p>Rogue impulse.</p><p>Hermione slipped under his arm and vaulted onto his back, lacing the step with a nonverbal Ascendio Minor. George stumbled and let out a surprised shout, catching her about the knees. Hermione’s left hand closed on the strap of his wand holster while her right wrapped over his shoulder and flattened to his chest.</p><p>“You’re a smarmy prat, you know that, Weasley?” she said, scrambling for higher purchase on his back. George exploded into laughter.</p><p>Magic. Whirling, under her skin.</p><p>She pressed her nose to his cheek as the sound of his mirth bounded off the walls.</p><p>He really was wonderful. Well, of course he was wonderful.</p><p>Then, she closed on the whirling sparks under her skin, and focusing with all her might, sent them down her arm, through her fingers, and into his chest in a quick burst.</p><p>“Oh—” George’s voice caught in his throat and he lurched forward a step.</p><p>The camera clicked off.</p><p>“But you’re <em>my </em>smarmy prat,” Hermione added, grinning, and she sent another surge through.</p><p>George’s breath came out in a rush and he tripped into the sofa’s arm. “Dear Merlin.” His intonation went wobbly.</p><p>Excellent. Most excellent.</p><p>Feeling for all the world as though she’d received an “Outstanding” on a relationship NEWT, Hermione slipped from his back and darted to the doorframe.</p><p>George was frozen, blinking at the sofa as he steadied himself. He turned to face her, shock splashed over his features and gold glimmered in his eyes.</p><p>“Hermione,” he managed, stunned. Hermione grinned and backed away a step. George tilted his head and reached a shaking hand up to point her direction, brows drawn. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Flexed the hand pointed at her a bit, then sucked in a breath and opened his mouth once more, as though to try again.</p><p>Let the prankster get a taste of his own medicine, then.</p><p>Hermione laughed aloud and raced from the room.</p><p>“Granger, wait—” he gasped, but for some ridiculous reason, his steps were clumsy and uneven sounding behind her.</p><p>Hermione dashed for the floo, laughter pealing from her.</p><p>“The Burrow!” she shouted.</p><p>The green flame whooshed.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 10:00 a.m.</p><p>The floo network spilled her onto the Burrow’s hearth, and she stepped back, waiting and grinning. Fleur looked up from her spot on the sofa, where she was working a needle through some fabric stretched over a hoop.</p><p>“How are you, Hermione?” she asked.</p><p>“Very well, thanks,” Hermione replied, smiling at the hearth.</p><p>Charlie lifted his head from the place he reclined, upside down in the armchair. “Waiting on someone?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded and grinned over her shoulder at him.</p><p>Just then, the floo roared again, and George tripped through.</p><p>“Good Godric, you cheeky—” he gasped, and then he practically fell into her, arms wrapping all the way around her shoulders as he slumped over her form, going limp. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, bracing his forehead to hers. Gold shone in his irises—sparking and swirling, and then his head tumbled down to her shoulder, where he took great breaths as though he’d run a marathon.</p><p>Fred paced through the front door, aiming his wand along a set of three watches on his wrist and muttering. He glanced at George, quirked his brows at Hermione, then returned to the timepieces on his way to the kitchen.</p><p>Hermione breathed out a laugh and made to step away, but George seemed to have attached himself around her shoulders, and as she turned, he merely shifted his grip and followed close behind her, as though reticent to let go.</p><p>“You can hardly stay like this all day,” she said, cocking a brow at him as she tripped over his foot for the second time on her way towards Fred in the kitchen.</p><p>Percy looked up from his seat beside Angelina. “Yet I’m sure he’ll try,” Percy said, tone brittle. He smacked a parchment onto the table. Angie snorted.</p><p>Hermione approached a bit hesitantly. She hadn’t spent much time with Angelina since sending her away with the others, and then she’d gone and dueled Fred. Word had gotten through to the entire family about that little stunt, but Angie, however, only grinned at her as she approached.</p><p>Relief flowed through Hermione’s chest.</p><p>Percy, on the other hand, appeared drawn and tired. His face was chalkier than usual, and the creases under his eyes were particularly deep. His gaze met Hermione’s, and he sighed before leaning back in his chair and turning away, put out by whatever he saw in her expression.</p><p>It would be kindest to redirect the conversation, then. Keep things light, rather than fixating on the ailment currently plaguing the other Weasley.</p><p>Hermione twisted partway from George’s hold. “No, he knows when he’s beat,” she said, lacing the words with a smug lilt.  </p><p>George cleared his throat and stood upright. “That so, Granger?”</p><p>Perhaps goading him wasn’t a good idea.</p><p>But it was terribly fun.</p><p>Hermione shrugged.</p><p>Like a muggle scientist, prodding at the unknown—just to see what might happen. She wanted to tease him.</p><p>Why?</p><p>Angelina whistled lowly.</p><p>There was a brief pause as George’s hands closed on her waist, and he spun her to face him. His eyes searched over her expression for a moment, a look of concentration coming over him.</p><p>Then, his arms flexed, as though testing some invisible boundary, and Hermione found her toes lifting, ever so slightly from the floor.</p><p>Excitement zipped through her.</p><p>She couldn’t help it. She cracked into a grin.</p><p>George’s face lit. “Right,” he boomed.</p><p>George scooped her up, and suddenly, she was thrown over his shoulder in a fireman carry, his arm tucked snugly around the small of her waist. Hermione shrieked.</p><p>With any other person, she’d be enraged. But with George, who she knew would set her down the moment she expressed true ire, she was—she was delighted?</p><p>“George Fabian Weasley-Granger!” she cried. It sounded far less threatening with her laughter bubbling up between the words. “I’ll hex you!”</p><p>“Like to see you try,” George said, making his way towards the cabinetry. His thumb stroked a little line along her side, and Hermione squeaked.</p><p>“Honestly!” She said, laughing and shoving against his shoulder to no avail.</p><p>“You had it coming, Love,” he said mildly. “Chamomile or Earl Grey?”</p><p>She wasn’t boring or dusty or annoying. She was the playful, fun-loving girl, propped over George’s shoulder and having a lovely time and—and not overthinking it, and it was delightful.</p><p>Hermione braced her elbows on his back, propping her chin in her hands. “Coffee.”</p><p>“Poison, you mean,” George said merrily, but he reached for the bag. As he worked, Hermione surveyed those gathered at the table. Angelina had AJ on her lap. The toddler was occupied, dunking the whole of his fist into a dish of oatmeal, and Percy eyed the boy with no small amount of unease.</p><p>Odd.</p><p>Fred, as usual, was engaged in George’s habit of nervous movement, but dialed up to the extreme. He muttered a curse as a small fragment of metal tumbled from one of the watches and <em>ting</em>-ed against the floor.</p><p>“How’s it coming, Mate?” George asked over the trickle of water pouring through the strainer.</p><p>Fred’s face contorted before Hermione’s view shifted to the master bedroom door as George turned to face his brother. Charlie ambled around the corner to sneak a piece of toast from the dish by the stove. He leaned back and gestured at Hermione’s predicament. “Gross,” he mouthed with a good-natured grin, then offered a second piece to her.  </p><p>Hermione nicked the proffered toast and gave George’s mid-back a tap. “Down, please,” she said. George lowered her to the floor at once, and Hermione lingered between his arms, surveying the makings of coffee and tea and munching her toast as he worked around her shoulders.</p><p>“Thought if I separated each hand out, that might make the enchantment less finicky, but—” Fred’s voice was frayed and terse. Another <em>ting</em> sounded as the second watch’s face sprung open, and Fred sucked in a breath.</p><p>The bedroom door cracked open, and Arthur shuffled out right as Fred launched into a slipstream of curses potent enough to make Charlie’s eyes widen on his way back to the living room.</p><p>Mr. Weasley didn’t react. His were burrowed deep into the pockets of his tan, patchwork jumper, and he moved with the slow, ambling steps of one who was half-asleep.</p><p>The sound in the living room and kitchen died as Mr. Weasley approached Fred, lifted his son’s forearm, licked his thumb, and stuck the second watch’s face back into place. “Can’t force it,” he mumbled, then eased into the chair at the head of the table, where he stared listlessly at the Pixie Puffs box.</p><p>AJ began to squirm.</p><p>“Any improvement?” Fred asked quietly.</p><p>Arthur’s mouth thinned as his shoulders bobbed a bit. “It’s been a day off the potions, but she’s still out.” George stiffened behind Hermione.</p><p>Hermione peeked over her head, but George was distracted, watching the master bedroom’s door with a tight frown. Her fingers found his arm, and George faltered. Some, but not all of the tension slipped away. He tore his eyes from bedroom door and gave her a tired smile.  </p><p>Arthur lifted his hands from his pockets and laid them, fingers down, on the table edge. He lifted then resettled his fingers where they lay gingerly. “Thought she’d be awake by now,” he said.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and slipped from under George’s arm, coffee cup in tow.</p><p>She slid it in front of Mr. Weasley and took the chair on his other side. “It took George ages to come out of the Anaesthenium when he was under,” she supplied in what she hoped was an encouraging voice.</p><p>“Yes, well, he gets that from me, I’m afraid,” Mr. Weasley said wryly. “Molly’s side never had much issue with it.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Mr. Weasley took up the mug she’d offered. Angelo made a sharp whimper. Arthur glanced in that direction, appearing to take in his surroundings properly for the first time. His gaze flickered over the toddler, and a small line of concern worked its way between his brows before he seemed to ascertain that AJ was indeed fine, if a bit fussy.</p><p>“Dad, that’s—” George started, but Mr. Weasley took a long drink before he could finish. “—coffee.”</p><p>Arthur didn’t seem phased. “Is it?” he said tiredly, placing it back on the tabletop. Everything about Mr. Weasley appeared threadbare—his wispy, faded red hair, the weave of his jumper, his slumped posture in the seat. He watched AJ with a distracted expression.</p><p>Angelo, being all of two, failed to read the room and babbled excitedly as he stretched his arms towards Arthur.</p><p>“Shhh,” Angelina coaxed, but AJ began to struggle from his seat on her lap.</p><p>“Papa, up!” Angelo</p><p>Arthur blinked slowly and nodded, lifting his hands towards Angie.</p><p>“You don’t have to appease him if you don’t feel up to it, Dad,” Angelina said, wincing. Mr. Weasley shook his head wordlessly and gestured for her to hand him over again. Angie passed a wriggling AJ over the table like he was a carton of orange juice, and Arthur tucked the toddler onto his knee. Fred reached over and moved Angelo’s breakfast in front of the boy again, but plucked up the wooden, multicolor block that he’d been messing with.</p><p>“Breakfast first,” he said, tapping Angelo’s bowl. AJ frowned as Fred tucked the block onto the nearby hutch before retreating to the stool to twist his wand slowly over the second watch face.</p><p>Mr. Weasley watched AJ eat quietly, glancing between his grandson and the empty chair on the opposite end of the table.</p><p>George slid into the seat beside her, placing a new mug in front of her hands with a soft smile. His arm stole around her shoulders before he lifted his own cup to take a sip. Though faded, the last glimmers of gold still flecked in his eyes.</p><p>How strange.</p><p>“Had a good morning, I take it?” Mr. Weasley said mildly. Hermione turned and saw him watching George with a tired, amused expression as oatmeal splattered up from AJ’s bowl.</p><p>George colored violently and choked on his tea. But then he recovered and burst into laughter. “You could say that,” he said.</p><p>His arm was warm over the back of her chair. Hermione snuck a glance and found George studying her with a rather keen-looking twinkle in his eyes.</p><p>It was like he’d been hit with an extremely potent cheering charm.</p><p>Interesting.</p><p>“And did you have a good morning too, Hermione?” Angelina asked, raising her brows.</p><p>Oh dear.</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin despite the heat rushing her face. “The best, actually.”</p><p>George’s arm fell from the chair to her shoulders, and Hermione could feel Angelina, Percy, and Fred’s eyes on her, in addition to George and Mr. Weasley’s.</p><p>Oh dear.</p><p>She swiped for Percy’s discarded parchment, searching for a means to change the subject.</p><p>“<em>Potter Continues to Fumble Critical Case: Boy Who Lived Failing to Save Lives</em>,” read the headline. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the copy of <em>The Resonant</em> as fire licked up her throat.</p><p>“Careful Percy,” she muttered. “Molly doesn’t like filth on her tables.” She eyed the photo of Vane under the article, loudly praising the new members of his <em>“Task Force.”</em></p><p>As if. The only thing that lot had been tasked with was getting in the way.</p><p>Why had Percy brought this ghastly nonsense into the house?</p><p>Before Percy had time to recover, the fireplace roared and a familiar, airy voice called from the living room: “Hello Charles Weasley.”</p><p>Percy started in his chair.</p><p>“Hello Luna Lovegood,” Charlie responded in kind, swooping into a low bow. “How are you this fine morning?”</p><p>“Absolutely livid, thank you,” Luna said cheerfully. “Will you be staying long?”</p><p>Percy drummed his fingers on the table and winced.</p><p>“Nah, Perce’s been hogging them. And I’m here for a bit, yes, but I’m heading out to Fred and George’s shop just now,” Charlie replied. “They need someone watching the counter, now that they’ve taken to skiving off.”</p><p>“Oi,” Fred shouted.</p><p>“That’s very kind of you,” Luna said. “I couldn’t stand to be around people today.” The blonde witch rounded the corner, coming into view at Charlie’s side. Her Periwinkle cloak hung to her knees over a crisp blue pantsuit. She held a bundle of parchment in her arms, tied up in twine. Percy’s shoulders grew tighter and tighter as she approached.</p><p> “You’ve been ignoring my owls, Percy Ignatius Weasley,” Luna said lightly. The bundle hit the table before him with a loud thud. “Winky’s back.”</p><p>Percy’s wince shifted into a grimace as Hermione started upright in her chair.</p><p>“That’s not very kind of you,” Luna continued, unfastening her cloak. “Charles has never ignored my owls.”</p><p>“Bully for Charlie,” Percy muttered.</p><p>“That’s because your owls are always a treat,” Charlie called. He ducked around the corner, gesturing animatedly. “Literally, you lot. She puts wee treats for the hatchlings in them.” He pinched his fingers together to demonstrate the smallness of either the treats or the hatchlings—Hermione couldn’t determine.</p><p>“Dirigible Plums are highly nutritious for all magical creatures,” Luna said. “Even humans.” She pulled the newspaper from Hermione’s hands, and a small frown tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Atrocious,” she whispered quietly, and her tone took on a real edge that had henceforth not been present during the conversation.</p><p>“And the dragons thank you,” Charlie boomed, shooting her a pointed finger and wink before he strode to the floo and shouted, “93 Diagon” in an upswinging, jovial shout.</p><p>Percy rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t be such a grump,” Luna said, still sounding a little sharper than usual as she crumpled up <em>The Resonant</em>. “Winky’s notes aren’t so bad. If you didn’t want honest feedback, you shouldn’t have asked for help.”</p><p>“Some friend you are,” Percy muttered.</p><p>“Are we friends?” Luna asked, heading to the cupboards. “I was under the impression that friends responded to each other’s owls.”</p><p>George coughed, trying and failing to hold back a laugh.</p><p>Percy’s lip curled as he tore open the string and flung back the first page, then the second, eyes skimming the slipshod ink scrawled over the margins.</p><p>“What is that?” Hermione asked, leaning forward.</p><p>Percy held up a finger. “No, no. I’ve already been eviscerated, thank you.”</p><p>Luna laughed from her spot by the kettle. “He’s cross that Winky didn’t like his chapter on the effects of the Goblin-Wizard conflict on the hidden city near—”</p><p>Percy was writing a history book?</p><p><em>A History of Magic, </em>perhaps?</p><p>“I thought you said you’d given it up!” Hermione cried, darting over the table. “You’re still working on it?” Percy’s eyes squeezed shut, and he swiped the project from the surface.</p><p>“No,” he snapped. “Not anymore, and if—” he turned to Luna with a furious look on his face. “—some people would stop harassing me about it, I’d much appreciate it.”</p><p>“Never took you for a quitter, Perce,” George drawled.</p><p>Percy scoffed. “We both know that’s a lie,” he said.</p><p>George frowned.</p><p>“Yeah, but you came back around when it counted,” Fred said easily. “If you want to write a bloody textbook, we won’t take the mickey.” He paused. “Too badly, that is.”</p><p>“Generous of you,” Percy muttered.</p><p>“We do what we can,” Fred replied, twisting back to his watch. “Look, Charlie’s going to eat his body weight in Fizzing Whizzbees if I don’t get down there to check up on him.” With that, he swung his legs free from the stool.</p><p>“Let me know if you—” George started, waving a hand at Fred’s watches.</p><p>Fred nodded once, then began to proceed from the room.</p><p>“What’s he trying to do?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Angelina sighed. “He wants to replicate the charm on the Weasley clock,” she said. “So, he’ll always know if we’re safe.”</p><p>Suddenly, Fred stopped and swerved to Hermione’s side. He lifted his sleeve to show her, pointing his index finger along each watch face as he went. “AJ, Angelina, George.” Each watch had a stationary, thin silver piece facing the “twelve” position. The “George” watch had two. Hermione quirked a brow. “Yeah, didn’t fancy having you on there. You were supposed to get your own—for George, mind. But the magic’s hardly stable, and when I can get it to work at all, it goes haywire and makes you a hand,” Fred muttered.</p><p>“I’m still not sure about it, Freddie,” Angelina said. “I don’t want you showing up to Quidditch practice in a huff every time a Bludger swipes a bit too close to my head.”</p><p>Fred stood abruptly. “First of all,” he said. “By the time I get the charm on the watch to connect to each of your persons, it won’t move for little mishaps.” He strode to Angie with a firm set to his jaw. “Second, I’m only being practical for once. You make it out like I’m some mother hen—”</p><p>George coughed and made a rather startling impression of a chicken clucking, just then, and Fred’s cheeks went molten. “You’re the one that asked me about doing Granger’s,” he whispered.</p><p>George shrugged and lifted his mug to his lips. “There’s nothing wrong with being a bit mother hen,” he said mildly.</p><p>Hermione, meanwhile, eyed Fred’s project in interest. “I wouldn’t mind having one of my own for you, really,” she said quietly.</p><p>Mr. Weasley had fallen asleep in his chair.</p><p>“Really now?” Angie said with an arched brow. “I’m keen to have one for AJ’s sake, and I won’t begrudge Hermione and George from wanting them, especially considering the year they’ve had. But—” she paused and bit her lip. “I know you, Fred, and I wonder if watches are really the proper way to go about all of this.” She searched his face. “The Weasley clock has done just fine before, hasn’t it?”</p><p>Fred became fascinated with the flaking paint on the back of Angelina’s chair. “You lot matter. Rather not risk it,” he said with a little shrug. Angelina rose slowly, her green Quidditch robes rustling. She took Fred’s face in her hands and brought his eyes to meet her own.</p><p>“You can’t make a time piece for everyone who matters,” she said quietly. “You’ll run out of room.”</p><p>“I’ll grow longer arms,” Fred said hoarsely. Angelina gave him a sad smile and pushed a small kiss to his mouth and then set to straightening Fred’s Magenta robes.</p><p>“It’s up to you, Freddie,” she said. “But, if you can’t manage the enchantment, you should remember that we’ve made do before, and we’ll make do again.”</p><p>“Fred could use to be a bit more cautious, if you ask me,” Percy grumbled, still flipping through the parchments.</p><p>George plunked his empty mug on the table. “So,” he said brightly, cutting in just as Fred opened his mouth with a sharp look in his eyes. “Is our favorite elf accepting audiences?”</p><p>Luna grinned. “I suspect she’d make time.”</p><p>George nodded. “I’d owl and ask about tomorrow, but we’ve got that appointment with Marcus,” he said quietly. “It might have to be today, though that’s a bit last minute.”</p><p>Luna hopped up onto the counter and swung her feet. “She’s arranged a meeting for Garrick and I with some goblin representatives later today. You could meet with her while I’m working on that.”</p><p>“Brilliant.” George turned to Hermione, brows raised. “Fancy a trip to Godric’s Hollow?”</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 10:30 a.m.</p><p>“Is Winky more formal now?” Hermione asked, gazing at the dark, blue pantsuit that Fleur laid on her bed. Luna laughed from her spot by the window.</p><p>“Formal is perhaps not the best word for it,” Fleur started, but she was interrupted by a rapid knock on the open doorframe. George swung into the room with one hand gripping the molding and cocky grin on his face.</p><p>“One doesn’t show up to Winky’s office in denims,” George said wryly. “She wouldn’t stand for it.” He’d swapped out the worn jeans for a set of blue trousers that seemed to be of a similar shade to what Fleur had picked out.</p><p>Hermione blinked between his outfit and her own. They matched. Was that on purpose?</p><p>“And we are likely to be photographed,” Fleur said.</p><p>George noted Hermione’s look, and his eyes crinkled as he headed towards the closet. “We coordinate for Agency business,” he said. He re-emerged after a moment, matching jacket tugging over his white oxford. “And with the papers this morning, I think Fleur has the right idea.” He fastened a tie around his collar and cocked a brow. “We’re not taking this lying down.” The navy tie looped around and down, into a smooth knot. “Let Vane sweat a bit.”</p><p>“And it’s Ravenclaw blue,” Luna added lightly.</p><p>George snapped and pointed at Luna. “Exactly, Moonchild.” He winked at Hermione as she gathered her outfit to her chest.</p><p>She was a bit nervous to meet with Winky. She hadn’t really seen the elf since her time at Hogwarts before the war, and from what she could tell, the two had worked rather closely in the past. After all the waiting, she found herself nervous now that the day had finally come.</p><p>What if Winky didn’t want to deal with her memory loss? What if she’d missed something obvious while trying to further the cases? Or, what if she’d messed up the details, somehow?</p><p>And returning to Godric’s Hollow—she hadn’t been there since the night with the graveyard. The snake. Voldemort, coming upon them in a storm of fury.</p><p>They’d almost died.</p><p>Godric’s Hollow was a place of pain—all tombstones and memorials.</p><p>Of all places, why had Winky chosen there for her office?</p><p>Hermione became quite lost in her thoughts and started a little as George neared her elbow. “Alright, Granger?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “It’ll be odd, returning to Godric’s Hollow,” she said quietly.</p><p>George paused. “I think you’ll find it changed for the better,” he murmured. Then, he pressed a light kiss to her temple, fingers grazing under her chin, tipping it to give him a better angle. Hermione breathed out a small burst.</p><p>If only her anxieties could dissipate like air.</p><p>“I’ll be right here,” George said lightly, adding an additional kiss right where he’d fixed the first. He tugged a curl that had escaped her thick plait, then tucked it back into place. “Can’t be rid of me.”</p><p>Hermione gave him a tired smile, and George tapped the bridge of her nose.</p><p>Perhaps it would be alright.</p><p>Just as quickly, he bounded from the room, light on his feet.</p><p>“Uptown girl—” His jovial singing echoed from the study. “I’m in love with an uptown girl.”</p><p>Fleur glanced at the wall, then Hermione. “He seems happy,” she said. Hermione bit back a smile. Luna swept between the two of them with an airy smile.</p><p>“He’s been like that all day,” Hermione said quietly.</p><p>Victoire’s screech of laughter echoed from the living room, followed by George’s voice of fake outrage. “No ear? Now listen here—” More giggles. “What d’you mean it’s missing? Have you taken it, Victoire?” Another screech, mixed with a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose you’ll have to share yours, then—” The laughter built, and like clockwork, a wistful pang pinched her insides together.</p><p>Hermione ran a thumb along the stiff fabric under her hands. She was being ridiculous.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 11:00 a.m.</p><p>They floo-ed back to the Burrow, where Fleur looked at the individuals gathered.</p><p>Angelina was on her way out with AJ. “I’d take her, but I’ve got practice,” Angie said apologetically. “He’s going to spend some time with my parents.”</p><p>“Bring her along,” George said. “Winky’s always liked ickle beasties.” Victoire jumped at Fleur’s side and made an appropriate growling sound. George barked out a laugh. The toddler’s tangled, blonde hair had been tamed into a thick French plait down the back of her head, matching Fleur, Luna, and Hermione’s. But her outfit was all Bill—miniature leather jacket included.</p><p>George paused at the coatrack to nick an umbrella, and Luna pulled her wand out and tapped it to Victoire’s jacket.</p><p>“I can make this blue. Would you like to match your Mumma?” Luna asked, for Fleur was in the same color palette as the rest of them.</p><p>Victoire’s feet went wild, and she jumped and nodded. “Oui!”</p><p>A surprised, delighted smile stretched over Fleur’s face.</p><p>Luna’s nonverbal spell hit the jacket, and the leather shifted to a similar shade of blue. “There,” Luna said. “Now, she’s ready.”</p><p>Victoire grinned. “Mumma!” she shouted gleefully.</p><p>“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” Hermione said, reaching down to adjust Victoire’s buckle, which was flailing about in the toddler’s never-ending movement.</p><p>George snorted, but the others didn’t seem to get the muggle reference. She flashed him a grateful smile.</p><p>When it came time to apparate to the nearby village, Hermione didn’t hesitate before reaching for George’s arm.</p><p>#</p><p>A light smattering of rain covered the rickety, stone street as the universe spat them in an alleyway beside the fountain at the edge of Godric’s Hollow. Without the cover of snow, the Tudor style homes lining the streets appeared even older, though less ethereal. The timber frames wrapping the plaster walls reminded Hermione a bit of the shops in Hogsmeade, although there was less granite embedded into the structures. Down the lane, she could make out the form of the obelisk, which flickered between the statue of Harry and his parents and the form the muggles would see—a war memorial in either shape.</p><p>George raised the umbrella, and Hermione stepped under it. “Mind the fountain,” he murmured. “It’s a bit of a—”</p><p>Hermione blinked as they stepped around it. On the northeastern side of the structure, there was a fizz of wards, and suddenly, the plain, stone lion head morphed.</p><p>Harry Potter, carved of granite, stared back at her, facing north. He crouched in a bulky coat, wand outstretched and eyes fixed on the obelisk across the way. Ron stooped at his side, climbing over a carved hunk of rubble, looking over his shoulder towards the southwest.</p><p>And—and in the middle, Hermione saw herself—ragged jean jacket immortalized in stone, standing with her shoulders back and expression set in determined lines as she faced the northeast. The statue depicted them exactly as they’d been in the battle at Hogwarts.</p><p>Right before the gap.</p><p>“You watch the Ministry,” George said quietly, pointing in the direction her likeness faced.</p><p>Ridiculous.</p><p>A lump rose in her throat.</p><p>“Total waste of Galleons,” she muttered.</p><p>“Mhm,” George said, tone light. “But the magical community here might disagree, seeing as they commissioned it.” His hand tangled with hers. Underneath, on the sign, little notes fluttered in the drizzle, protected from the elements by some sort of Impervius charm. “Same artist that did the Potters’ memorial.”</p><p>The plaque held lines of text etched into the marble, and as Hermione watched, the lines solidified, then faded, then resolidified—some sort of enchantment making the display’s text flicker through three sets of lines. The first went:</p><p>
  <em>“Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger led a band of fighters to overcome Tom Riddle and his army of Death Eaters on May the Second, 1998. </em>
</p><p>The second:</p><p>
  <em>“‘The most powerful forms of magic are found in the things muggles and wizarding kind share—love, hope, and friendship. That’s what I fought to protect, and what I’m still fighting for. There’s work to be done, yet.’ –Hermione Granger, Muggleborne”</em>
</p><p>And finally, the third:</p><p>
  <em>“‘It is the quality of one’s convictions that determines success, not the number of followers.’ –Remus Lupin”</em>
</p><p>Something—definitely not a sob, caught in her lungs.</p><p>“Always thought this sort of thing was rubbish,” George muttered. “But I don’t mind this one as much.”</p><p>Hermione snorted. “You’re only saying that because I’m wearing your jacket,” Hermione muttered, eyeing the garment that she’d taken for granted for so long. Another crack of apparition echoed behind them.</p><p>George let out a gasp and held his hand to his chest. “Are you really?” He played at shock, pacing around the statue. “Hadn’t noticed, Love, but—” He broke into a grin. “I suppose you are, aren’t you.” His tone lilted in a teasing sing-song. “Fancy that.”</p><p>Luna and Fleur waved to them to follow, and George held his hand out, tipping his head towards a crowded street that had appeared just beyond the statue as they’d rounded to the northeastern side. She’d thought that it was a dead end past the fountain, but through the ward, a whole new world had appeared.</p><p>Here, wizarding folk bustled about, bedecked in long, flowing robes. Booths lined the street, and merchants called out, advertising caldron cakes and butterbeer. “This side of town is warded to deflect muggles,” George whispered in her ear. His hand closed on her elbow, and he pulled her out of the lane and onto the pavement as a centaur sprinted past, hooves marking the cobblestone with a rapid clop.</p><p>A clutch of goblins laughed around a circular table in the center of the park, several chess boards laid out between them. The rain bubbled and fizzed to nothingness a meter or so above their pointed ears.</p><p>This was—this was different.</p><p>A window on the left side of the pavement, two stories up opened, and a loud shriek boomed over the crowd. A boy with wispy, blonde hair and a nose almost in the shape of a beak had poked his head out. The entirety of his eyes were a sparkling blue, and Fleur waved eagerly before responding in kind. Victoire screeched, and the boy laughed merrily.</p><p>Hermione hadn’t seen a full Veela since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but she didn’t want to gawk, so she fixed her gaze on Fleur, watching as the woman sang back and forth with the other Veela in a rapid, musical speech that Hermione couldn’t follow. To Hermione’s delight, Victoire seemed to have picked up bits and pieces of the language, and occasionally chimed in with wobbly-sounding, but none the less enthusiastic interjections of her own.</p><p>Remarkable.</p><p>Hermione turned in a slow circle, letting the wave of awe wash over her. She’d never seen so many magical beings of all kinds mixing in one place—even in Diagon Alley—and in such close proximity to muggles, who lived just on the other side of the road.</p><p>When she turned back to George, his hair had started to drip into his eyes, and a bit of water was beginning to soak through his suit jacket. With a start, she realized he’d been holding the umbrella over her, allowing her to look around as she pleased without thought to the drizzle.</p><p>But he didn’t seem to mind. His eyes were fixed on her with an eagerness that took her breath away.</p><p>“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and nodded. George’s eyes crinkled once again, and he clicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth before pulling her into his side.</p><p>As they walked, their blue jackets snapped in the strong breeze, and the George widened the Impervius on the umbrella to better keep off the rain, which was building to a thicker downpour.</p><p>At this point, several reporters took notice of their presence, and soon gathered into a small crowd. Camera strobes and questions flashed through the air, but it was too loud to make out any particular voices. Hermione glanced at Fleur, who shook her head and nodded towards a spot further down the way, signaling for the rest of them to continue without engaging the press.</p><p>Their group hurried up the street and towards a two-story building with an overhanging sign: <em>“Gablehaven Associated at Godric’s Hollow.”</em></p><p>When they pushed through the door, there wasn’t a chime, but the elf sitting at the front desk looked up immediately, breaking into a broad grin.</p><p>“The Wheezies!” he called. Hermione blinked. She didn’t recognize the elf.</p><p>It must be someone from the gap.</p><p>A bitter pinch gripped her stomach, and she tried to splash an exuberant smile over her face to avoid hurting the elf’s feelings. The general public thought she’d recovered by now, after all. She’d have to mask her confusion.</p><p>She searched, heart racing, for a name tag.</p><p>George caste a drying charm over the umbrella, then his head and shoulders before smiling at the elf. “Diggy,” he said, smoothly covering for Hermione’s awkward grappling. “How’s Sprout?”</p><p>She filed the names away.</p><p>“Nearly full grown,” Diggy said. “But Diggy still can’t keep him out of trouble, now that he’s learned to apparate.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said with a wolfish grin. He ducked low, his mouth almost brushing the ridge of her ear. “They’re brothers.”</p><p>Diggy rolled his eyes at George’s response before turning to Luna. “Luna Lovegood,” he said. “The Grinkit clan just arrived. Diggy sent them to wait in the third meeting room with Mr. Ollivander.”</p><p>Luna firmed her jaw, peeled off her Periwinkle cloak.</p><p>“Send me a Patronus if you need any help,” Fleur offered, taking Luna’s cloak and hanging it on what appeared to be a set of tree branches that poked out from the wall and towards the ceiling, beside the door. Luna nodded and headed down the hall. Meanwhile, Hermione blinked, watching Fleur. She’d forgotten that Fleur had experience with human-goblin relations. She’d worked closely with Bill at Gringotts before the war, but Hermione hadn’t seen much of it, being gone at Hogwarts. Just now, Fleur wore a determined expression, similar to Mrs. Weasley’s face after she’d pushed a perfectly latticed pie into the oven.</p><p>The door down the hallway clicked open, and Luna disappeared from view.</p><p>Fleur looked at Hermione over her shoulder. “Things are going to change,” she whispered.</p><p>Taking advantage of her Mum’s distraction, Victoire fought free of Fleur and raced behind the desk to Diggy, who suspended her, whirling in the air with a single swipe of his hand.</p><p>As George, Fleur, and Diggy started in on an animated discussion, Hermione paced around the office. The lighting was a bit dimmer than the atmosphere outside, but in a pleasant sort of way. And the ceiling—the ceiling was covered in what could only be described as the Forbidden Forest’s floor. Lush grass of a deep, pine green sprouted over their heads, with the occasional stone peeking through. Clusters of mushrooms littered the surface, the largest poking a foot out from the landscape. Small, golden lights twinkled in and out of the blades of grass, lighting the room in a warm glow.</p><p>The entire space smelled like dewy earth, the morning after a storm.</p><p>Magic.</p><p>Diggy watched Hermione with an appraising, curious expression.</p><p>That’s right. She probably shouldn’t stare around in awe if she’d been here loads of times before.</p><p>But it was hard not to.</p><p>Hermione nodded once at George and crossed to the counter, where a stack of thick, dark purple books waited, bearing Winky’s name on the spine and a small rooftop logo pressed into the base in a gleaming, silver indent. The pages were lined with a similar silver, and the volume felt both heavy and precious in her hands. Hermione flipped it open.</p><p>The pages were blank.</p><p>Well, not quite blank. The parchment seemed to swirl a bit, blankness moving against blankness, and try as she might, Hermione couldn’t force her eyes to focus.</p><p>A hand slipped over her shoulder and tapped the page. “Enchanted,” he said. “Not for ‘prying humans.’” George’s voice took on an odd, high-pitched tone on the last two words, like he was imitating someone.</p><p>Diggy grinned.</p><p>Fleur peeked over her shoulder. “I can see a little bit of it,” she said. “But I get a horrible pain in my head if I try for more than a few minutes.” She smiled ruefully, then checked her pocket watch. “Unless you have need of something, I believe I will take Victoire for a Pumpkin Juice before I see my seamstress about a dress? We can meet you back here in an hour.”</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>A small chime rang through the room. “Winky is ready for the two of you,” Diggy said with a grin. George pulled one of her florescent, purple Dulces chocolate bars from his pocket. Hermione raised a brow. He must’ve nicked it when they returned to the flat.</p><p>“Hope you don’t mind, Love, but it’s tradition,” he whispered, giving one of his playful frowns.</p><p>Hermione nodded and watched their feet moving in tandem together—creased dragon leather shoes and honey-brown ankle boots down a dark, wood floor. Deep, blue trouser legs swishing.</p><p>George had matched his stride to hers, despite his significantly longer legs. As she watched, however, he suddenly took two, awkwardly short steps followed by a long one, and Hermione struggled to keep in pace with him.</p><p>When she looked up, he was watching her, laughing quietly. Hermione exhaled a short, disbelieving burst. “Ridiculous,” she murmured.</p><p>George raised his brows and adjusted his tie as they reached an oaken door at the very end of the hall. “Yes, but you like it,” he said. Hermione snorted. “Oh, playing it coy again, are we?” He raised his hand to the intricately-carved plane of wood. “Perish the thought you fancy me and my mischievous ways.”</p><p>Hermione’s mouth dropped open. George flashed her a sportive grin and rapped his fist on the wood.</p><p>Before he reached for the handle, it swung open.</p><p>A small elf sat, hands braced on her knees in midair over a large, birch desk. She wore a plain, black cloak overtop a grey suit.</p><p>“The Wheezies,” she breathed, and her face lit with a warm grin. A sudden crack split the room, and without warning, Winky was on George’s shoulders, then Hermione’s in a flurry of head pats and laughter. Then, she landed, barefoot and grinning on her desk with the chocolate bar in hand.</p><p>“Oi, you could at least wait for me to give it over,” George objected, pointing at her with a not-so-stern frown.</p><p>Winky tipped her head to the side and vanished the wrapper. “Winky doesn’t like waiting,” she said. Then, she turned to Hermione.</p><p>Her smile faltered.</p><p>The elf let out a small, disappointed “tuh” sound. “Been lying in the papers, Winky sees,” she said.</p><p>Hermione fidgeted, placing her hands in her pockets.</p><p>“Fragile humans,” Winky whispered, and her tone almost went apologetic. She blinked, obscuring her large, round eyes for a moment, then took a silent, contemplative bite of the chocolate bar.</p><p>She was nothing like the elf that Hermione remembered—not bent over a bottle of butterbeer in front of the Hogwarts fire, crying over Bartemius Crouch.</p><p>No.</p><p>Winky was different, now.</p><p>A large box slammed on the desk, elevated and dropped with a single wave of Winky’s hand. “Notes,” she said. “The Wheezies can look over them later.” Hermione peeked inside the open box. The filing system followed a uniform, descending order with locations at the top, followed by clan names, family names, and dates.</p><p>“As for the letters,” Winky pulled another stack out. Hermione blinked, recognizing her own handwriting over the envelops. Some of them, she remembered sending. Others—others she didn’t. “Winky has not had opportunity to read them yet.” She smiled ruefully. “Calliope delivers here, whether Winky is present or not.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the parchment. “Is that due to the enchantments on the hidden cities?” she asked. Winky watched her with a guarded expression before nodding. The glimmering lights amidst the ceiling’s forestry seemed to swirl for a moment before resettling.</p><p>“Unless it is sent while Winky is travelling between locations, it ends up in Godric’s Hollow,” Winky said. “Not troublesome, unless Winky is held up longer than usual in negotiations.”</p><p>Hermione sighed. “It was all for nothing, I’m afraid,” she said. Winky nodded at the rocking chairs in front of her desk.</p><p>George dropped into the one on the left, lowered his shoulder bag to the side, and propped his feet on a tree root that protruded from the wall, pushing back and forth. Hermione took the second and began to explain, becoming more and more frustrated as she spoke. “The Wizengamot seems intent on not allowing me in front of the court, which has stymied the Agency’s efforts. We’re far behind on our goals for the calendar year.”</p><p>The detailed plans outlined in her files at the flat were almost laughable, now.</p><p>Hermione continued, bitterly. “They’ve denied every request for hearings that I’ve filed since the accident. The Wandlore case, the follow ups on the Elven Employment Addendum, and even a personal case we tried to file on behalf of George’s business. We’ve just received word of a hearing related to the DMLE, but my name was nowhere on the paperwork.” She finished her rant with a rueful smile.</p><p>The Wizengamot was an obstruction of justice, rather than a branch of it.</p><p>Winky lifted from the desk with a single step, as though gravity was a suggestion, rather than a law. She crossed her legs and remained floating in mid-air. “Not surprising,” Winky said tersely. “The Wheezies are not the only ones tired of waiting on the Wizengamot.” She summoned a scroll case from a locked safe in the corner and tossed it to Hermione.</p><p>She unscrewed the top and slid out a thick, velum roll. George leaned in, and Hermione shifted to show him.</p><p>It was a written statement both condemning the attacks on mugglebornes and affirming Goblin rights to carry wands, penned by the Grinkit clan, but signed by numerous other groups. Underneath the English text, the same statement was repeated in Goblinik runes, only some of which Hermione recognized.</p><p>At the bottom, clan names were listed, and some of them were in English while others were in Goblinik:</p><p>
  <em>Grinkit</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Grodrac</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Grastonduke</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gritwick</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Greybrait</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Grohoden</em>
</p><p>It went on for several columns, in gleaming, everlasting ink.</p><p>“It will be printed in <em>The Quibbler</em> after the wand distribution has begun,” Winky said softly. “Whether the Wizengamot agrees or not.”</p><p>That made sense. Printing earlier would risk Ministry intervention.</p><p>“They shouldn’t have to include the bit about the attacks,” Hermione muttered. George made a low sound of agreement at her left. She glanced over. The furrow between his brows was deep as he skimmed the document.</p><p>“Some clans refused to sign on that basis,” Winky said. “And Winky does not blame them. They are being framed, and they do not owe explanations.” Her ears drooped. “But when wands find their way into Goblin hands, the humans at the Ministry will be quick to point fingers.” She took another bite of her chocolate. “And the Grinkit clan wished to clarify to show support to the mugglebornes as well.”</p><p>Hermione stared at the name. The Grinkits had been at the lead of the Goblin Rebellion in the seventeenth century. They’d fought for representation in the Wizengamot after decades of failed petitions.</p><p>After squashing the uprising, the Ministry had been ruthless.</p><p>Stealing goblin-made swords and armor. Burning houses. Snapping hope like a spent torch.</p><p>But none of that was in <em>A History of Magic</em>, save for a single footnote, attributing the war’s aftermath as the reason for why some goblin clans in the British Isles chose to live underground.</p><p>“They do not want a war,” Winky said. “But they will fight one, if the Ministry insists.”</p><p>A cold shiver ran down Hermione’s spine. She would do everything she could to open the Ministry’s ears. But if that didn’t work—if the Wizengamot retaliated with violence—</p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been at odds with the Ministry during war time.</p><p>Winky lowered one foot to the desk and leapt to the ground to sort through a small, brown bag. She withdrew an adapted, muggle phone that looked similar to Fred’s and tossed it to George.</p><p>“It has been broken since December,” she said. “Feeble human nonsense.”</p><p>George snorted. “The modifications are made to withstand the magical interference around Wizarding villages. Not the tidal wave of flux from a Hidden City ward,” he said, pinning Winky with a wry, knowing look.</p><p>Winky shrugged. “Winky forgot to take it out of her bag.”</p><p>George muttered something under his breath and pulled his wand from the holster under his jacket.</p><p>“If the wand distribution goes smoothly with the goblins—” Hermione started softly.</p><p>Winky nodded. “One step closer to the rest of magical beings,” she said. Winky pulled a gnarled, cedar stick from the back of the safe before lifting it into the air, where it rotated slowly above the desk.</p><p>A wand.</p><p>When had Winky gotten a wand?</p><p>“But if it turns to war—” Winky grimaced and trailed off.</p><p>A heavy silence followed.</p><p>“Goblins are not needing the Ministry’s permission, once they have access to the runes and an agreement with a wandmaker who will teach them the craft,” Winky said, watching the cedar stick with an unreadable expression. “They are done waiting. They will take what is theirs, with or without Ministry blessing.”</p><p>The goblins could adapt the Wandlore runes and fluctuate the magical chemistry to suit their needs.</p><p>But the elves—Hermione had seen in her notes.</p><p>There was some, deeper, underlying enchantment keeping the elves’ magical signatures partially locked away. The restriction kept wands from binding to elves like they could to humans, and it also made it nearly impossible to fully and truly free an elf that was tied to a house. The enchantment went deep—tying all of the beings in its circuit, looming like a shadow.</p><p>They wouldn’t be able to break the enchantment without the Ministry’s releasing of the materials pertaining to the enchantment. But that knowledge was guarded. And the Ministry still insisted that none such enchantment existed, despite the proof demonstrating otherwise.</p><p>“It took much time to persuade them that they could trust Luna Lovegood,” Winky said quietly, watching Hermione. “They have been betrayed by humans offering promises before.”</p><p>Winky proceeded on to explain how those who had signed the document in Hermione’s hands had tentatively agreed to allow Luna to enter their communities for the purpose of passing on the Wandlore runes and training Goblin wandmakers. It would be a slow process, for most goblins did not want to wield a wand crafted by a human. And learning the art of wand making took practice and time.</p><p>They were discussing the timetable for these developments when a sudden rush of static cut through their conversation.</p><p>George jumped as his own voice boomed from the receiver on Winky’s phone.</p><p><em>“Winky—something terrible’s happened, and I—I—”</em>  The screen flickered, lit with symbols, and George balked, then hunched closer over the device as he twisted his wand. <em>“It’s Hermione.”</em> His tone was raw and desperate. Broken.</p><p><em>“Voice message deleted.”</em>  A neutral, metallic tone severed the recording.</p><p>“Wheezy?” Winky asked, blinking at George and waiting for an explanation.</p><p>“S’nothing,” George said tiredly. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and plunked the phone on the desk. “There. Fixed.”</p><p>Winky didn’t look like she believed the device to be fixed. Not in the least bit.</p><p>But, just then, a sudden rap sounded on the door.</p><p>“Yes?” Winky said, still watching George. George stood abruptly and paced to the wall, scrubbing his hands down his face.</p><p>“Winky’s next appointment is here,” Diggy’s tentative voice echoed through the wood. Winky sighed.</p><p>“This is not through, Wheezies,” she said, tucking the velum and wand away before snapping her fingers to open the door. Diggy waited with a short, bearded leprechaun in a yellow slicker. “Winky will send the box over to the Weasley-Grangers’ tonight.” George bobbed his head and held his arm out for Hermione to take.</p><p>On their way out of the office, they bumped into a group of goblins. George held the door open as the camera flashes that had chased them down the lane erupted once more.</p><p>“Hermione!” a reporter with a <em>Dailey Prophet</em> badge called. “Do you have a statement on the goblin attack at the Remembrance Ball? Why have the Weasleys gone into hiding? Any updates on Molly Weasley? Is it true she’s still in critical condition?”</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes on the reporter and fastened the button on her blazer. “There wasn’t a goblin attack at the Remembrance Ball,” she said icily, ignoring the personal questions. “Magnus Vane is a foul, nasty, pathetic liar, using acts of cowardice motivated by blood supremacy to grapple for power, and if I’ve anything to say about it, he won’t—”</p><p>“Why aren’t you wearing your ring?” a second reporter shouted.</p><p>The clearing erupted into questions.</p><p>Acid bit up Hermione’s throat.</p><p>As though that was what held real importance. The presence of a singular piece of jewelry. Even still, she found herself shoving her hands in her pockets.</p><p>“I hardly think—” she started.</p><p>“Don’t bother.” George’s soft murmur grazed over the rim of her ear. “You did great, but let’s get out of here.”</p><p>She nodded. Together, they elbowed through the throng and headed towards the fountain. “What do we do?” Hermione mumbled, checking over her shoulder and wincing at the cluster of vipers who insisted on following them. She’d rather apparate now, but Fleur wouldn’t be back for at least another thirty minutes, and Hermione didn’t feel comfortable leaving the other two behind.</p><p>“Thought we could duck into the muggle sector. They can’t ask us questions or photograph us there, since their equipment isn’t strictly muggle,” George replied. “That way, we can meet the others at the agreed upon time.”</p><p>She let him guide her around the statue. As they passed through the fizz of the wards, the clamor silenced.</p><p>She let out a breath. George glanced warily from side to side and buttoned his jacket to conceal his wand holster.</p><p>“What now?” Hermione asked, staring at the direction from which they’d come. On this side, it appeared as a horizon of trees against what seemed like the village’s edge.</p><p>It really was wonderful magic.</p><p>Especially considering how it’d gotten them away from the reporters.</p><p>George’s stride was rushed, and he glanced continually from her to the space behind them as he hurried her across the lane. “They won’t photograph us, but they might still follow,” he said. “Particularly if they suspect we’ll re-emerge into an area where they’d be permitted to swarm.</p><p>Hermione sighed. His choice of words was uncomfortably accurate to the feeling the reporters provoked—like being submerged in a thousand, stinging wasps.</p><p>And George—having to listen to them taunt the state of his marriage—of—of <em>their</em> marriage— Again.</p><p>Hermione blinked, momentarily distracted by the two words.</p><p>Their marriage.</p><p>George mentioned nothing about the cruel line of questioning, however, and seemed rather preoccupied with searching along the signs dangling over the pavement.</p><p>“Brilliant,” he said, nodding at a shoe shop. His tone was tired and at odds with the word. “I can replace my boots.”</p><p>She couldn’t ask him about the reporters or the message she’d overheard in Winky’s office—not with the muggle clerk and a few shoppers milling about.</p><p>So she watched, lips bit together, as George listlessly perused shoe boxes inside of the store.</p><p>He’d been shaken, even before they’d left Winky’s office. But the reporters’ questions certainly hadn’t helped.</p><p>Hermione frowned as George lifted a plain, dark brown set of boots and eyed the inside, checking the label. Apparently, whatever he saw satisfied his curiosity, and he stuck the shoe back in the box, then folded it under his arm before nodding at the till near the front.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George glanced towards the windows. “I’ll live to see another day,” he said dryly, but the joke was tinged with an all-too-familiar tiredness. “Don’t worry about it, Love.”</p><p> He was distracted, frowning at the floor as he fished a money clip from his shoulder bag and shoved a set of muggle notes over the counter at the cashier. “But I’d rather get home than deal with the crowds.”</p><p>The attendant glanced at the small group of people milling about outside. Hardly a crowd—more like typical, mid-day traffic in a small village. Thankfully, however, the attendant made no comment of this.</p><p>Hermione watched the fountain warily.</p><p>It often felt like the more opportunities they gave the papers, the more likely they’d be to run into trouble or to say something that would be misrepresented.</p><p>As they pushed through the shop door, George’s mutter reached her ears. “I hope Fleur hurries. We’re sitting skrewts out here.”</p><p>Hermione eyed the shoebox and nodded.</p><p>He hadn’t even tried them on.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 11:30 p.m.</p><p>In the remaining time, George pulled her into a quiet teashop and purchased a couple of Chamomiles. They found some seats near the fountain, and George busied himself over a roll of blue, graphed parchment that carried a Repello Muggletum charm on it.</p><p>She couldn’t bring herself to interrupt.</p><p>Instead, she sipped her tea and appreciated the canopy of the umbrella over their table, which kept the drizzle off of them. Steam wafted from the mug. Over the roofline, she could see the crenulated notches of a parapet-like structure.</p><p>She stared hard at the outline.</p><p>It was the church beside the graveyard where Harry’s parents were buried.</p><p>The house where it had happened wouldn’t be far from it.</p><p>Her stomach twisted.</p><p>She ought to think of something else. Anything else.</p><p>Suddenly, the tea felt bitter in her stomach.</p><p>Fangs, long and flashing, and Harry’s desperate cry: <em>“He’s coming! Hermione, he’s coming!” </em></p><p>Her heart raced, pounding.</p><p>Fear. Throttling pressure in her throat. Harry’s grip dragging her across the bed, and two, horrid snake-like eyes appearing across the room as they hurtled through glass and into the open air—</p><p>A foot brushed against hers.</p><p>Hermione exhaled, blinking at the table.</p><p>George watched her over the blue parchment, expression drawn into a worried frown. He shoved his copper wire glasses up his nose, then turned over his shoulder in the direction he was facing.</p><p>“Salazar,” he muttered. His face contorted at the roofline, and frustration clipped through the word. Then, he began to cram his papers back into his bag. “We can sit someplace else, Darling.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“No, it’s not,” George said. “You’re paler than Peeves.”</p><p>She took his arm and swallowed as she stood.</p><p>“Though a great deal prettier.” He added it lightly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they moved across the small courtyard to select a better table. He pulled out a chair for her. This one faced the opposite direction, into a grouping of trees.</p><p>When they settled into their seats, he stayed at her side. As he read over his papers, his hand stroked a line of warmth up and down her arm.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 12:00 p.m.</p><p>A somber atmosphere greeted them on their return to the Burrow. Fleur took Victoire outside to play with the others, and Fred tinkered silently at the coffee table, a forgotten sandwich on a plate before him. He glanced up, then smirked. “Nice glasses, Perce,” he snorted.</p><p>George rolled his eyes and yanked the frames loose before folding them rapidly away. Hermione frowned at Fred.</p><p>“Going to lecture me, Granger?” Fred taunted. She scoffed.</p><p>“I’ll have you know George’s glasses are quite handsome,” she said, lifting her chin.</p><p>Fred grinned.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He’d needled her into complimenting George.</p><p>Of course. Typical Fred.</p><p>Well, that was no matter, seeing as George really did look rather nice. She turned to check on him, but he seemed to have missed the exchange, caught up in pacing over to the kitchen counter where Bill leaned, frowning.</p><p>“Any updates?” George’s low question was barely audible from across the room. Hermione shifted closer and chewed her lip.</p><p>Bill shook his head. “He’s going mad,” he muttered. He let out a heavy sigh. “Poor sap’s been trying everything, and none—” his voice caught, and Bill winced before clearing his throat. “—none of it’s doing any good.”</p><p>Fred swore quietly as a spring burst from the third watch on the tabletop. He’d laid them out in a row. Hermione glanced between Bill and George, who had moved closer together and were now whispering inaudibly, and Fred, who looked quite tightly wound as he gripped what appeared to be a small screwdriver and applied more force than necessary to a mechanism inside the watch.</p><p>She sat by Fred. “I’m sure you’ll get it right,” she offered. “Have a little patience.”</p><p>“Blimey,” Fred said flatly. “D’you hear that, George? I just need a spot of patience, Granger says.” There was a sarcastic twist to the sentence—almost cruel, and it reminded her of Fred’s younger days at Hogwarts, before time and the war had tempered him a bit. George’s gaze darted from Bill to Fred, who he gave a bit of a warning look. “You’re talking to a bloke who eloped during the war, Granger.” This second part was more gentle, though still tired sounding. “I don’t do patience. Wrong Weasley.”</p><p>Hermione propped her chin in her hand and watched the almost hypnotic pull of Fred’s tools in the gleaming watch parts. “Did you really elope?” she asked.</p><p>Fred paused. A wry smile quirked over his mouth. “Yes. Think that’s funny?”</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “I couldn’t imagine doing it myself, but—”</p><p>Fred barked out a laugh.</p><p>Hermione paused.</p><p>While the thought of her eloping was strange, surely it wasn’t that ridiculous. She tipped her chin down and pushed through Fred’s response. “While George might be a touch more patient out of the two of you, I think you’ve both developed some,” she said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to develop all of your products.”</p><p>Or parent a toddler, for that matter.</p><p>Fred snorted. “Oi, Georgie,” he called. “Granger says you’re a ‘touch more patient’ than I am.’”</p><p>This earned the two of them a rueful smile before George returned to his whispers with Bill.</p><p>“Domus Repertum,” Fred muttered over the first watch. The dial in the center grew a slender, silver piece identical to the one she’d seen that morning from afar. A second one suddenly popped out. Fred raised a brow and elbowed her lightly. “See? Nosing in again.” He twisted his wand slowly, and his jaw worked.</p><p>The watch trembled.</p><p>And the silver pieces fell away.</p><p>Fred groaned and tipped his head back. “I’ve no idea how Dad managed this,” he muttered.</p><p>Bill heard the remark and stepped away from George. “Slowly,” he said. “And it took more than a few weeks.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I’m a professional tinkerer, and Dad’s just a hobbyist,” Fred drawled. Even still, his face tightened, and he suddenly shoved away from the table. “I should fetch Angelo, since Charlie and Verity didn’t need any extra hands at the store.”</p><p>“Fred?” she asked.</p><p>Fred dusted himself off and summoned a grey denim jacket from across the room. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Couldn’t you ask Dad for help?” she asked. Perhaps it would provide a much-needed distraction for the older wizard.</p><p>Fred’s gaze flicked towards the other room. “Dad’s busy,” he said. He strode to the floo without another word. George ducked away from Bill and took up Fred’s position at the watches.</p><p>“Let’s see what he’s done,” he muttered. At first, he only poked around, but with a moment or two, George seemed to find where Fred had left off, and he took the screwdriver to the timepiece meant to keep track of himself and popped it open. Wordlessly, he summoned a pair of safety glasses (that Fred had foregone using) from the other end of the table, duplicated them, and propped them over Hermione’s face and his own.</p><p>He gazed over the bits inside, then pried the little screwdriver into the glowing notch in the middle of a circular piece. The cover lifted, and George muttered a sticking charm over the coil of metal underneath. “That’s the mainspring,” he murmured. “You’ve got to hold it in, or it can explode out and hurt whoever’s near.” He swallowed. “Hold this?” Hermione took the screwdriver and kept it stationed over the coil of metal as George laced another spell into the mechanism. “Statio Vigilia.”</p><p>Purple sparks seeped into the mainspring.</p><p>“How do you service that part, then?” Hermione asked. “When it needs to be replaced?”</p><p>“Carefully, and a little bit at a time,” George replied with a distracted air. “You don’t just tear into it. You’ve got to take it step by step.”</p><p>Then, he plucked the screwdriver from her hand and began to replace the parts before proceeding to do the same on the other two watches.</p><p>“That should help,” he said quietly.</p><p>“George,” Bill called. Hermione glanced up. Bill watched George with a guarded expression, then nodded meaningfully towards the kitchen and master bedroom.</p><p>George’s shoulders tightened. “In a minute,” he said. Bill nodded, then ducked out the back door to join Fleur and Victoire in the yard.</p><p>“What’s Bill wanting?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George sighed. “I dunno,” he said. “He seems to think I can help Dad.” He pushed to his feet but didn’t cross the room. “But he doesn’t get it. The only thing that’ll help is Mum waking up.”</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George stared at the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Come with me?” he asked quietly. “I—I don’t like seeing her like this.”</p><p>“Of course,” Hermione whispered. George looked a little lost, despite standing in the living room he’d grown up in. Hermione gathered the crocheted blanket from the seat behind them and draped it over his shoulders.</p><p>He slumped a bit. The sound of his sigh rushed over her as George pinched the stitchwork between his index finger and thumb.</p><p>It looked rather odd. A grown man in a fitted suit, covered in a quaint, crocheted blanket. He unfurled it from his back, and set to bundling it around her shoulders, instead.</p><p>He was stalling.</p><p>Hermione said nothing. Sometimes, people needed time.</p><p>“There,” George murmured. He’d been a little reserved since the incident in Winky’s office with the phone, but now, his hands were warm and bracing on her arms. There was a raw look in his eyes.</p><p>Hermione cradled his face in her hands.</p><p>At her movement, George lurched forward, wrapping his arms around her and dragging her to his chest. His nose pressed into the crook of her neck, and he let out a shuddery breath.</p><p>Then another.</p><p>And another.</p><p>Hermione held him tight.</p><p>“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Okay.” He braced his forehead on her shoulder, just beside his hand. “Okay.”</p><p>And with that, George pulled away and gathered himself, placing the little springs and cogs of his anxiety out of view, under a calm front.</p><p>A small fear nagged at her, and she found herself giving it voice.</p><p>“Are—are you occluding?” she asked.</p><p>George stopped and looked at her. “No, Love,” he said softly. He paused and swallowed. “I’ll, um, tell you if I do.” He seemed hesitant but sincere, and a shard of vulnerability peeked through the front of calm that he’d carefully begun to build.  </p><p>“Alright,” she whispered. “Sorry.”</p><p>George bit his lips together and contemplated her. “That’s perfectly alright,” he murmured. “I understand.”</p><p>Despite his words, she felt a prick of regret. It was important that they communicate about it, but perhaps next time, she’d wait for a more opportune moment. Perhaps one when he wasn’t right about to face his parents. As they headed for the kitchen, she reached for his hand.</p><p>George closed his fingers around hers, and she focused on the sensation of his roughened palm against her smooth one.</p><p>Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom was crooked.</p><p>Well. Crooked wasn’t quite the right word. The outer wall that faced the yard held a window with airy, white curtains, but whole of the surface was slanted, bowing slightly outwards rather than at a proper, ninety-degree angle. The quarters were cramped—the large, wrought iron bedframe and mattress were pushed against the left wall, with the foot of the bed close to the door, and the window overlooked the orchard on its right. Beneath the glass, a cobweb-coated trunk lay open, hoisted onto a too-small sideboard. Articles spilled out over the floor in heaps. Clothing. Books. Knitting needles. A brown, glass bottle with a faded label that read <em>“Prewett &amp; Prewett Fiddle Polish.” </em>And one very frantic Arthur Weasley.</p><p>Mr. Weasley stooped over the trunk, rifling through moth-eaten grey jumpers and sleeves of cardboard.</p><p>“S’here, Molly, I-I know it,” he muttered. “Just you wait, Dear—”</p><p>Molly slumbered, unresponsive on the bed, tucked beneath a thick quilt. Her face was pale, but thankfully, most of the burns appeared to be wiped away. Though a few, faint shadows marked her skin where the worst of them had been. The knit cap that she’d worn home from Mungo’s had been replaced by a similar pink one, and a few, frizzy red curls poked out.</p><p>George’s hand tightened around Hermione’s.</p><p>“What about this one,” Arthur said, yanking a cardboard sheath from the stack. He slid out a vinyl. “Maybe—maybe—” His voice trailed off as he shoved away. He tripped a bit on some of the laundry on the floor, and George sucked in a breath and stepped forward to catch him.</p><p>But the older man righted himself and kept at it, stumbling to the turntable propped on the bureau along the right wall. Just beside it, the closet doors were open, and more articles of clothing and empty crates lay spilled across the floor.</p><p>Arthur snatched up the vinyl on the player and replaced it.</p><p>Piano trickled out, and Arthur wiped his jumper sleeve over his eyes before fumbling over to the bed and taking a spot sitting against the headboard at Molly’s side.</p><p>“See—it’s the one you liked?” he coaxed.</p><p>It wasn’t Celestina Warbeck.</p><p>
  <em>“When I was a young man I ran away from home. I went to join the circus. Went to see the cotton candy whirl. And make me lots of money on my own.”</em>
</p><p>Mr. Weasley wrapped his arms around Molly’s shoulders and watched her with a desperate, raw expression.</p><p>
  <em>“For Molly, oh, my pretty Molly. But she’s waiting all alone.”</em>
</p><p>“Oh Godric,” George breathed.</p><p>Hermione threw every bit of steel she had into her face to keep from reacting.</p><p>“Dad,” George started, tone careful. “You alright?”</p><p>“I’m—I’m going to fix it,” Arthur said, ducking his head to assess Molly’s face for any sign of change.</p><p>There was no change.</p><p>“Maybe another record—” Arthur muttered.</p><p>“Mum might be a bit upset at the mess, if she wakes,” George said gently.</p><p>Arthur blinked at the room. “Oh,” he said.</p><p>
  <em>“There’s only one thing wrong. I haven’t saved a penny on my own. For Molly, oh, my pretty Molly.”</em>
</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “I can sort it,” she offered. Arthur nodded, seeming reticent to leave his place as the record spun.</p><p>Hermione headed to the lump of clothes on the floor. The trunk was mostly empty, save for a large, black case inside.</p><p>It looked a bit like a violin case. She frowned at it, then at the bottle of polish she’d spotted on the floor.</p><p>“Do you play, Dad?” she asked.</p><p>Arthur frowned. He took in Hermione, and the direction she was looking. Then, he breathed out a short, uneasy laugh. “No,” he said. “No, I could never.”</p><p>George shook his head quickly, something anxious flashing in his gaze. Hermione swallowed, withdrawing from the invisible strings within the case as though burned.</p><p>“Right,” she said. Quickly, she busied her hands with refolding the jumpers and skirts that had fallen all over the floor.</p><p>With a start, she realized some of them were older Hogwarts robes. Fraying Gryffindor jumpers with a slightly different style and cut than the ones they’d worn. She went to lay them back in the trunk. But the articles didn’t rest neatly overtop of the bulky case, so she shifted things around to layer the clothing under it instead, carefully avoiding touching the instrument more than necessary.</p><p>As she folded the last jumper from the pile, something light slipped free from it and fell to the floor with a light clack.</p><p>She picked it up, rubbing the smooth, hard surface with the pad of her thumb.</p><p>It was a pin. Orange lettering on a blue background: <em>“Squib Rights Now.”</em></p><p>She tilted her head, then glanced at Molly and Arthur. There was a small tear in the shoulder of the garment. It looked as though it had been repaired at some point. But the charm had aged and lost its grip on the fibers, and now the threads were coming apart again.</p><p>All the while, the record played.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m reading Molly’s letter. The ink is fading, and the page is fuming yellow.<br/>
Long ago, I promised Molly. Don’t you know I will close my eyes and go to her?”</em>
</p><p>George’s jaw worked as he stared at his parents.</p><p>Then, he sprang into action. “Alright, Dad, how about a cuppa?”</p><p>Arthur mumbled something unintelligible, still watching Molly. Then, he started. “A different song, maybe, or—” His face contorted, and he began to push from the bed again.</p><p>“No,” George started, voice strained. Arthur paused. “Why don’t, um—” Hermione could see the cogs in George’s mind spinning as he grappled for the words. “Why don’t you read to Mum instead?” He pointed at Arthur. “Stay there.”</p><p>He strode to the other side of the room, eyes searching frantically until they settled on the first book he seemed to notice on the cluttered shelf beside the closet. A red, leather-bound volume with “<em>The Travel Trilogy</em>” stamped on the front in gold lettering. Underneath, “<em>Gilderoy Lockhart</em>” was printed in even larger, capitalized letters.</p><p>Arthur frowned at the book, but George’s tactic worked. He settled back beside Molly and began to read, rather than getting up to continue a never-ending quest for something that would rouse his wife before her neurological system was ready.</p><p>“<em>I, a man of brilliant mind and great import, have travelled far and wide</em>.” Mr. Weasley started reading before stopping with a grimace. He sighed. “Couldn’t find anything better, could you?”</p><p>George grinned. “But that’s one of Mum’s favorites,” he said.</p><p>Mr. Weasley had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Not anymore. And I don’t see why he’s got to have his photo on every other page,” he muttered. Nevertheless, his hand tangled with Molly’s over the covers, and he continued to read in a soft voice.</p><p><em>“Many have asked me how I accomplished the feats contained herein, and I wish to tell you, dear readers, that magical brilliance can only be attained by a select few—”</em> Mr. Weasley stopped and turned the book around to glance at the cover. “Rubbish.”</p><p>George grinned at Mr. Weasley’s ire. The volume seemed to have focused the other man, but she was certain they could replace it with something better loved.</p><p>Hermione nicked an old edition of the Muggle Studies textbook from the foot of the bed. It was full of nonsense, surely. But still.</p><p>She handed it to Arthur and took the other book away.</p><p>Mr. Weasley brightened and cracked it open to the middle, where he began with gusto. “The greatest muggle mystery is that of the airplane—” He drew in an eager breath, and Hermione and George slipped from the room.</p><p>#</p><p>May 12, 2003, 4:00 p.m.</p><p>Victoire shrieked, and George winced before schooling his features. “It’s alright, Dearie, give it another go,” he said, holding out the yellow, wooden block that had toppled from the other, three red ones she’d aligned. After Fred returned with Angelo and Teddy—who’d been playing at Angelina’s parents’ place while Ginny and Angie had Quidditch practice—Bill had brough Victoire in from outside, and George had volunteered to watch the trio while Fleur and Bill nipped out to the grocer’s.</p><p>“No!” Victoire shouted.</p><p>Teddy sighed loudly, and Hermione had to bite back her smile at the amount of Harry she heard in it.</p><p>“Uncle George, maybe show her ours. Angelo and I did a big one,” Teddy offered. AJ nodded. “I did the castle, and Angelo did the towers.” Teddy had formed a sizable structure in the middle of the living room floor, and Angelo’s towers were grouped around its perimeter—stacks of five, all lined up in the same color. Fred had egged him on, handing the cubes over in between tinkering with his watches.</p><p>“Yes, that’s very good, Teddy,” George said, glancing back and forth between the children as he struggled to calm Victoire, who didn’t seem to appreciate Teddy and Angelo’s gifts for architecture.</p><p>“It’s taller than Angelo!” Teddy added. AJ jumped, as though illustrating the point.</p><p>At Teddy’s proud announcement, Victoire burst into tears and pushed the rest of her feeble tower over.</p><p>Teddy paled. But before George or Hermione could intervene, Teddy sprang into action. “Oh, no, Victoire,” His voice went soft and high as he knelt at her side. “You can do it.” He patted a small hand on her shoulder, and began to drag the cubes over, arranging them in a row. “You’re very good at it, see, you just need practice.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Can you find the yellow one?” Teddy prompted. His messy black hair shifted to the exact shade of the block. Victoire sniffed, looking between the row and Teddy. Then, she grasped the correct one.</p><p>“That’s so good,” Teddy said lightly before prompting her to take another one.</p><p>Hermione watched, stunned, as Lupin ghosted through the room.</p><p>He was everywhere in Teddy. The calm, reassuring voice. The way he led with questions. The gentle stream of affirmations in each step of the process as Teddy slowly taught Victoire how to build a tower.</p><p>“Teddy!” Angelo called, trotting after the other boy. He extended a blue block. “Teddy, go.”</p><p>“Not now,” Teddy said, distracted as he searched for more yellow cubes in the crate.</p><p>Angelo’s face crumpled. His arm reeled back.</p><p>Before Hermione knew what was happening, the blue block went flying at a startling speed. Not at Teddy and Victoire—off to the side. Angelo hadn’t been looking, flinging it away in despair. But unfortunately, George happened to be in its path, crouching over the sofa’s arm and whispering intently to Fred, whose gaze was still fixed on his tools.</p><p>The wooden block clocked George in the face, right above the eye with a heavy crack.</p><p>George gave a clipped shout and ducked forward. Fred shot upright.</p><p>Angelo’s eyes went round.</p><p>“He didn’t mean to,” Hermione said hurriedly. “He wasn’t looking where he threw it.”</p><p>Fred bit his lips together, looking between George and Angelo. “My son threw it?” he asked quietly.</p><p>Hermione nodded. “It wasn’t intended to hit anyone, I don’t think.”</p><p>“My son?” Fred didn’t sound cross. Rather, he sounded a little excited.</p><p>Hermione furrowed her brow.</p><p>“He’s got her arm,” George groaned.</p><p>“Blimey,” Fred whispered, holding a hand out as though he were trying to calm George. George, meanwhile, was rubbing the side of his temple. “D’you think he’ll—”</p><p>“Fred!” Hermione said, glancing at Angelo.</p><p>“I know,” Fred said, shooting her a flat look. “I was getting there.” He swung his feet to the floor and cleared his throat. “Come here, Buddy,” he called, gesturing.</p><p>Hermione watched from Teddy and Victoire’s side as Fred whispered, and then Angelo said something to George, who replied quietly before smiling and poking him on the nose. Angelo followed George back to the others, and George settled on the floor behind Hermione, bracing his elbows around his bent knees and smiling.</p><p>But when Angelo ran to build more red towers, George’s eyes slid shut and he clutched the side of his head.</p><p>“Not a word,” George mumbled. “Not one word, Granger.”</p><p>“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Hermione said, voice light as she watched the three children. Perhaps it was a bit ironic that George was suffering the results of his nephew’s mischief after causing so much trouble himself as a child, but she wouldn’t say it aloud.</p><p>Not when she knew he already realized.</p><p>Hermione bit back a grin and propped her hands behind her on the rug, carefully leaving one in his reach—in case he had need of it. The block had sounded rather hard when it hit, after all.</p><p>George shifted forward, and the front of his shoulder neared the back of hers. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said, close to her left ear.</p><p>“That’s no way to talk to your wife,” Hermione said, lifting her brows and staring straight ahead.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>Hermione’s smile slipped free at one corner.</p><p>“Sorry, I think I hallucinated for a moment,” George said, low and quiet. “What did you say?”</p><p>“You heard me,” Hermione said. Then, in a moment of brilliance, she slid her hand over, covering his.</p><p>George cleared his throat. He scooted forward a bit more, and Hermione felt a light spark as he trailed an index finger along the back of her wrist, toward her knuckles.</p><p>“I-I think you’d better repeat it,” he said faintly. “My ears were still ringing from the bludgeoning.”</p><p>“Which part?” Hermione asked, playing at confusion.</p><p>George’s eyes were fixed on her. “It’s not nice to tease your husband,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s ears warmed and excitement bubbled up in her chest, but she kept her face neutral. “Oh, I think he likes it,” she said casually, lifting her chin and daring to glance over for a moment before hurriedly looking away.</p><p>George’s throat bobbed. “Yeah?” he asked weakly.</p><p>“He’s a bit of joker,” Hermione said, tilting her head.</p><p>“Sounds like a nice bloke,” George said.</p><p>Hermione made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat and shrugged.</p><p>George snorted and leaned in. “What, you don’t like nice men?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione turned her head and stared him down, bolstered by the surprising flare of confidence under her sternum. “No, I like troublemakers.”</p><p>The line cracked over him, and George inhaled sharply, flushing.</p><p>“Dear Merlin,” George whispered, staring at her.</p><p>Hermione winked, then turned back to face the room. Across the space, Teddy and Angelo were building a circular wall around Victoire as she hopped excitedly in the middle and pointed to where the next pieces ought to go. Fred was busy, casting charms to enlarge the blocks into a proper brick size to aid them in their pursuit.</p><p>Hermione rose and headed for the kitchen, and George followed shortly behind her. She pretended at nonchalance as she opened the pantry door and searched over the shelves. She’d been craving something sweet all day. She spotted a set of glass Pumpkin Juice drinks on a middle shelf in the back corner.</p><p>Perfect.</p><p>As she withdrew two bottles, George shifted closer behind her, and his hand brushed her elbow. “So-so about your husband—” he said in a poor impression of a casual tone. “Is he the troublemaker sort or is he nice?”</p><p>“My husband,” Hermione said firmly. “—is the best of both.”</p><p>She felt him pause behind her.</p><p>Then, George’s forehead dropped onto her shoulder. “You are bewitching,” he mumbled.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him, grinning. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I’m married.”</p><p>George darted up, pressing a fast kiss to her ear. “Are you?” he breathed.</p><p>Hermione glowed. “Yes,” she said. George sputtered out a breath and his hands caught her around the waist.</p><p>She turned, slowly, and found George watching her with a look of wonder. His gaze was equal parts eager and almost disbelieving.</p><p>“Georgie!” Fred called. “How did I get stuck watching this lot when you volunteered to do it instead?”</p><p>“Bugger,” George muttered. He blinked, and his gaze dropped to the floor.</p><p>“George?” Fred shouted again.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>George glanced at the pantry’s entryway, then strode over. Hermione followed, resignation tugging under her ribs at the interruption.</p><p>But he didn’t walk through it.</p><p>Without warning, the pantry door snapped shut. Hermione blinked.</p><p>“Sod can wait.” George stared at her, gaze flashing, palm flat on the wood. “I’d very much like to kiss you right now,” he said hoarsely. Hermione bit back a smile and stepped backwards, the door hitting her shoulder blades. “Thoroughly.” George’s shoulders lifted and fell swiftly.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened, but—but she found herself nodding. “Okay,” she said.</p><p>“Oh good,” George breathed at the ceiling. And then he collided with her, fast, urgent, hands laced in her hair, her name spilling out of him like tempest through a windchime. “Hermione—”</p><p>They were pressed to the door, legs tangled together. Hermione blinked, dazed and lightheaded as he slanted his mouth over hers, drinking her in.</p><p>George’s face was contorted, and Hermione had quite forgotten how to breathe.</p><p>Every inch of her was lit with the awed thrum of a melody that she’d only heard notes of, before.</p><p>George wrapped his arms under hers, jaw working as his kiss pushed her head into the wood with a gentle thud. Suddenly, he hoisted her high, up against his chest so her face tipped down over his. She was folded snugly in his arms, and her feet dangled, so she braced her hands down on his shoulders.</p><p>The light in her strobed to be let out—reaching for him.</p><p>He’d been so delighted that morning when she’d surprised him with it. Really, any time she surprised him with affection.</p><p>So, she took the magic whirling through her fingers, and she set the smallest bit of it free—to test the waters—pushing it into his shoulders as she kissed him back, just as soundly.</p><p>George faltered and made a small, surprised sound in the back of his throat.</p><p>“Love,” he breathed. His forehead rested against hers as he pulled back a fraction and made to catch his breath. A shaken, exhaled laugh escaped through the grin that had flitted over his face.</p><p>And at that the sound, the rush of light in her hands slipped free, hurtling into him.</p><p>“Dear Merlin—” George choked over the words, swaying forward for a moment before he rejoined the kiss. Eagerly.</p><p>And then, the same radiant surge she’d felt the night of the doomed Masquerade rushed through her mouth. Her insides turned to a river of fire. But not one that hurt. No, this river was different.</p><p>Hermione was flush with warm sparks, drowning in them from crown to foot.  Submerged in shining, glimmering brilliance.</p><p>He was—he was wonderful.</p><p>Sunshine.</p><p>Cinnamon.</p><p>Nutmeg.</p><p>Fields.</p><p>Parchment.</p><p>George Fabian Weasley-Granger loved her.</p><p>Hermione blinked, and the magics joined in a loop, twining closer and closer together until she couldn’t separate the two strands in the flow that paced between them.</p><p>George’s kisses slowed as her feet found the floor. He braced her against the door, his hand shaking the slightest bit as he cradled her cheek. “Oh—” he breathed, twisting his forehead against hers as his brow furrowed. “Oh, it’s been<em> so</em> long.”</p><p>Hermione pulled him closer, arms tangling around his shoulders.</p><p>He dragged in a measure of air, and when he released it, it came out wobbly.</p><p>She couldn’t just hear the emotion in his voice.</p><p>She could feel it, flying through the sparks—the agony, the fear, the happiness, the wonder.</p><p>Hermione shifted her hands to his face, and his scruff scratched her fingers as she ghosted the kiss over him.</p><p>His cheeks were the slightest bit wet, but—but so were hers.</p><p>Hermione pushed the magic through the water with her thumbs, coasting them lightly over his skin.</p><p>The flow of it rushed through her chest, spilling over her heart, looping back around into his, where, somehow, she knew it did the same.</p><p>
  <em>Thrum.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thrum.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thrum.</em>
</p><p>George seemed to melt away under her touch.</p><p>And she melted with him.</p><p>The sparks flew thick and fast, until suddenly, the magic almost felt tangible, like a golden cord. Knitting them together. Connecting them.</p><p>Sort of like the one she’d caste, when he’d fallen into the Quidditch Pitch, all that time ago.</p><p>Had the tie always been there?</p><p>She felt sure that if she were to open her eyes, she would see it, made of light, looping between their bodies. Tentatively, she reached an extra bit of magic out, tugging on the cord.</p><p>George let out a startled “mmf” sound from the back of his throat, lurching as his chest pressed harder into hers. And voices rushed up the strand, echoing in her mind.</p><p>Not just any voices.</p><p>Their voices. Some soft. Some pained. Some happy, but always them.</p><p>
  <em>“I have always done nothing more and nothing less—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What am I to you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Promise…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I love you—like carrot cake.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ought to give you tenure already.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, you’re—you’re my—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“They were wonderful fireworks.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’d be a good dad.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We mustn’t let it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I think I’m feeling a bit…rebellious.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Every time I say you’re wonderful, what I mean is—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I was hoping we could—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I do.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I want to be a—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Love you!”</em>
</p><p>The words twisted together in a confusing harmony. Some of them, she thought she remembered from long ago, when they were little more than children. Others, she couldn’t place. Didn’t have the context. The understanding. But she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it all meant something terribly important to him.</p><p>And she marveled.</p><p>Suddenly, George started back, and the connection clicked off.</p><p>A wave of nausea rocked her, and she wheezed as the wall in her mind clanged.</p><p>He was gasping, eyes wide, clutching at his ribs. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect you to—” He blinked hard. “Wasn’t ready to hold it back.” Gold strobed in his irises. “Are you alright?” He was almost frantic, searching her face.</p><p>The wave ebbed a bit, enough that she could focus.</p><p>“Your eyes,” she whispered. “They’re gold.”</p><p>George hesitated. A soft smile slipped over his face. “Yes,” he said. “They do that, when you, um—” He gestured between them, and slowly, his smile turned to a grin. “Yours are purple,” he murmured.</p><p>“What just happened? What—what was that at the end?” Hermione asked. Another queasy tide washed through her, and with it, a sharp pang behind her temples. George’s arm brushed hers as he studied her, and it faded a bit.</p><p>George winced. “A very ancient, unpredictable form of Legilimency,” he said. “It can happen when we’ve got the connection open. Sort of works like a conduit—you can send thoughts and things through it. I-I should’ve warned you, but I didn’t expect you to do that.” He rubbed a hand into his breastbone, wincing. “When you yank on it like that, it’s hard for me to keep things on my end in place.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyes widened. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, forgetting the headache building behind her temples.</p><p>George shook his head. “Not much,” he said. “Just, um—warn me, next time?” Amusement lit his gaze.</p><p>“Could you feel my feelings, too?” she asked. George nodded.</p><p>“There’s a lot there,” he whispered, grinning. “But one of my favorite bits was how delighted you were.”</p><p>Merlin’s beard.</p><p>Hermione’s face heated. “Well, so were you,” she said, challenging.</p><p>George quirked his brows. “That’s putting it mildly,” he said. He stepped forward and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Not sure if I should be offended at the surprise, though.” His head tipped down, and the look he gave her was assessing. “Have a little faith, Granger. I do have a certain degree of practice with this sort of thing.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed in disbelief. “That’s not why—” she stopped. George grinned. Hermione’s nostrils flared. As though he was going to tease her for being surprised after that.</p><p>Just then, a particularly strong wave of headache washed over her—far worse than before. George’s smile faltered as Hermione grimaced and shoved the heels of her hands into her eyes.</p><p>“Are you okay?” he whispered.</p><p>“My—my head,” she wheezed.</p><p>George swore. “It was too much, with everything still healing,” he muttered. “We’re not supposed to have any magic touch your mind.” His hands closed on the sides of her face, and his brow furrowed as he studied her. “We can try to walk in at Mungo’s?”</p><p>Where they’d leave them in the waiting room’s hard, wooden chairs while she waited in agony?</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “I’d rather sleep it off,” she said, wincing. “Since we already have an appointment tomorrow.”</p><p>George hesitated, and Hermione struggled to keep her face neutral.</p><p>“Are you sure, Love?” he asked. Hermione nodded.</p><p>He faltered. “Well, I—I can drop you off at your parents’ place, but I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone like this.”</p><p>Hermione doubled over as the pain worsened. “Please don’t leave,” she wheezed.</p><p>“Hermione?” George’s voice sounded distant and frantic.</p><p>She shook her head and blinked hard as a desolate ringing filled her ears. The headache blossomed into a full-fledged migraine. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “Tired.” In the fog of chaos, her fingers tangled with his, and as the touch drew away the worst of it, Hermione faded.</p><p>She wasn’t fully aware of him gathering her into his arms.</p><p>She didn’t see Fred’s questioning look as George carried her up the staircase. Didn’t hear the creak of the wood under his feet.</p><p>Didn’t notice the transfiguration spell hitting her rumpled button down, or the old, purple bedspread being drawn up to her chin. She was completely unaware of the dip of the mattress as George settled on top of the blankets beside her and rested his hand over her head. She didn’t feel him draw materials from his bag.</p><p>No, Hermione was lost to world. Lost to the sounds of terse voices filtering out from the shed and up, through the window, deadened by the steady pulse of rain. Lost to the faint rustle of George’s wand, working to assemble cherry red cardboard boxes, which stacked neatly into the spare shelving across the room.</p><p>Lost to the frequent, worried glances he caste in her direction.</p><p>#</p><p>May 13, 2003, 11:00 a.m.</p><p>She’d slept in until a ghastly hour, and no one had said a word of about it. Blessedly, Angelina’s concerned smile over breakfast-turned-lunch at the table was the only acknowledgement that her incident received.</p><p>Beyond George’s hovering, of course.</p><p>He claimed he wasn’t hovering, but he was. And not in a Bumblebee fashion, as he’d affectionately dubbed her own habit. It was similar, but the slightest bit different. More like a persistent shadow than a darting bee.</p><p>He’d planted himself firmly at her side, going so far as to find excuses to wait for her outside the loo. All day, it’d been George’s arm brushing hers, George jumping to help her with menial tasks that didn’t require more than one person. George, watching her like she might collapse at any moment.</p><p>She’d call him ridiculous, but—</p><p>He likely had fair cause to be worried.</p><p>And that was terrifying, even if she wasn’t prepared to admit it.</p><p>So, she pretended to buy his silly reasons for staying at her side. Pretended not to notice the way his eyes followed her when he presumed her to be preoccupied. Every time she turned back to him, however, he quickly submersed himself in his paperwork.</p><p>Just now, in the Mungo’s waiting room, he was bent over a thick volume with scrawled notes on the shop’s production schedules. There were a great many lines that had been crossed out and re-written. The most recent attack had set them behind schedule, and that was after a series of events that had already put them behind.</p><p>His left arm was wrapped securely around her shoulders, and his right ankle crooked over his opposite knee. The book lay open on his lap. He made a final note, then closed it, packed it away, and retrieved a book that appeared to be on Clockmaking. “<em>An Horologist’s Toolkit</em>” was printed on the cover over the image of a vintage pocket watch.</p><p>She’d have thought it was muggle, save for the runes lining the golden surface in the image.</p><p>Maybe everything would be alright. Maybe her headaches weren’t a symptom of something worse happening.</p><p>Her stomach roiled. Why did she want to hide from the appointment? Regardless of what Marcus shared, it wouldn’t change anything. She’d still be struggling with whatever was wrong—be it regression or something else.</p><p>But still. She was so afraid to hear the label come out of the healer’s mouth that she was momentarily tempted to ask to leave.</p><p>She couldn’t. They’d waited too long for this appointment.</p><p>Anxiety squeezed her insides together, and she grasped for the nearest distraction.</p><p>As George read, his thumb worked over the metallic band on his ring finger.</p><p>The question popped into her mind, unbidden.</p><p>“George,” she whispered. “What was our wedding like?”</p><p>He paused. “Which one?”</p><p>What?</p><p>Hermione swiveled. His intonation was casual, and a slight smile tugged at his mouth, but he didn’t seem to be joking. He resumed in flipping calmly through the clockmaker’s manual. Hermione blinked as his words sent her reeling.</p><p>Before she had time to gather herself and ask what on earth he meant, a voice called from the double doors. “Weasley-Granger?”</p><p>Nurse Sam waited near the hall, fist propped on her hip as she frowned at the clipboard.</p><p>George lifted his brows and stood, then helped her to her feet.</p><p>Nurse Sam said nothing as she led them down the hall. Not to an exam room, but to a familiar office. The tile pattern took on a yellow swatch before the door, and Nurse Sam reached around the two of them to push the handle.</p><p>The back of Marcus’s head was just visible over the top of his office chair, and books lined the shelves behind his desk. A small terracotta pot was wedged onto one of these alcoves between volumes, and Hermione eyed the brown sprig of Dittany inside it with a frown.</p><p>The chair spun, and Marcus faced them with a gleaming smile.</p><p>“Great Scott,” he said merrily. “It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?” Marcus glanced between them, waiting.</p><p>A wrinkle formed between George’s brows. “Yeah, Mate,” he said. “You’ve been rather booked.”</p><p>Marcus laughed and shoved to his feet, flinging his cloak over his shoulder as he moved. “Now, as I understand it, you’ve been having more trouble with your recovery, Mrs. Weasley-Granger?”</p><p>Nurse Sam nodded from the corner and handed over the chart.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione said, watching the ceiling as Marcus fiddled with a pressure cuff, fingers searching over the place where the fastener opened and closed as he beckoned Sam forward.</p><p>The other woman took the cuff and strapped it around Hermione’s arm.</p><p>“No improvement, then?” Marcus asked lightly. “Erm—open wide, please.” Hermione frowned and opened her mouth. Marcus muttered a Lumos spell and ducked his head to peer at her throat.</p><p>The paper covered table crinkled under Hermione’s hands.</p><p>After a moment, Marcus backed away and gazed at the chart as Nurse Sam began to take a reading of her magical levels.</p><p>“Sometimes, it’s felt like it’s getting worse,” Hermione said quietly. “I’ve gotten a few more dizzy spells, where it seems like I’ve remembered something—a few weeks ago at breakfast, and—and maybe some other times. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, unless someone else—um, like George, is there and notices my drifting off.”</p><p>George, meanwhile, seemed distracted as he stared at the back of Marcus’s head in concentration.  </p><p>Marcus didn’t react to this news, only scrawled a brief note with a quill on the parchment. “And I’ve gotten a few headaches recently,” Hermione added.</p><p>Nurse Same frowned at the magic gauge. The needle lay on the maxed-out position.</p><p>Hermione raised her brows at it, then gawked at George.</p><p>Nurse Sam nudged Marcus’s elbow almost imperceptibly, and the Healer’s gaze flicked to the needle.</p><p>For a second, it seemed as though a hard edge flashed through his eyes.</p><p>But—but she’d been wrong.</p><p>For when he glanced back up, Marcus was completely at ease. “I’m certain it’s nothing,” he said. “But I’ll run some diagnostics.” The healer set the chart on the desk.</p><p>George crossed the room suddenly and hopped up on the table beside her.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him.</p><p>There was a rigid set to his shoulders, and he stared hard at Marcus, like he was solving some sort of puzzle. George’s gaze flicked to the bookshelves, then back to the healer. The lines in the middle of his brow deepened.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if it was due to the stress from the attacks mixed with, um, other things—” she trailed off, uncertain of how much personal information she should divulge about her and George’s recent conversations. Perhaps she ought to tell him about the accidental Legilimency.</p><p>But before she could, Marcus was clearing his throat.</p><p>“Not to worry, I’m sure all of that will work itself out,” Marcus said mildly, plucking his wand from the inside of his robes. “These things have a habit of resolving themselves, you know.” His voice sounded almost patronizing, and his wand glimmered in the air, the tip pointed at Hermione’s forehead. “Some space, if you please, Mr. Weasley.”</p><p>“That’s—” George’s voice snapped.</p><p>Marcus’s wand tip began to glow with a faint, green light.</p><p>That wasn’t right.</p><p>George’s hand closed on Hermione’s arm, and she stumbled from the table as he practically dragged her towards the hall. “Blimey,” he said. “Forgot all about the paperwork we brought to show you. Left it in the lobby, and it’ll be dead helpful.” A plastic smile was plastered over George’s features.</p><p>Hermione’s heart raced, pounding in her throat.</p><p>Something was wrong.</p><p>“Help me find it, Dear?” George said as the door swung shut between Marcus, Sam, and the two of them.</p><p>The second the metal clicked, George sucked in a breath and urged her forward with a firm hand in the small of her back.</p><p>“That’s not Marcus,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Run.”</p><p>They were alone. Exposed in a long hallway, where Mungo’s anti-apparition wards stretched the distance between them and the safety of the floo into a vast ocean.</p><p>Fear erupted like fire at his words, and Hermione’s feet slammed the floor as they tore down the hall.</p><p>Her wand found its way into her fist.</p><p>Polyjuice? Disillusionment? Who? Why?</p><p>Was it Vane, seeking more information to fight them in court? Or the people behind the attacks?</p><p>And most importantly—</p><p>
  <em>Where was Marcus?</em>
</p><p>Merlin. It’d—it’d been nearly a month since they saw him in person.</p><p>They were nearing the double doors when Marcus’s office clanged open. The imposter stepped into the hall, wand raised.</p><p>“I don’t think we’re through?” they said.</p><p>Their tone danced like a puppet on the end of a set of Marionette strings.  </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Fidelius</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Do you hear the train?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! </p><p>I'm sorry editing took me a bit longer than expected. This is another double-feature. &lt;3 Thank you so much for your patience. And, as always, thank you for reading, and/or commenting/giving kudos. You all are so lovely, and your kindness is very much appreciated. &lt;3 &lt;3 (A random side note: Happy birthday, Michaela! &lt;3) </p><p>My brain is goop, so I'm going to polish the playlist and respond to last chapter's comments after I get some sleep. &lt;3 I hope that's alright! (Please forgive any typos/errors. I always miss things, and doubly so when I'm tired.)</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or to this story world.</p><p>For now, grab your snack (Peanut Butter Biscuits, maybe), your drink (I have tepid coffee, but I'm not sure I recommend it. :p) and your favorite blanket. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p><p>Playlist Fragments:<br/>"Deeper" by Shawn Hook (Generally)<br/>"Falling Like the Stars" by James Arthur (Feb. 1, --When there is mention of a train, and also George brings up the cooking skills)<br/>"Ephemerality" by Kainbeats &amp; cxlt (Feb. 1, 8:30 p.m.)<br/>"Arcade" by Duncan Laurence/"Time" by M83 (Feb. 1, 8:30 p.m. --When they enter the castle)<br/>"The Wisp Sings" by Winter Aid (Feb. 1 --the sixteenth nook)<br/>"500 Miles" by the The Proclaimers (Feb. 2, --When you see Marcus)<br/>"What Love Is" by Tom Gregory (Last scene)<br/>"In Your Arms" by Illenium &amp; X Ambassadors (Generally)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Thirty-Eight: “Fidelius”</h2><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>February 1, 1999, 8:03 p.m.</p><p>Kissing Hermione Jean was, simply put, wonderful. So lovely, in fact, that George quite forgot to worry about Ron, or everything that could go wrong—instead, wrapped up in the awe of this most impossible development.</p><p>Hermione Jean <em>fancied</em> him, at least a little. Maybe a bit more than a little. At least enough to kiss him back in the manner she was—which, was in the same manner that she took on every other matter of importance.  Determinedly.</p><p>Through the bumping noses, the unlearnedness, the blasted tremors of disbelief and elation working through his arms as sparks surged to a bright, overpowering river behind his eyes and ribs. Hermione doggedly kissed him through all of it.</p><p>The plucky witch had a firm grip on his shoulders, which she’d pulled on until he was sufficiently drawn down to her. Hunter green sleeves looped around his neck, and George could’ve cried with happiness.</p><p>Consonance.</p><p>The light in his chest pressed against his ribs, and he felt a familiar glaze falling over him.</p><p>Say the promise. He was supposed to say the promise, now.</p><p>But another thought rose up in him—one that sounded clearer headed and less like a git. Patience, it assured him.</p><p>He could wait. For now, this little shred of Heaven was something to be treasured.</p><p>The toes of his boots nudged on either side of hers. She slipped her fingers into his hair, along the back of his head. George’s brows shot upwards.</p><p>Oh, that was—</p><p>She carded through the strands, slicing his thoughts to bits.</p><p>—disarming.</p><p>The glow flushed over his crown, and George’s locked knees buckled.</p><p>Traitors.</p><p>He exhaled a stunned sputter as he stumbled and reeled for purchase. His right hand smacked against the glass pane a few inches behind and over her shoulder.</p><p>Hermione had faltered at his lurch.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>“Okay?” she asked, the question a nervous puff of air as she broke from his lips.</p><p>Had that happened? Truly?</p><p>George’s face shot through with heat, heart pounding like a runaway train thundering over rickety track.</p><p>Fred jumped into things. George managed the plan. What was the plan?</p><p>What was the bloody plan?</p><p>Kiss her again.</p><p><em>Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump</em>—Onward.</p><p>If he hadn’t been completely and totally ruined for anyone else on the day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding—no, maybe—probably, actually—likely, before that—if he hadn’t been pining after her for ages and ages, lying to himself about where he hoped this would go and what he wanted—even if he’d never had so much as a single fanciful thought about Hermione Jean before this—</p><p>That kiss would’ve led him to the same, terrifying and wonderous conclusion.</p><p>He knew where the train was going. Or at least, where he wanted the train to end up.</p><p>On some level, since he’d come into adulthood, he’d always known.</p><p>In a little flat above the shop in Diagon. He with his blueprints. She with her books. Perhaps some silly, snowflaked pajama pants, and always,<em> always</em> his stolen jumpers on her shoulders.</p><p>He could nearly hear the great, wild whistle of destiny, cutting through the windy night.</p><p>Could she hear it? Could she hear the train?</p><p>“George?” she prompted.</p><p>He didn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t manage much more than a dazed head nod, brows still raised and eyes still shut in a poor impression of calm. “Mhm.” It came out anything but smooth, and he suppressed a wince at the way his pitch fractured over the mildly-intended but poorly-delivered response.</p><p>He took a steadying breath, then shifted back in.</p><p>Perhaps a bit too eagerly.</p><p>His mouth bonked hers, and she broke into giggles.</p><p>Salazar, he was mucking it up. The fire flooding his face now came from a new source—embarrassment.</p><p>George grimaced and dropped his forehead to her shoulder to hide the flush, shifting to brace a bit more weight against his hand on the glass.</p><p>“Very rude to, um—” The joke wouldn’t come to him. The giggles came louder, prickling over him, charging a mixture of rueful chagrin and satisfaction at the sound of her delight. At least he could make her laugh. “Something particularly funny, Granger?” he mumbled into her coat.</p><p>“No—no—I’m sorry, I don’t know—” she said. Not moving his face from its hiding place, George lifted his hand from the glass and rested it atop her curls in a weary pat.</p><p>“You’re a terrible liar,” he whispered. The laughter didn’t stop.</p><p>He cleared his throat and stepped back.</p><p>Hermione’s face was still a deep pink, and she hid her mouth behind a sleeve, trying and failing to stifle her giggles, which were swerving into a more nervous pitch.</p><p>Worry lanced through him.</p><p>Had she not liked it? Had he mucked it up that badly?</p><p>Suddenly, George regretting telling Fred off every time he offered relationship advice, because surely, some of it would’ve been helpful in knowing how exactly to go about things like this.</p><p>George tilted his head. “Granger?” he asked softly. She stuttered. He folded his arms over his chest and ducked his chin to watch her, searching for any sign of regret.</p><p>She shrugged. Then shrugged again. Then shook her head a bit rapidly. “I—I—” She buried her face in her hands. “We’ve just terribly complicated things, haven’t we?” She peeked at him over her fingers. A familiar, worried gleam blossomed in her wide eyes.</p><p>Just like that, reality slammed in.</p><p>Oh. Oh Merlin—he’d <em>kissed</em> her. And <em>she’d kissed him back</em>, but there was still Ron, still the vulnerable position she was in, still the risk of everything imploding, still the press, still the worry that their friendship might get caught in the crossfire of this—this—whatever it was.</p><p>“I—” he halted.</p><p>Where were his words? Lost—plucked right from his mouth and dropped down the canyon between between the threat and the hope of what might happen next.</p><p>“A bit, yeah,” he said, furrowing his brow. He bit his lips together and tipped his chin even lower, still waiting and watching her. Bracing.</p><p>“A bit?” Hermione parroted, spluttering over the understatement. She twisted the sleeves of the stolen, pine jumper around her fingers.</p><p>George winced and sucked a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, a smidge, I reckon,” he said, as though they were discussing the possibility of an inconvenient snowstorm.</p><p>She said nothing.</p><p>George swallowed, but pretended to contemplate the situation casually as he glanced at the ceiling. His mouth opened and he grimaced, pinching his fingers together and rocking his hand back and forth. “Depends on how you look at it.”</p><p>Hermione blinked slowly, and a small, incredulous puff of air escaped her nose. “From what angle is this uncomplicated?”</p><p>The pounding in his chest rang up his throat and into his ear drums, and George answered as bluntly and honestly as he could. “Outer space, maybe.”</p><p>He’d kissed her.</p><p>Hermione’s face contorted, and she gawked at him. “You’re unbelievable,” she sputtered. “You absolute muppet.” But her tone was warm and affectionate. And—and—and then, like a spark hitting the base of a Whiz-Bang fuse, they exploded into laughter. Hunter green sleeves and George’s blue, striped flannel, and music like silver bells ricocheting over those cherry, cherry red walls.</p><p>Let him never, ever forget this moment.</p><p>George caught her face in his hands. “Oi, you’re quite rude, you are.” He failed at the admonishing tone, and it came out with all the delight he was feeling. The apples of her cheeks brushed soft under his thumbs as she tipped back further and swayed in his hold, completely gone to her mirth. “You’re the rudest person I know, actually,” he said, barely restraining his own fit of laughter. “The nerve. Calling me a muppet?”</p><p>She pitched forward and grinned, a feather’s brush away.</p><p>Oh, Merlin, she was Chamomile and coffee spice and sweet starfire breathing over his mouth.</p><p>The laughter stopped just as suddenly as it had started.</p><p>He could swear there was a tripping jinx on his Chukka boots because good Merlin, they seemed to twist of their own accord.</p><p>He was stumbling into the blasted wall again, shoulder thunking into glass as the headrush of sparks hit like Hippogriff hoof.</p><p>Granger’s hands snagged his forearms as she giggled against his mouth.</p><p>But then she broke away, and the giggle turned nervous-sounding again.</p><p>George blinked hard.</p><p>This was difficult to keep up with, especially with the way the earth seemed upside down. And he wasn’t wearing sticky shoes, either.</p><p>She looked wildly around the shop, as though she were expecting someone to come around the corner.</p><p>The shop was still open. That was rubbish—a disaster waiting to happen, really.</p><p>She was stammering as George peered nervously out the window. The streets looked abandoned, but that didn’t mean they were. “Sorry, I just—this is a lot to take in.” She finally got it out.</p><p>“That’s putting it mildly.” George glanced from the window to her and raised a wry brow.</p><p>Hermione made a odd, little squeak, then wrestled her expression into composure. “What I mean to say is—”</p><p>Right on schedule, there was the prefect tone.</p><p>“—we ought to go about this logically.”</p><p>George cleared his throat and nodded as he gathered himself and caste the usual end-of-day charms. Hermione’s eyes followed him as he moved through the detection charms and then the wards. “Logically,” he parroted.</p><p>Hermione stuttered on. “Well. Yes,” she said. George reached around her arm to stick his key in the lock and finish up.</p><p>She jumped out of his way like she’d seen a Doxie skittering across the floor.</p><p>But there was no Doxie. “Logically,” she continued. “I usually think more before, um—and we just—” The anxious laugh returned, echoing a bit louder, and this time, she fully buried her face in her hands.</p><p>George nodded and bit his lips together, finishing the locking up. Then, he turned and tried for a calmness that he did not in any way feel. “Hermione,” he said slowly. “Why don’t we talk this through?”</p><p>She twisted her hands.</p><p>“I’ll make you a cuppa, and we can sort it out,” he continued. His insides were rushing, but he tried his hardest to keep his voice even and steady.</p><p>Hermione’s hands stilled and she blinked at them, as though she’d just realized what she was doing. “Yes, yes of course,” she said. Then, she peeked up at him again, cheeks a deep pink and something hesitant in her gaze. “Okay. Tea.”</p><p>He hadn’t seen her this jumpy and skittish in ages.</p><p>Humor. That was the ticket.</p><p>“Tea,” he repeated.</p><p>Godric’s Blade, was that the best material he could come up with?</p><p>“Comes in little cups, and you—” He trailed off, pantomiming lifting a teacup to his mouth, pinky out.</p><p>Hermione blinked and exhaled slowly, but the tenor of it had that slight hitch—the smallest huff that carried a laugh with it.</p><p>That was better.</p><p>They both ducked to retrieve her textbooks. George winced at the dented cover of the Ancient Runes volume, but Hermione didn’t say a word. Instead, she stared rather absentmindedly at the cover.</p><p>The hardbacks stacked together with a series of soft, papery thuds.</p><p>She rose as he gathered up the last two volumes.</p><p>“Nox,” George said, and the lights snapped off. When they came to his flat door, neither had said a word, but the heat buzzing in his ears wouldn’t let him forget what’d occurred.</p><p>The door clicked behind them, and George rested her things on the table before striding for the kitchenette. The scarf fluttered about his hands as he set the kettle to boil.</p><p>George glanced over his shoulder, a little jolt of concern working through his ribs. Hermione seemed to be having some trouble getting comfortable in the wooden dining chair, despite having sat there countless times before.</p><p>“You alright?” he asked.</p><p>She hummed a bit as she twisted one of her yellow mittens on the table.</p><p>The flat was silent, save for the clink of mugs, the faint pop of the tea tin lid prying from the barrel, and the growing rumble from the kettle. He didn’t have a single vinyl yet to put on, and the last thing they needed was some inopportune song coming onto the wireless, so—</p><p>All the while, he could feel Hermione’s eyes—still following him from task to task. The heat licked over his neck and ears, prickling his scar, but he pretended not to notice.</p><p>Had he really tripped twice?</p><p>Helga, he’d never live it down if Fred found out.</p><p>In fact, he’d lost his balance the first time she’d kissed him on Christmas, too.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George worked his jaw as he poured the water.</p><p>If he should have a chance at a fourth kiss, he’d do it proper. Absolutely no tripping. Better yet, maybe he’d make Hermione trip. Sweep her right off her feet. That’d be something. Let her turn to goo, for once.</p><p>A chime rang through the flat, echoing from the little, enchanted clock on his bedside table.</p><p>George winced. Was it really that time?</p><p>Granger’s tentative call broke him from his thoughts. “George?”</p><p>“Hm?” he asked, frowning at the top, left cabinet. If he waited much longer, it would start to get sore, but—</p><p>The clock’s incessant chiming was growing more irksome, picking up volume. Absentmindedly, he jabbed his wand over his shoulder to cast a silencing spell.</p><p>Inside the battered cabinet, a rack of shimmering, golden potion vials waited.</p><p>“What’s that for? Are you busy, or—?” She sounded a bit confused. George glanced over. Her gaze flicked to the copper alarm clock that was still rumbling, albeit noiselessly, on his table. He’d nicked it from his dad’s shed, then added two layers of alarm enchantment. Kept him from distractedly turning it off in the middle of cooking or reading, which he’d done quite by accident the first night.</p><p>Not a mistake he cared to repeat—he’d woken to a faint, ghostly burning crawling up his knee. Thankfully, it’d gone away once he took the potion, but it was still off-putting.</p><p>But he could manage for another hour or so, surely.</p><p>“Don’t mind it,” he mumbled. “Just a reminder to take that potion.” He slashed his wand at the clock, and it settled. Then, he turned back to preparing the tea.</p><p>There was a beat of silence.</p><p>“Well, shouldn’t you, then?” she asked.</p><p>He made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat as he placed the kettle on the stove and paced over with the mugs.</p><p>He probably should, but every time he took it, it was like what happened in the Hog’s Head, but to a lesser extent. The potion made him dazed and warm and awkwardly happy, and the last thing he needed was making a fool of himself unintentionally.</p><p>On purpose? Now that was a different matter. He made a lot of Galleons on intentional silliness.</p><p>But the potion’s effects, however brief, weren’t welcome just now. It wasn’t a state he wanted to be in for one of the most important conversations he’d ever have.</p><p>“You have been taking it, haven’t you?” Hermione prodded.</p><p>“Yes, Dear,” George said flatly. He reached over her shoulder and rested her drink in front of her right hand. Hermione started and blinked up at him. Her eyes were brown and owlish, with a question that lodged right under his ribs and tugged—hard.</p><p>He’d meant the endearment as an off-handed quip.</p><p>Did she like it? Now that was something to explore.</p><p>He tore himself away and attempted a recovery. “There are some mild side effects, so it’d be best to wait,” he said with an awkward cough. His gaze flickered over the worn, oak chair beside hers.</p><p>No. He would need to focus for this conversation. Instead, he tore himself away and hopped up on the counter, where there was plentiful space between them.</p><p>Hermione twisted in her seat, and the startled expression vanished as her features drew together. “Side effects? But in small doses—”</p><p>He swiped his hand through the air dismissively. “Don’t worry; it’s nothing serious. Not like the first time, anyway. Really only lasts for a few minutes, but…” George paused and searched for the words. “But I get sort of lightheaded and warm, I’ve noticed.” He bugged his eyes out, aiming for humor. “And a little loopy.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t smile. She frowned and flipped open her shoulder bag. “That’s odd,” she said, digging through the canvas. “Well, don’t worry on my account. I don’t mind waiting for the potion to settle.” She drew out a quill. “In fact, it might be helpful to have a record of this for the longer report I’m handing in on it. Professor Slughorn had some questions about the brew.”</p><p>George hesitated.</p><p>She paused. “If that’s alright?”</p><p>He waffled back and forth for a moment.</p><p>Slughorn was a numpty. But Hermione could probably make good use of the knowledge, should the potion go into wider circulation.</p><p>It was a bit awkward, but nothing he wasn’t used to. He and Fred tested things like this all the time.</p><p>“It’s fine, so long as you’re prepared to endure my ridiculousness,” he said. Hermione rolled her eyes. George lifted his wand and casted an Accio towards the cabinet. A singular vial bumped the door out of place, and then the wood thudded shut with a soft clunk. The glass sparkled as it floated across the kitchenette space and towards the counter.</p><p>He pointed at her as he caught it. “If you mention me by name, make sure you describe how sportive I am. And—and good looking.”</p><p>Hermione walked over to the counter, journal propped on her forearm and quill skating on the page. “Subject is—” she glanced at him. “—suffering from an over-inflated head.”</p><p>George grinned and tipped the vial up, downing it in a single go.</p><p>Then, he dropped onto his back. His legs dangled at the knee over the island counter’s edge, and his head nudged against the cold copper of the sink’s perimeter. “I get a bit dizzy, if I don’t,” he said, offering a quiet, sheepish explanation. Hermione leaned her hip into the surface near his shoulder. George picked a ceiling beam to focus on. That usually helped with the vertigo.</p><p>“Has it hit yet?” she asked.</p><p>George peeked sideways at her. Suddenly, he thrashed about, and Hermione emitted a high-pitched yelp as she jumped back.  </p><p>He dropped his arms back at his sides and grinned. “No.” Hermione smacked her journal on his arm. “Takes a minute or two longer,” he said, chuckling.</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>A longer silence passed.</p><p>“Still think you should write down that I’m fit,” he said.</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>“That’s a relevant detail,” George said.</p><p>He swung his feet a bit.</p><p>“That’s a subjective detail,” Hermione said calmly. “Not the sort of thing you put in a Potions report.”</p><p>George cocked a brow and studied the woodgrain overhead. “So you don’t think I’m—<em>Hmph—</em>” The sentence caught and his body stiffened as the potion hit.</p><p>First, it felt like gravity had placed a warm, steady hand against his sternum—pushing down just a little. If he were standing, it’d feel like falling backwards. And then his heartrate sped.</p><p>“George?” Hermione asked.</p><p>He nodded thickly.</p><p>The kiss’s faint glimmers had been buzzing through his head and chest, gradually fading, but the potion reignited them all in a startling surge.</p><p>What had he been saying? He fought to regain control and cleared his throat. “You don’t think—” What didn’t she think? His words started coming more sluggish. “Never mind.” He gave up and breathed out a laugh, feeling the heat spread over his face as the tension eased out of his limbs.</p><p>That really was a nice support beam.</p><p>“How do you feel?” Hermione asked. White diagnostic runes swirled over his head. George frowned.</p><p>“Peachy,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Can’t put that in the report, George,” Hermione said. “This says you have a slight elevation in temperature and heart rate. Are there any other side effects you’re—”</p><p>George knit his brows together. “Feels like kissing you,” he said.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>That was alright. He didn’t mind the quiet.</p><p>George lifted a finger through the translucent rune markings.</p><p>Finally: “I can’t put that in the report either,” Hermione said.</p><p>A lopsided smile crept over his face. “Why not?”</p><p>Hermione leaned over his frame of view, upside down. “I’m not telling Professor Slughorn that I kissed you. That’s none of his business.” George twisted his head to get a better look at her. She sighed and quirked her brows as she made a note, muttering. “Although, that would probably put an end to him trying to fix me up with other members of the ‘Slug Club.’”</p><p>George frowned.</p><p>Hermione started a bit. “Not—not that we’re um—” She tilted her head and frowned at her notes. “—exclusive or something.”</p><p>The world spun, and it was hard to think clearly through the warm, bright glaze surrounding him. He tried and failed for a minute before finally, the swirling started to slow. And then the question came to him. “He’s been trying to set you up?” George asked.</p><p>This seemed like an important detail.</p><p>“Persistently,” she said, in an dry tone.</p><p>A little flare of annoyance blossomed hot under his ribs, wriggling uncomfortably amongst the happy glow. George huffed.</p><p>“Don’t be jealous,” Hermione said.</p><p>“M’not,” George said. He wasn’t the jealous sort. Was he? “Just don’t see how that’s Slughorn’s business.”</p><p>The potion was beginning to ebb, and the wobble of gravity was receding along with the rapid pace of his heart.</p><p>“None of them hold a candle to you,” Hermione mumbled.</p><p>His pulse picked back up again, but he tried to play it off, rising onto his elbows. “Go on?” he said.</p><p>Hermione pinned him with a look but didn’t elaborate.</p><p>George wiggled his brows. “Because I’m fit?”</p><p>He was teasing. That’s all.</p><p>But also, a tiny corner of his mind whispered that he’d rather like to know what she thought.</p><p>Hermione snorted, and rested the notebook on his chest. “Because you’re wonderful.” She smirked. “And because all of them are just that terribly dull.”</p><p>George grinned and lifted the journal, extending back towards her. “You should write that down.”</p><p>Granger rolled her eyes and snatched the volume back, then watched as he pushed himself the rest of the way upright.</p><p>“Better, then?” she asked. George nodded. “Excellent.”</p><p>Another awkward pause.</p><p>She padded across the floor, then returned with the mugs. He took his as she offered it.</p><p>“So, how was your day?” she asked, a bit unsteadily.</p><p>George lifted his brows and took a sip. It tasted just like the potion, but a bit less complicated. “Hm,” he said. “Besides the earth-shattering snog?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione choked on her tea, then quickly recovered. “Yes,” she said.</p><p>He shrugged. “Not bad.” Took another drink and cleared his throat. “Got a bit of work done.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Me as well.” She blew some of the steam off her cup. “I think—” She spoke haltingly, as though she were sorting the words out as she went. “—it might be a little less complicated if we took the time to figure it out ourselves, before sharing it with others.”</p><p>“It being?” he prompted, speaking the words slowly.</p><p>“Whatever we just started,” Hermione said.</p><p>George stared at her over his mug. “The kissing?” he asked lowly. “Or the me being yours?” Granger’s face went pink.</p><p>Interesting. He’d done that.</p><p>How many times had he done that before? His brows knit together.</p><p>“I rather think they go hand in hand,” she said. Then, quickly: “Sell a lot of product today?”</p><p>He flicked his wand and summoned a tin of biscuits. “The usual. Wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t dead, either.” He pried the lid off and selected a large, peanut butter shortbread from the top of the stack. “Sorry—so what, exactly, do you consider us to have started?”</p><p>Hermione darted into the tin for one of her own as her cheeks went from pink to red. “Well, that’s the sort of one of the things I think we need to figure out.” She took a bite and chewed, a thoughtful expression making its way over her face.</p><p>Suddenly, she brightened. “I know,” she said. She tucked her mug and biscuit onto the counter and dashed over to his workstation. George watched, bemused as she yanked a fresh sheet of deep, azure parchment from the stack on the shelf and unfolded it on her way back to him. “Budge up.”</p><p>He scooted to the side, and she spread it next to his left hip, scrawling “<em>Pros</em>” on one side and “<em>Cons</em>” on the other.</p><p>Dear Merlin.</p><p>Was this what he thought it was?</p><p>“And these are pros and cons for what, exactly?” he asked.</p><p>“Making a go of it,” she said, brow wrinkling in concentration. She glanced at him, hesitating. “If that’s something you’re open to?” Her voice went soft over the question.</p><p>Open to?</p><p>George choked.</p><p>“Yeah—I—I—” he stuttered, nodding at the sheet. If there hadn’t been so bloody much riding on it, he would’ve laughed aloud. He managed to gather his thoughts and manage a faint: “If you’d like to, yeah.”</p><p>Was this happening?</p><p>Truly?</p><p>Or was he asleep.</p><p>“Excellent,” she said brightly, seemingly unaware of his lapse in placidity. George dug his nails into his palms.</p><p>He didn’t wake up.</p><p>Okay, brilliant.</p><p>He swallowed.</p><p>Over the edge of the snow pile on the opposite side of the windowpanes, a clutch of fairies buzzed through the alleyway and towards the piney tree line in the distance—wings alight amidst the grey cold. A flash of gold.</p><p>That was unusual. They didn’t come so close to the village, usually.</p><p>But today seemed a day for the unusual.</p><p>George popped the rest of his biscuit into his mouth, then hopped off the counter and wiped his hands on his trousers.</p><p>He watched over her shoulder as she drew a straight line, right down the middle. The gold ink rolled over the parchment’s soft, hatched texture.</p><p>Hermione’s open hand splayed over the dotted graph to hold it steady. From hours bent over the stuff, he knew that she’d come away with blue fingers. It had a means of picking up the moisture from skin and transferring pigment.</p><p>He’d spent many, many afternoons making plans over the Blueprints.</p><p>But never one like this.</p><p>“Okay,” she said. A nervous pinch had entered her voice. George peeked at her. She lifted her mug, then frowned as she realized it was empty.</p><p>Something stronger, perhaps.</p><p>He nicked a few butterbeers from the countertop behind them and held one out. Hermione popped the lid off and took a swig as George did the same.</p><p>There was a quiet for a few moments as Hermione leaned over the parchment, quill ready. “We’re friends,” she said finally.</p><p>George braced his left palm against the counter’s edge and took another drink. “Which side does that go on?”</p><p>Hermione slumped. “Both, I suppose,” she said.</p><p>George frowned. “I feel like it’s more of a pro,” he said, aiming for nonchalance as he pointed to the left-hand column with a finger that extended off the side of the bottle’s glass neck.</p><p>Her mouth twisted. “It makes for a stronger relationship, certainly—” A little thrill went through his chest as she said the word. “But it also carries larger risks, should things… not work out.”</p><p>A stilted silence fell over them.</p><p>Hermione’s voice sounded pained. “Ron and I barely talk anymore, and I hate that.”</p><p>George ribs constricted.</p><p>Right.</p><p>He took a deep breath and focused on the facts as he knew them.</p><p>“I am not Ron,” he said gently. He tucked his chin down, bracing for what might come next.</p><p>Hermione watched the parchment. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” She looked at him, and her expression was sincere as she spoke a bit more quickly. “It’s just—it’s the most significant relationship I’ve had, disaster that it was. When I make comparisons, I’m not intending to say the two of you are the same. I’m only considering what I’ve been through and learned, I supposed.”</p><p>George nodded slowly. “That makes sense,” he said. “No need to apologize.” And he meant it.</p><p>She smiled—a shy, little thing—but a smile, nonetheless.</p><p>“I understand what you mean about the risks to our friendship, I think,” he said. It was, after all, one of the central reservations he’d had. The parchment was still blank. “I suppose no one plans on breaking up, but it did happen, and I imagine that would make things complicated.” Or unbearably painful.</p><p>He shifted his left arm to lean onto his elbow, lowering his torso closer to the counter. “If it helps, I care about you, and your happiness is important to me. Keeping our friendship intact would be a priority for me.”</p><p>“I feel the same,” Hermione said. She tapped the quill’s feathered end on the paper. “So, we acknowledge there are risks to that, but we’ll try to mitigate them, should we—you know—” she glanced at him.</p><p>George nodded and took a swig.</p><p>Hermione carefully scripted “<em>Potential risk to friendship</em>,” under “<em>Cons</em>,” and “<em>We’re best friends</em>” under “<em>Pros</em>.”</p><p>George’s mouth quirked up at the corner.</p><p>“So how will we mitigate those risks?” she asked, taking a pull of her own drink.</p><p>George raked a hand through his hair. “Now, or—?” He faltered over the word later.</p><p>Please, please let there be a later.</p><p>“Either? Both?” Hermione asked, twisting her mug back and forth.</p><p>George sucked another breath in and considered what he’d seen from others. Fred and Angie—they seemed to have relationships where the friendship was inseparable from the romance. Looking after one meant looking after the other.</p><p>He rather liked that idea.</p><p>But they’d been together for ages.</p><p>Hermione didn’t interrupt, seeming to understand that he was deep in thought.</p><p>George scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I think that’ll look different, depending on where we’re at in the relationship,” he said. Hermione nodded and summoned a separate sheet of parchment from her bag. George lifted his brows.</p><p>“Well, it’s a separate list,” she explained, as though it was obvious.</p><p>Leave it to Granger to turn this into a homework assignment. George breathed out a laugh.</p><p>Granger shoved the right sleeve of his jumper up to her elbow and scrawled down the point he’d just made. “For now,” she said, tone distracted. “I think we’d benefit by taking things slowly.”</p><p>“Makes sense,” George said.</p><p>Hermione made another bullet point. “And, as I mentioned earlier, maybe—maybe keeping the rest of everyone out of it,” she said.</p><p>George faltered. “How do you mean?”</p><p>She laid down the quill. “When Ron announced we were together, he didn’t warn me first,” she said.</p><p>George’s bottle thunked on the counter as it slipped slightly in his fingertips. “What?” he asked, and his voice went hoarse.</p><p>Hermione grimaced. “And—and suddenly everyone was involved. I felt nervous about the whole thing, and I hadn’t really come to a decision about what I really wanted. But we’d talked a little about giving it a shot, and he said we owed it to ourselves to try. And when I sort of agreed—well—I didn’t realize he thought that meant diving right in and telling everyone at the supper table three hours later, before we’d even been on a date.”</p><p>George stared dully at the parchment.</p><p>“He meant well, but from then on, everything was so public,” Hermione whispered. “There was so much pressure to—to get things right and have some sort of happily-ever-after. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.” She sighed heavily, then glanced at him with an anxious look. “I-I do love your family, of course.”</p><p>George snorted. “But they’re a handful,” he said.</p><p>“They’re two,” Hermione said dryly. “At least two. Two, sizeable, Grawp-hands.”</p><p>George quirked a brow. “Grawp?” he asked.</p><p>“Hagrid’s half-giant brother,” Hermione said, frowning at the parchment. “He lives in the forest.”</p><p>George took this parcel of information in stride. “I see.” One of those things that Hermione, Harry, and Ron had encountered while the rest of them were oblivious.</p><p>What he’d give to hear a proper account of every last detail. He was jealous, he realized, to know exactly the map and course of her life.</p><p>He wanted to learn it all. The past, the present, the future.</p><p>George blinked and reeled his thoughts back in. He was getting away from himself. They could start with the present.</p><p>She bit her lips together. “I just think it’ll be easier, if we’re not worrying about what everyone else thinks—at least for now,” she said. “Except for Carter and—and the healer you’ve been working with, that is.” She glanced at him and swallowed. There was a vulnerability in the look. A silent request.</p><p>George nudged his drink to the side and shifted his weight to face her more fully, leaning on his left elbow. “Granger,” he said softly. “That’s perfectly alright. If that makes you feel more comfortable, then I’m fully in favor.”</p><p>She let out a breath, and a load of tension seemed to lift from her shoulders. “Okay.”</p><p>It occurred to George that they were speaking about the this as an eventuality.</p><p>A giddy zip flitted through him, before he could tamp it down.</p><p>That wouldn’t do. He needed focus.</p><p>“What else?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and lowered the quill to the “<em>Con</em>” side. Slowly, she scrawled out, “<em>Public criticism</em>.”</p><p>“If it gets out,” she said in a tired voice. “It’ll be ghastly. <em>The Resonant’s</em> been awful, and that’s even without much proof. I suppose we can trust Luna to ensure <em>The Quibbler</em> refrains from commenting, but <em>The Prophet</em> would be unceasing, and its circulation is global.” Her eyes seemed to harden, growing colder and more distant. “And people can be quite cruel when inspired to it.” The last part was quieter.</p><p>“I know,” he said. Because he did. He’d seen the boils on her hands, the stacks of parchment crowding her flat. The howlers. “And I don’t appreciate the effect that might have on you—or your professional reputation.”</p><p>Hermione blinked up at him.</p><p>George shrugged and tapped beneath the bullet point. “We both know most of the ire will be directed at you,” he said. “Not the least bit fair, but that’s how it is.” Hermione quirked her mouth in a wry grimace.</p><p>George leaned. “And say what you will, but you’re clearly going to continue with all this world changing,” he said, waving his free hand over the last two words to illustrate the point. He cocked a brow slowly. “Couldn’t stop you if I tried, I reckon, but the papers do seem to be doing their best to undercut you.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “I don’t mind for myself, but if it limits what I can do for others—” She trailed off and glanced at her book bag.</p><p>Because it wasn’t just about Hermione. It was about the elves, the werewolves, the goblins, the centaurs. The magical beasts, too—the Hippogriffs, the Cornish Pixies, the Dragons, the Nifflers, and everything else that Newt Scamander fellow had tracked across the green globe.</p><p>It was about everything Hermione represented.</p><p>A thrown gauntlet to the old guard. A breath of fresh air.</p><p>He suspected Hermione’s Army was hardly through.</p><p>And if it came about that his presence at her side hurt more than helped her calling, then he’d step away.</p><p>A deep pit formed in the base of his stomach.</p><p>Hermione’s quill pressed another line of script into the “<em>Con</em>” column: “<em>Baggage</em>.”</p><p>“Everyone’s got baggage,” George said.</p><p>Hermione shoved a frizzy curl back from her eyes. “It bears mentioning that I’ve parents who are terrified of me, and by extension, probably you.”</p><p>“Noted,” George said. “But aside from how you feel about it, that’s hardly the heaviest trunk in the cab here.”</p><p>Hermione snorted.</p><p>The “<em>Con</em>” column was looking a bit too populated.</p><p>It seemed unfair, to reduce it all down onto parchment. Bodies and souls couldn’t be fixed onto pages.</p><p>“And while we’re talking about family,” she said, and another point appeared below: “<em>Family Tension</em>.” Granger pulled her lower lip between her teeth.</p><p>With each little mark in those two, meager words, he felt the potential of them slipping further and further in oblivion.</p><p>He hated that he felt the need to ask which specific, potential tension she was referring to. “Care to elaborate?” Did she mean Ron? Or a lack of approval? Or, perhaps she meant the fallout in the case of a breakup.</p><p>“I don’t know think your family’s patience would extend to a second heartbreak,” Granger said. Her voice was wry, but he caught the dark edge in her gaze.</p><p>George took a draught and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You’re right,” he said flatly, clicking his tongue. “Mum would kill me if I broke your heart.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes.</p><p>“I’d be booted right out of the family,” he drawled. “Ripped from the clock. Struck from the will.” He flicked a finger through the air on the word “struck.” She snorted, and a pleasant buzzing filled his ribs. “Pity—really was looking forward to inheriting all of—” He pretended to check his palm for hidden writing. “Half a chicken and a jar of peaches.”</p><p>“As if,” Hermione muttered.</p><p>George sidled closer and braced his forearm on her shoulder. “They’re every bit as likely to excommunicate me as you,” he said. “Ginny might actually favor you, a bit.” Sparks flickered up to his shoulder.</p><p>Hermione lowered the quill under “<em>Family Tension</em>” and a bit to side. Then she stopped. A splotch of ink dripped from the nib.</p><p>He waited, knowing what was coming. A nail in a coffin.</p><p>The pit inside of him tore, opening wider and colder. George’s grip on his Butterbeer tightened.</p><p>But still, she couldn’t write it.</p><p>“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” George muttered. He plucked the quill up and marked the lines down. Three letters, four strokes.</p><p>“<em>Ron</em>.”</p><p>He dropped the quill onto the blue and backed off to lean against the stove. “That is what you were—”</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione’s clipped replied cut his question off.</p><p>George nodded stiffly and folded his arms.</p><p>They stared at the “<em>Cons</em>.”</p><p>“Merlin’s Beard, what’ve we done,” Hermione whispered, tone laced with a stunned horror that made the whole of him ache.</p><p>She turned. Her eyes searched his face, and she sucked in a short breath—the type of inhalation that usually preceded a good cry. He’d seen it on her a few times. He knew the sound.</p><p>She was standing in his kitchen, wearing his jumper, crying over a list of reasons why they shouldn’t be together.</p><p>“Don’t cry,” he breathed.</p><p>The coffin lid came down.</p><p>“I’m not crying,” she said, blinking her red-lined eyes unpersuasively.</p><p>George rested the bottle on the counter and shoved off of the stove. He took one step. Two.</p><p>Then, he draped his arms around her shoulders and gathered her to his chest. “Bloody terrible liar,” he said, around the lump in his throat.</p><p>A sniffle caught against his shirt, and the sound went right into him—cutting him to bits. “I’m not crying,” she tried again.</p><p>“Mm,” George said, tucking his chin over her head. The list taunted him from the countertop.</p><p>“It’s just a bit disappointing, to see it laid out like that,” she said, choking over it. “Because I really like you.”</p><p>And there was the nail.</p><p>George’s eyes closed like he’d been hit under the ribs.</p><p>“I can’t ask you to put all of that at risk,” she said, and her voice broke. “Especially not—not—he’s your brother.”</p><p>George stilled, and his hand’s absentminded path over her curls shuddered to a halt. “If you don’t want to because of you and Ron’s history, fine. If you don’t want to because Ron’s one of your oldest, closest friends, alright.” He swallowed. “But don’t make that choice on my account.”</p><p>Hermione backed out of his embrace and thrust a sleeve-covered wrist over her drippy nose. “George,” she said, like he was missing something obvious. “You’re the heart of your family.” Her smile was small, watery, and regretful.</p><p>George’s brow furrowed, and he searched her face. “Yes, he’s my brother, but you’re—” He couldn’t find the words.</p><p>Was she serious?</p><p>It appeared so.</p><p>If it wasn’t being used as a reason to give up everything he wanted, he’d be touched by the compliment. But presently, there was a serious gap in Granger’s usually impeccable logic that needed addressing.</p><p>He took a swift step in and took her face in his hands. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He sounded a bit put out, but she was smarter than this. “You’re a part of that family.” He emphasized each word with a small pause and an accompanying, gentle jolt of her face with his hands. He swallowed.</p><p>Then, he spun her to the counter. “Write it down,” he said, jabbing his hand to point at the “<em>Pros</em>” side.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him over her shoulder, mouth cracked open and soundless. He repeated his gesture with a firm nod.</p><p>“Suppose it’s best to consider all the factors before jumping to a conclusion,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>The quill scraped on the page, and something fluttered back to life.</p><p>Something that should’ve been squashed by three letters on the opposite side of the parchment.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Just like that, George had picked. After all that time and agony—he’d picked. A rubbish choice. One he resented having to make at all.</p><p>Charlie’s voice floated through his head. <em>“I wondered back then—How will George manage if that drive to protect us ever points him against one of his own?”</em></p><p>Well, he had an answer.</p><p>If placed at odds, he was Hermione’s—through and through.</p><p>Not that she needed protection from Ron, but, her interests—what she truly wanted—that might. His did, at least.</p><p>George’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t quite guilt, but something close. More like resignation. Regret over the things outside of his control.</p><p>But his decision remained the same.</p><p>His mouth settled into a grim but decided line.</p><p>He glanced at Hermione to find that she’d been watching the internal war play out over his features.</p><p>An awkward silence followed. George pulled his butterbeer from the counter.</p><p>“Do you have anything to add to the cons, before we move on?” Granger asked quietly. George tipped the rest of his bottle back and took the offered quill. She stepped away to allow him room.</p><p>He thought carefully, then added “<em>George will drive Hermione up the walls</em>.”</p><p>Hermione sighed heavily. “That’s not a serious one,” she said.</p><p>George quirked his brows. “See, this is what I’m talking about,” he said, tapping the quill to the page. “As charming as I am, I know it can get on your nerves.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “If you’re putting that down, then you also have to write that I’m a stick in the mud.”</p><p>George snorted. “That’s not even close to true.”</p><p>She made an adorable, huffy sound and snatched the quill before adding the rubbish to the list.</p><p>No matter. He’d scratch it out later and convince her otherwise. For now, the atmosphere could use a bit of a lift.</p><p>“I heartily disagree.” George nicked the quill from her hand. “But returning to our original pursuit,” he said lightly. “I think we need to consider some additional pros.”</p><p>Hermione quirked a brow. “Do we, now?”</p><p>George nodded. “There’s nothing here about my skills in the kitchen,” he said. Hermione rolled her eyes and swiped the quill.</p><p>“Oh, give me that,” she said. But then she darted forward and wrote ‘<em>George is good in the kitchen.</em>’” She spared him an amused look. “Happy?”</p><p>He tapped his index finger to the parchment. “Cooking and baking, mind.”</p><p>Hermione considered this for a moment, then nodded and added the two underneath the point as a set of smaller, bulleted marks. She continued on to the next point without stopping. “<em>George is kind</em>.”</p><p>Heat flushed his face. “So are you,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Yes, but this sub-list is about you,” she said, twisting the quill back and forth between her fingers. She took another drink from her butterbeer and grinned. “And since you insisted on bringing it up, I think it’s only fair we consider your nicer qualities.”</p><p>“You mean how fit I am?” he said it like a statement, just to needle her. Hermione snorted, but didn’t take the bait.</p><p>The quill came back down, just under the bullet point about him being kind. Here, a smaller list was formed.</p><p>“<em>George is thoughtful.”</em></p><p>“Mum might disagree,” he drawled, but she kept going.</p><p>“Very funny,” she said, glancing at him. Then, she added something new under the previous bit: “<em>George’s humor sets people at ease</em>.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“<em>George is brave</em>.”</p><p>He scratched at the back of his neck and glanced at her, but she didn’t seem to be smirking.</p><p>“<em>George likes tea</em>,” she wrote, directly after that.</p><p>“Everyone likes tea,” he muttered.</p><p>“Shush,” she said.</p><p>“<em>George knits</em>,” she wrote.</p><p>George resolved to owl his Mum and thank her for teaching him—that night.</p><p>Hermione paused and pressed her lips together, studying the list.</p><p>“Not a single thing about my rugged good looks?” George said, trying at a teasing lilt, but it came out more faintly than intended. He hadn’t been expecting her to—to—</p><p>He looked over the list. Again. Again. He felt rather off-balance, suddenly. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected from this conversation, but it wasn’t—wasn’t this.</p><p>Hermione gave him a flat stare. “That is so not what this is about.”</p><p>There she was, parrying as usual.</p><p>He gathered his wits and pulled his gaze from the page.</p><p>“You wound me, Granger,” he said, in a solemn tone.</p><p>Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh.</p><p>“Truly. This is devastating,” he said, spinning to lean back against the counter beside her. He crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his arms. “Shan’t recover.” He paused. Hermione returned his look with a blank one. George tilted in and opened his mouth to make another quip, but she suddenly exhaled and rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Fine,” she said, hovering the quill over the parchment.</p><p>“<em>George is bloody cute</em>,” she scrawled.</p><p>George’s arms dropped.</p><p>Happiness unfurled in his ribs.</p><p>“There,” she said dryly, despite the pink tinge on her face. “Are you happy?”</p><p>
  <em>George is bloody cute. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>George is bloody cute.</em>
</p><p>Bloody cute.</p><p>Not just regular cute.</p><p>Bloody cute.</p><p>He blinked at the words, then gawked up at her. She was studying the seam of her jumper sleeve with a startling focus.</p><p>Did she mean that? Bloody-cute-bloody-cute-bloody-cute-bloody-cute-bloody-cute—the phrase circled over and over through his mind.</p><p>He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Now, what do you mean by ‘cute—’”</p><p>“George.”</p><p>“Quite happy, thanks,” George said, feeling as though it might be Christmas.</p><p>Hermione ducked her head.</p><p>He plucked the quill out of her hand. Hermione started to protest, but he put his finger to her lips and pinned her with a significant look. “Uh-uh, Granger,” he said. “It’s my turn.” Then, he leaned onto his arm, took a sizeable drink from his Butterbeer, and let the ink fly.</p><p>
  <em>“Hermione Jean is:<br/>
-Good at Reading”</em>
</p><p>She snorted, and he grinned and continued.</p><p>
  <em>“-Determined (to a fault, but we’ll allow it)<br/>
- Brilliant (obviously)<br/>
-A gifted hugger<br/>
-Courageous (In endeavors both large and small)<br/>
-The furthest thing from stick in the mud” </em>
</p><p>She made to swipe for the quill, but he held her off with his opposite forearm. “Hold on, Swot. I’m not finished yet.”</p><p>Then, he thought of those star shards and of the tenacious glow that followed her before he scrawled out:</p><p><em>“-Bright. Exceedingly so.</em><br/>
-Lovely (Sweet Merlin.)<br/>
-A rule breaker”</p><p>His handwriting here grew sloppy as she shoved at his arm a bit.</p><p>“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, but her tone was more amused than annoyed.</p><p>“Add it to my list,” he said, not looking up.</p><p>
  <em>“-Remarkab—” </em>
</p><p>The quill flew from his hand, a streak of gold ink skipping over the page before he could continue.</p><p>“Oi!” he said, spinning to her. She’d Accio-ed it right out of his grip.</p><p>“I notice you didn’t put anything about my baking on there,” she said crisply. Her eyes sparked.</p><p>George folded his arms. “It’s alright. Some of our strengths overlap,” he said, as though he were explaining how to twist together a whizbang step by step. “And that—” He lilted, swinging his pitch up. “—that is not one of them.” He finished the sentence slowly, playing at a pensive drawl, but the grin snuck out.</p><p>She tucked the quill behind her ear. “So, you’re saying you’ll bake for me instead?”</p><p>He snapped, and the quill zipped to his hand. “I could be persuaded,” he said.</p><p>#</p><p>The evening wore on, the butterbeer dwindled, and the items in that left-hand column devolved into silliness as the quill became a prize in an ongoing game of keep-away.</p><p>A game which, not twenty minutes later, had George racing around the island counter, writing instrument in hand as Hermione dashed after him.</p><p>“I cannot believe you!” she shrieked. “Honestly!”</p><p>Apparently, she’d taken issue with him sticking his Gringotts account details on the “<em>Pros”</em> side.</p><p>He may’ve added a few extra zeros. Six or seven, to be exact.</p><p>“It’s only a rough estimate!” he cried back, hoarse from laughter.</p><p>She hurtled into his side and grappled for the quill. “That’s not a relevant factor!”</p><p>“Don’t lie—don’t lie—” he taunted, holding it just out of reach with one hand while he applied the opposite forearm across her clavicles to keep her at bay. They were both red in the face, yelling and laughing over each other in the most pleasant fight he’d ever experienced.</p><p>Everything was warm and merry, and almost too wonderful to believe.</p><p>The summoning spell hit the quill, and Hermione shouted in triumph as it landed in her outstretched hand. Like a flash, she was already across the room, flying towards the parchment on the opposite side of the counter. George spun.</p><p>Her braid had long since tumbled free, and her curls spilled over her shoulders as she grinned at him from across the kitchenette’s island, then hovered it over the words he’d only just written.</p><p>“Give it here,” he said lowly.</p><p>“No,” she crowed. George leaned forward, taking the island counter’s corners in each hand.</p><p>“Granger,” he said.</p><p>They blinked at each other.</p><p>George feinted left, and Hermione tore around the right corner.</p><p>Too easy.</p><p>He smirked as he reached around her arm and snagged the quill back before darting away.</p><p>“George Fabian Weasley—” she snapped, and the chase resumed.</p><p>He grinned, wiggling it high overhead. “Did you need something, Hermione Jean Granger?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione launched, and both of her feet left the floor and she jumped onto his back.</p><p>“You git—” she screeched, trying and failing to grab at his quill-laden hand.</p><p>The floo roared.</p><p>Hermione dropped from George like a stone, and they both went silent.</p><p>“Oi, you around George?” Fred’s voice echoed through. Hermione and George blinked at each other.</p><p>Then, they exploded into movement. Granger scrambled to the counter and rolled the parchments up. George hastily straightened his shirt—askew from her grapple—and waited for their work to be cleared into a bottom cupboard before answering.</p><p>“Yeah,” he called, sounding a touch winded. Hermione winced and scooped her errant curls into a rather pitiful plait as more green illuminated the hearth.</p><p>Then, a certain specky, scrawny git tumbled through, followed by a lanky red-head. George blinked slowly. They’d torn right into his living room, which wasn’t unprecedented for Granger and Fred, but it was a bit new, coming from Harry.</p><p>And rather inopportune, given, well—everything.</p><p>Harry dusted the ash from his grey robe, and Fred’s expression lit as he noticed George and Granger. He whirled in a circle like a hatchling chasing its tail, and his grin widened when he realized there were no other occupants.</p><p>“Told you he’d be around,” Fred said, a bit triumphantly.</p><p>Harry huffed and sent the rest of the ash away with a nonverbal banishing spell, which exploded flecks of grey across the room. “Just got Gin’s owl,” he said, and his tone was not unlike Mrs. Weasley’s when she grew especially cross. “She’ll be leaving soon, and Luna’s father is still held up in Greenland. Apparently, the portkey office hasn’t sorted it yet. We’ve got to head to the school.”</p><p>George rubbed the base of his palm over his forehead. “Sorry?” he asked, rather stupidly.</p><p>“Luna,” Harry barked. “She’ll be alone in the hospital wing.”</p><p>George’s muscles turned to ice. In the flurry of it all, he’d forgotten.</p><p>How could he have forgotten?</p><p>Harry was a mass of blunt stress, raking his hands through his hair. “I know Mione’s already taken a shift today, but Luna’s not woken up since her accident, and I’d hate if—” He cut himself off and strode to George’s work desk, muttering. “McGonagall isn’t answering the floo, either.” He searched over the open shelving above it with a frown. “Gin thought she might be coming to, earlier today, but it was nothing. It’s been almost two days, and—” He reached for the top drawer and glanced back at George, a question in his eyes.</p><p>George lifted his brows and motioned for him to go ahead. Did he want some candy or something?</p><p>Harry pulled the drawer open, and the sweets containers inside clinked. He let out an exasperated sigh and shoved the drawer shut. “Pomfrey’s visiting hours can sod off. No one’s telling me anything except Gin, and—” Harry grumbled on as he yanked open the next drawer and huffed at the Potions equipment, then spun on his heel. “—I’m through with waiting, so grab your coat.” He whirled back to the drawer.</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione started, carefully.</p><p>“She’s not waking up in that ward alone!” Harry called, lifting a finger in the air behind himself, as he rifled through the glassware.</p><p>“What’s he looking for?” Fred muttered near George’s ear.</p><p>“Haven’t the faintest,” George mumbled back, sticking his hands in his pockets. Best to wait it out.</p><p>Then, Harry kneed the drawer shut. “Ginny’s been with her, but she’s got her meeting with the Harpies and the Wasps managers this evening, and she’s not bloody well skipping that after getting special approval, so I said I’d sort it, but McGonagall’s not answering the floo, and I’ll be—” His voice dropped to a quiet, gritty mutter. “—Crucio-ed if Luna wakes up alone.”</p><p>Harry turned to face the room.</p><p>“Luna will not wake up alone,” he said, and it sounded like he might be giving a command to a team of aurors, rather than the present company. “We’re going now.”</p><p>George hesitated.</p><p>A group of high-profile former students strolling into the castle would attract too much attention. The fewer people knew about the keystone excursions, the better.</p><p>Bill had managed to convey the need for discretion to Professor McGonagall without spilling too many details. Luna’s status as an unregistered Animagus was enough to merit caution.</p><p>If the papers caught wind and started digging, Luna could end up in a heap of trouble.</p><p>People had had their wands snapped for less.</p><p>“If we wait for Miner—” Hermione started, but Harry shook his head.</p><p>Hermione huffed and crossed her arms. “We’ve got to! No one’s supposed to know!”</p><p>Harry lifted his hands in exasperation. “It’s not like we’ve got to stroll through the front gate in front of a receiving line. We can sneak in.”</p><p>Oh. He should’ve known.</p><p>“The map,” George whispered and ducked towards Fred. “He’s looking for the map.”</p><p>“Doesn’t he have it?” Fred’s brow wrinkled, and an outraged expression flickered over him. “Bloody—” he hissed. “He didn’t lose it, did he?”</p><p>“No, I’ve borrowed it,” George murmured.</p><p>“Why?” Fred asked.</p><p>“I made a bet,” George said under his breath. “Tell you later.”</p><p>Hermione tilted her head to the side, the walked calmly to the floo. She tossed a handful of powder in and called “Professor McGonagall.”</p><p>The fire flickered green. There was no answer.</p><p>“Oh, brilliant, yeah. Cheers. I didn’t think to try that,” Harry said, voice dripping in bright sarcasm. Hermione turned over her shoulder and gave him a flat look.</p><p>“If you only give it a moment,” Hermione said crisply. “Minerva?” She propped her hands on her knees and leaned in further.</p><p>No answer.</p><p>Harry drummed his fingers on his leg.</p><p>“So, what’ve you two been up to?” Fred offered, circling through the kitchen. His brother’s keen eyes fixed on the Butterbeer bottles—there were four now, and the last two were mostly empty. The space they’d had the ridiculous parchments was thankfully clear, but the quill lay knocked, tottering close to the edge of the island.</p><p>“Homework.”</p><p>“Exploding Snap.”</p><p>The two of them spoke in unison. Fred frowned and nodded.</p><p>George swallowed. Exploding Snap? What was she thinking? There weren’t any cards out. George had done his fair share of sneaking, and he’d consider himself relatively—no—extraordinarily gifted at the pastime. But this was Fred. They couldn’t afford to make mistakes like a couple of amateurs.</p><p>“That is—” Hermione sputtered. “I was doing homework, and we were probably going to play a round, soon.”</p><p>Fred’s tongue poked into the side of his cheek as he nodded and circled slowly. He grazed a fingertip over the lid of the record player, then whistled as he looked out the window.</p><p>It occurred to George that there wasn’t a single book out—only the volumes stacked on the floor beside her book bag, and her lilac journal on the dinner table. But nothing open.</p><p>“Just clearing up, then?” Fred asked mildly.</p><p>The git knew.</p><p>George gritted his teeth. Either he knew, or he suspected.</p><p>Or he was only meddling as usual, and George was being paranoid.</p><p>Surely, after all this time, if Fred so much as wondered if something might have transpired, he’d be gloating so obnoxiously that there would be no question about it.</p><p>A tiny pinch formed in George’s chest.</p><p>He wanted to tell Fred, of course.</p><p>Was bursting to tell him, really. Even if they hadn’t formally settled on an agreement to give “it” a go quite yet.</p><p>But Hermione had good reasons—reasons that George understood and respected—for wanting to keep things to themselves, for now. She’d trusted George with that.</p><p>He wasn’t about to go and send that up in flames just because he wanted to shout and jump with Fred as they shoved each other around like a couple of ickle-firsties upon tossing their first successful dung bomb.</p><p>Because that was how Fred would react.</p><p>Eventually, if things went well, maybe they’d have that moment.</p><p>But for now, George shrugged and said, “Yeah.” And when Fred turned with a smirk, George shot him an annoyed look, just like he always did when Fred tried to meddle.</p><p>Then he turned quickly, before Fred had a chance to read anything more in it.</p><p>Meanwhile, Harry had recommenced the argument with Hermione, and the two were snipping back and forth near the floo.</p><p>“Look, I’m allowed back on the grounds this late without special permission,” Hermione said. “The rest of you aren’t. Just let me go.”</p><p>“But I told Gin I would,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “I doubt she even got your owl before leaving for her meeting.”</p><p>“Why are you fighting me on this?” Harry said, flailing a hand. “McGonagall won’t mind! We can take the Hog’s Head passage. What does it matter, really?”</p><p>“Luna would want us to follow the rules,” Hermione said. “Truly, I think it’s wisest that I go alone, and the rest of you wait for Minerva’s return.”</p><p>“How do you know that’s what Luna would want?” Harry said.</p><p>“Because we’ve talked about it,” Hermione snapped.</p><p>Harry quieted.</p><p>Then, he waited.</p><p>And waited.</p><p>But Hermione didn’t say anything more.</p><p>Harry pulled out a pocket watch—Uncle Fabian’s, actually, and made a show of checking the time.</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Right.” Harry’s jaw clenched. “What’re you not telling me?”</p><p>Hermione’s face contorted. “Do you see me asking for your classified auror files?” she said.</p><p>Harry rolled his eyes. “No, but if you truly wanted them, I’d consider it.”</p><p>Hermione balked. “Harry—” She started in on a completely different lecture.</p><p>Fred rounded to George’s side and extended an open bag of crisps.</p><p>“What? You’d have a good reason for asking me to break the rules!” Harry cried. “You’ve never gone around breaking perfectly good laws—only the rubbish ones!”</p><p>Fair point.</p><p>George stuck his hand into the bag and popped a handful into his mouth.</p><p>“If you want to be head auror someday, you’ve got to show more respect for—”</p><p>“We both bloody well know the system could crack in half, and I wouldn’t bat an eye,” Harry snipped. “Come off it.”</p><p>In a way, it seemed a bit like how he and Fred fought, when they really got into it. It didn’t happen often in earnest, but when it did—</p><p>“You would too! You wouldn’t want all those evil wizards running around without—”</p><p>“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” Harry cut in.</p><p>“Well, it’s what you said. Try to be more specific—”</p><p>“I’m talking about the pointless red tape!” Harry gestured at the air.</p><p>They were nearly shouting over each other, now. And then suddenly, shoulders heaving, Hermione turned to him. “Right, George?”</p><p>George choked on his crisp, and Fred pounded on his back. “Pardon?” George wheezed.</p><p>“He’s got to be more careful when talking about things like this,” she said, then nodded at Harry.</p><p>Bloody Hell.</p><p>How had they gotten here?</p><p>George clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I think we can manage to get in without being seen.”</p><p>Hermione’s expression shuttered. “Completely unnecessary,” she muttered.</p><p>“But a good bit of fun, I’d wager,” George said, striding for the workbench. He shot Harry a flat look, slid open hidden compartment beneath the top, and freed the Marauder’s Map.</p><p>As though he’d keep it out in the open, in a regular drawer where just anyone could find it.</p><p>#</p><p>February 1, 1999, 8:30 p.m.</p><p>They decided to take the passage from The Hog’s Head. The inn had been locked, but in a quick flurry of wand movements, Hermione summoned a key from a slot near the far, left window.</p><p>Aberforth had given her a key?</p><p>Fred’s brows raised almost imperceptibly, but Harry was too preoccupied with muttering to notice Hermione slotting the key into the door.</p><p>If Hermione saw the question in George’s eyes, she didn’t answer it.</p><p>The inside felt no different than when Aberforth was present. Still cold. Still dingey. But no cranky, bearded barkeep to lighten the atmosphere.</p><p>Granger locked the door behind them, and they proceeded to the portrait.</p><p>Their boots thudded softly on the hard-packed dirt. Despite the frigid temperature, the tunnel seemed to warm around them the closer they got to the castle. Fred had taken control of the map, despite Harry’s grab for it. But, to be fair, Harry had the invisibility cloak on, and Hermione had an excuse for being in the castle, even with the late hour. As an “eighth year,” she was permitted extended curfew on the grounds to study in the library. If anyone needed an extra moment’s notice to be able to dart into a corner, it was George and Fred.</p><p>The tunnel was dark. Harry led the way with a Lumos, his wild, black hair on the back of his head appearing to float and bob over the emptiness beneath him. Fred was shortly behind him, holding the map aloft in what appeared to be concentration, listing off the names of professors who they’d need to dodge and the locations of each, but the rapture in Fred’s eyes was clear.</p><p>He’d missed the ruddy thing. Or this.</p><p>The pursuit of mischief, in one of its more elementary forms.</p><p>George smiled at Fred’s back, then glanced at Hermione.</p><p>She was quiet. More than usual, chin tilted up and eyes trained on the passage. Try as he might, he couldn’t determine what was going through her mind.</p><p>The end of the tunnel was invisible in the long stretch of darkness beyond Harry’s wand light. George’s stomach tightened as he realized the significance.</p><p>The last time he’d walked through here, they’d been going to war. And Hermione—</p><p>Instinctively, his hand flexed at his side. The movement caused the tips of his fingers to brush over the back of hers, and the sudden contact nearly made him jump out of his skin.</p><p>The zip of sparks flared up his wrist.</p><p>And then—the tiniest, smallest brush back. So infinitesimal that he might’ve thought he imagined it. The trace of a single, cool fingertip along his knuckles.</p><p>He glanced ahead.</p><p>Fred and Harry faced forward, towards the passage in front of them.</p><p>He and Hermione, meanwhile, walked in the back, on the rim of Harry’s wand light. It was this secrecy that gave George the bravery to lift his shoulders in a deep breath and shift ever so slightly to the left.</p><p>The backs of their hands pushed together. Hermione leaned in—the whole of her arm against his, and a little thrill shot through George.</p><p>George tipped his head to glance at her. He couldn’t tell if she was blushing in the dim light, but he decided to imagine she was. Probably not as she’d been earlier—all pink and breathless with laughter and bashfulness. A quieter sort of flush, maybe.</p><p>He twisted his wrist around hers.</p><p>She brought their palms together.</p><p>Fingers interlaced.</p><p>Now George was the one going warm.</p><p>It was hard to describe, but the elation in his chest felt an awful lot like making a proper go of it now.</p><p>#</p><p>Harry pried the portrait open, and the sharp scent of smoke singed George’s nose. It wasn’t like the Whiz-Bang smoke, or even the smoke from a ripping good fire in the hearth. It was more acrid, and it felt heavier in his lungs.</p><p>Fiendfyre’s aftermath.</p><p>The Room of Requirement was a mess of grey, dark smog. Ash, everywhere, and George missed Hermione’s hand.</p><p>Wordlessly, they had broken apart as they neared the end of the passage before Fred or Harry might take notice.</p><p>But now, with the smoke all around him, George ducked through the portrait hole and made the mistake of looking <em>there.</em></p><p>Not where Ron and Hermione had clung to each other, shield and school and world—all of it—falling down, down around them.</p><p>No—to the windows just beyond where they’d stood.</p><p>And terror slammed through him—hard. He could almost see the striations of magic giving way to the Death Eaters’ army in the sky, beyond the glass.</p><p>And then he couldn’t see anything other than that.</p><p>His heartrate spiked, and he sucked in a breath.</p><p>Shields</p><p>Falling</p><p>Down.</p><p>Where was Hermione?</p><p>Deep in the back of the room, beyond the drifting ash and smoke and charred, malformed mountains of rubbish, something rumbled.</p><p>Hermione—</p><p>“George?” Fred’s voice was distant.</p><p>He whirled, but the smoke crowded his vision. Where was she?</p><p>George gulped in another breath, and this one burned—clenching hard around his lungs.</p><p>He hacked out a cough. Then gasped.</p><p>The air hurt. Burned.</p><p>Another, and the involuntary urge to clear his airway caused him to suck more of the rot in. When the coughs exploded from him this time, it was like an invisible boot shoved into his back, bending him at the waist as he hacked from deep in his chest.</p><p>Couldn’t—couldn’t breathe—</p><p>Something clapped over his mouth. He blinked.</p><p>Hermione. She’d stripped a mitten off and held it over him as she shielded her own mouth with the other.</p><p>“Don’t breathe it in,” she shouted. George tried to nod, but the attack wracking him made it a bit difficult. Instead, he grasped her wrist and locked his watering eyes with hers before jolting into another set of coughs.</p><p>He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard—the smoke or the fear.</p><p>With the repairs to the walls and the classrooms, it’d been easier to visit the castle before. To separate himself from what had happened inside these walls. But the destruction in the Room of Requirement had barely been touched. Complex and hidden away, it’d lingered out of sight for months and months. Some damage was not so easily repaired.</p><p>Some scars were not so easily healed.</p><p>The room, the smoke—it seemed to thin the veil of time into a translucent, flimsy gauze.</p><p>And he was falling through it.</p><p>The others pulled him from the room. They tripped into a torchlit corridor, where Harry caste a few silencing charms to prevent George’s lungs from racketing loud enough to draw the wrong sort of attention.</p><p>He could feel Fred’s grasp on his shoulder, the ancient stone wall under his hands, and Hermione’s wand at his throat. Hear Fred murmuring to Harry that they would meet him there, but George couldn’t hear Granger’s voice as she caste the Anapneum.</p><p>But that had to be what it was, because George ducked his head and gripped the rock, and the ash flurried up his throat and spewed from his mouth in hot, grey chunks that left the whole of his respiratory passage feeling raw and battered.</p><p>His coughs calmed after a few moments, but his rasps stuttered on.</p><p>Hermione’s voice was an anxious whisper at his side. “You’re not supposed to breathe Fiendfyre smoke,” she said. “What were you thinking?”</p><p>He didn’t have a joke.</p><p>Not when he’d dissolved into panic, feeling as though the battle had crept out of its place in history to claw into them once more.</p><p>Not when his mouth tasted like death, and each breath grated, but he couldn’t slow them down.</p><p>“You okay, Georgie?” Fred asked quietly.</p><p>George nodded once, not looking at either of them.</p><p>The thought came to him, foggy and clinical and seeming almost as though he’d happened upon it, rather than formed it himself:</p><p>His family often called him Georgie when he got into scrapes. It was a surefire way to tell exactly how bad he looked to the lot of them. If there’d been a nasty jinx or a bludger gone wrong, and “George” slipped into “Georgie,” then he was probably bleeding or missing an appendage or—or—having a panic attack in the middle of the Castle when they ought to be heading towards Luna.</p><p>The thought of the time pressure facing them did nothing to calm the staccato in his chest or the rushing in his ears.</p><p>Merlin, it was fine! They were safe! Why was he—</p><p>Shield, falling to bits.</p><p>Don’t—don’t look in the Great Hall.</p><p>He must not go there.</p><p>But he’d blasted it open earlier, and now he was in trouble.</p><p>He couldn’t shake it—that persistent, lingering feeling. Even though he knew there wasn’t any reason to fear, he was convinced: Something was wrong.</p><p>It was as though he’d been dragged back through time, when Fred had been unmoving and grey, and it had been a matter of winning or dying, and every person he loved hung in the balance.</p><p>Back to the night when souls unanchored from bodies in pitiful, fragile droves—each sputtering out into an unremarkable end despite being loved and wanted. And Death didn’t <em>care</em> about how much people loved you.</p><p>When Death set its claws on you, you went.</p><p>And George Fabian Weasley still owed Death.</p><p>That was the crux of the issue.</p><p>Death had chosen Fred, and trickster that he was, Fred had escaped. George didn’t know exactly how, something to do with Angelina and the time turner and the castle, but they’d outwitted Death.</p><p>And with the Great Hall doors in his heart opened wide and the taste of ash on his tongue, George looked inside what he always kept hidden away and read the fear underlying the heaviness of that space.</p><p>That Death was still hungry, surely.</p><p>And Fred’s waking—magic like that didn’t happen to a person more than once. It wasn’t likely to happen again.</p><p>George lifted his head and turned, leaning his back heavily against the stone wall. Fred and Granger watched him on either side, expressions alight with worry. Fred’s arms were folded and his jaw tight, and Hermione’s warm, brown eyes were searching over George’s face with a heartbreaking tenderness, and George admitted it, then.</p><p>Death wouldn’t be satisfied until it snatched one of them away from him.</p><p>#</p><p>They waited with him until he caught his breath, and then George nodded down the hall, ignoring their stares and questions. Instead, he tried to focus on finding purchase in the moment, rather than drifting over himself like some sort of stricken ghoul.</p><p>The group slipped towards the staircase to head for the hospital wing. The soft echo of his feet on stone was a bit grounding.</p><p>Like a familiar hug, really.</p><p>He knew the Castle, and the Castle knew him. Better than most.</p><p>Perhaps the Castle could even sense how irreparably he’d been broken in its defense. Fred had always said the Castle was alive. George tended to agree. Most old, old forms of magic were, in their own way. But, to assign a will or a conscience to it—that was stretching the boundaries of common folklore and entering into a realm of something more fanciful.</p><p>So, George put it out of his mind as they walked quietly and carefully down the staircases, then took a back hall to avoid Professor Vector.</p><p>Eleven.</p><p>“You sure you’re okay?” Fred mumbled under his breath, but not so quietly that Granger wouldn’t be able to hear. George bit his lips together.</p><p>“I didn’t know it would be so bad,” Hermione said. For the fifth time.</p><p>He’d talk to her about it. But he wasn’t ready yet. Didn’t even know the words to apply to the thoughts that had gone through his head. The more they walked, the sillier it seemed.</p><p>Hungry death?</p><p>Twelve.</p><p>But he knew that deep down, the fear was there.</p><p>Probably natural, considering everything. But still. George fumbled his hands in his trouser pockets. It felt weird to not be wearing robes in the castle. Then, he took a small breath in through his nose, tipping his head just slightly to the side in a small shrug to acknowledge Granger’s remark.</p><p>He’d stopped assuring her it was fine after the third time, because it didn’t seem that his reassurances were doing anything to help.</p><p>She knew him, it seemed, better than that.</p><p>George burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets, covering his wrists. Anything to keep from reaching for her hand again. Not with Fred there.</p><p>Thirteen.</p><p>There were sixteen nooks into which he could pull her between the staircases and the hospital wing, and he’d been counting each one as they passed.</p><p>Fourteen.</p><p>Heaven help him, he just needed to hug her.</p><p>Fifteen.</p><p>Fred strode before them down the second-floor corridor, gazing over the parchment. It was late enough now that the only people about were prefects and professors. Nothing terribly hard to avoid.</p><p>It was the random passersby that were most often difficult to manage, when laying a good prank.</p><p>Hermione’s boots were in stride with his, and he knew he ought to slow down a bit. He could feel her hurrying to keep up, but he knew if he took so much as a single second to spare her a glance, he’d fall to bits.</p><p>And not in a romantic way.</p><p>So, George muscled through. The sooner they reached the hospital wing, the sooner the temptation would vanish to yank her away and throw his arms around her.</p><p>Sixteen.</p><p>Fred pulled wide the double doors.</p><p>Then, a quiet voice whispered, “Give us just a moment, Fred?”</p><p>Fred, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch. He didn’t smile, didn’t bug his eyes out at George—he only tucked the map under his arm, shoved his wand in his back pocket, and said “of course,” like Hermione’s request wasn’t out of the ordinary in the slightest.</p><p>The ward doors clicked shut between them and the others, and George blinked at the carved wood. Hermione’s hand snagged his elbow, and it was Granger who pulled him into the sixteenth nook—found just behind the massive, ancient molding that surrounded the vaulted hospital doors.</p><p>Finally, he let himself look.</p><p>“You’re not okay,” Hermione said quietly. The shadows were long over her face, but her curls gleamed in the flickering torchlight.</p><p>George dragged his eyes over her, swallowed back the lump in his throat, and gave her a tired, lopsided smile as he shook his head.</p><p>Hermione closed her eyes. “Was it the smoke or the Room of Requirement itself?” she asked.</p><p>George shrugged. “Both? Maybe?”</p><p>She hesitated, hovering just out of reach.</p><p>Finally, she reached for his hand. “It looked like you went somewhere else,” she whispered. George lifted his brows.</p><p>“You know it’s impossible to apparate inside Hogwarts,” he said, just to wind her up.</p><p>Hermione turned his hand over, studying it, and George felt a little prickle of heat at the way her eyes seemed to catalogue everything from the roughness of his skin to the light smattering of freckles on his knuckles. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s in <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>.”</p><p>Of course. That’s why he’d said it. But Granger didn’t seem to register the joke.</p><p>She pulled his hand, and he found himself tugged further into the nook, against the tall, narrow window that overlooked the Forbidden Forest.</p><p>“One of my favorite chapters,” she murmured. “Is about Helga Hufflepuff and her alliance with the magical community near Hogwarts.” Granger placed George’s hand on the stone ledge beneath the window’s glass. It was at elbow level for him if he stooped. He did, leaning against his forearms on the ancient rock—some sort of Yorkstone. Some of the unbearable weight slipped free. He glanced to his left.</p><p>Hermione stood at his side, facing him rather than the window.</p><p>Now, it was the moonlight on her—cooler and less like fire. More like water, really.</p><p>Deep, deep water.</p><p>Suddenly, he found himself gripping the window ledge with two hands, staring fervently out into the night.</p><p>Hermione continued, examining her wand as she spoke softly. “The non-human community, that is.” She nudged his left wrist, right where the sleeve hem laid. “Did you know that there used to be a secret enclave of magical creatures that lived in the Forbidden Forest? Goblins and elves and centaurs and veela—really anyone was welcome, except for humans.” She lifted her brows a bit ruefully. “Even then, it seems we were a problem.”</p><p>George bit his lips together, and Hermione stepped closer.</p><p>Closer.</p><p>Slipped, right under his elbow and stood between his arms, facing the window.</p><p>George drew in a deep breath.</p><p>“They called it Gablehaven,” she said, quiet and solemn.</p><p>There was something familiar about the name—perhaps he’d read it, or Winky had maybe mentioned it in—</p><p>Hermione turned. The whole of her frame, frazzled curls and lumpy coat included, was bathed in a blue silhouette.</p><p>A tide of Chamomile replaced the scent of ash.</p><p>“Lumos,” she whispered, and her wand lit dimly against her leg, blending with the moonlight to expand the small sphere of visibility beyond the harsh, narrow lines of the window’s edge.</p><p>Softening the shadows.</p><p>“I thought you might like a hug,” she said. George couldn’t speak.</p><p>She settled her hands on the inside of his elbows, one on either side of her and tilted her head. The line of vine wood was tucked warm and singing against his left sleeve, under her palm.</p><p>Like a pin from a grenade.</p><p>George capsized.</p><p>Crushed her in his arms.</p><p>Sank his face into the crook of her neck.</p><p>Hermione.</p><p>He didn’t realize he’d gasped her name out loud until he heard the sound ricochet off the arched ceiling. And he could hear the desperate plea inside of it.</p><p>Don’t leave.</p><p>She must’ve heard it, because she looped her arms around his neck and didn’t let go.</p><p>She stood over him, wand aloft and aglow.</p><p>Like he was hers.</p><p>The Castle seemed to hum under his feet.</p><p>If George had been able to hear the secret language of ancient stone, he might’ve noticed it as the whisper of the sand-soaked foundations, settling in a distant echo of a time gone by—<em>the world will be a better place for it.</em></p><p>#</p><p>February 1, 1999 9:15 p.m.</p><p>When they finally made their way into the ward, it at first appeared abandoned. Aberforth wouldn’t be in the beds. According to Bill, as a non-student, Aberforth had been taken to Mungo’s and was not currently accepting visitors.</p><p>But shouldn’t Luna have been here?</p><p>Then, Hermione dragged George to the back wall and behind a partition.</p><p>The notice-me-not charm fizzled on his skin, and the seemingly empty ward was no longer abandoned.</p><p>It was actually somewhat crowded.</p><p>Fred chatted with McGonagall as Harry sat in a chair at Luna’s bedside. On the other side of the bed sat a tall, lanky man with scraggly white hair with a copy of <em>The Quibbler</em>. Unfortunately, Luna appeared to still be deep in sleep.</p><p>When had Xenophilius arrived?</p><p>Hermione sighed. “Of course she’s here now,” she whispered, nodding towards Minerva. Harry spared Hermione a sheepish look before returning his gaze to his hand of cards.</p><p>Most surprising, however, was the presence of a certain elf perched atop the foot of the bed, thoroughly divesting Harry of his Sickles.</p><p>“Oh good,” Fred said calmly. “Thought you’d lost your way.” The map peeked out of Fred’s chest pocket, parchment blank.</p><p>George raised his brows. Minerva was right there.</p><p>A bit audacious, even for Fred.</p><p>George cleared his throat and dusted his hands along his coat front. “You know how those staircases can be,” he said.</p><p>Professor McGonagall’s look flattened. “In the future, feel free to alert me when you’d like to pay a visit.” Her voice took on a familiar, shrewd ring. “And I do not believe either of you have been lost on the premises since 1989.” She wore a travelling cloak—not her usual headmistress robes.</p><p>Must’ve been out when Harry floo-ed.</p><p>“Sorry, Professor,” George said. “Thought it wise to be discreet.”</p><p>Minerva sighed. “I meant for you to use the floo in the ward, Mr. Weasley,” she said. “Due to the delicate nature of Miss Lovegood’s injuries, I advised discretion. That hardly calls for sneaking into the Castle and breaching the wards—which alerted me the very moment the three of you crossed the threshold.” She looked shrewdly from Fred to George to Harry.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>“Unfortunately, I was busy arranging transport for Mr. Lovegood, and you were left to roam the Castle like restless, rampaging—.”   </p><p>George stuck his hand to his chest, but Fred said the words first. “Aw, you flatter us, Minnie.”</p><p>George’s brows raised higher. That was a bit gutsy.</p><p>Professor McGonagall did not appreciate this remark, but Fred’s gall gave George and Granger the distraction necessary to slip into place across from Harry.</p><p>The blanket was drawn up to Luna’s chin, but he could see the bulky outline of bandaging on her torso, and potion vials—empty and full, littered the little side table near her head.</p><p>They were more than a bit lucky that Luna was still with them at all.</p><p>She’d been massive, agile, but a dragon was a dragon, and the way she’d fallen wasn’t a sight George would soon forget.</p><p>The yelp. The way she’d been tossed like she was nearly weightless.</p><p>Xenophilius made no comment to greet them, and continued combing Luna’s hair with the long, ring-cluttered fingers of his left hand as he spoke to no one in particular. “Dirigible Plums look well this year,” he muttered, eyes coasting over the page. “Better than last year.”</p><p>“Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione said, but her voice went a touch hesitant.</p><p>“Hello.” Luna’s father didn’t lift his head to acknowledge her, but that wasn’t particularly abnormal. Bloke had always been a bit odd, especially after his wife passed.</p><p>“How are you, sir?” George asked.</p><p>Xenophilius snorted. “Not now, Mr. Prewett, I am reading.”</p><p>George balked. He’d grown up around the corner from the Lovegoods. He was certain the man knew him—perhaps not as George, but at least as one of the “Fred-and-George” set.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes rounded.</p><p>Harry, meanwhile, muttered under his breath as he shoved another stack of Sickles at Winky.</p><p>“That is not a Prewett,” Winky said in a snippy tone. “It’s a Wheezy.”</p><p>Xenophilius looked at Winky over the edge of his paper. “My apologies, Winky.” He flicked his gaze to George. “Wheezy.” He said, a bit more amiably. “Are you here to visit my Luna? She was hurt, you know. Nobody seems to know exactly how—some sort of run in with a dragon, according to Madam Pomfrey, but she hasn’t the slightest where Luna might’ve found it.”</p><p>Harry’s head snapped up, and he stared at Hermione.</p><p>George nodded, mouth dry as he ignored the second, implied part of Xenophilius’s question.  </p><p>“You must be glad that she’s on the mend,” Hermione gracefully supplied, switching the conversations tracks.</p><p>Xenophilius shrugged. “Of course, but I knew she would recover,” he said. “Pandora always suspected it would be the moon that takes her.”</p><p>“Pardon?” George croaked. Luna had said something similar.</p><p>“Did you tell Luna this?” Hermione asked tightly.</p><p>Xenophilius nodded. “We always spoke openly about it,” he said. “Pandora decided that it was far better to name frightening things and confront rather, than to live in the dark.”</p><p>Granger stiffened at George’s side.</p><p>“So, she told Luna, when she was only a child, that it would kill her?” Hermione sounded horrified. She looked it, too. Her mouth hung open, brows drawn together.</p><p>Xenophilius blinked. “Knowledge is power,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s mouth thinned, and George could see her shoulders go taunt. If ever a person lived by that philosophy, it was Granger, and it must be difficult to hear it spouted back to her and used to justify—well—</p><p>“That’s not knowledge—that’s speculation! What if she was wrong?” Hermione exploded into a hissed whisper. “You could’ve made Luna afraid of something that might never happen! You could’ve scarred her for—”</p><p>“On the contrary, we only made her more fearless,” Xenophilius said smoothly. His voice took on a lofty, proud lilt.</p><p>George rubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced at Fred, who appeared bemused and more than a little disturbed.</p><p>“My daughter,” Mr. Lovegood said. “Has never been afraid of bullies, or of the dark. She didn’t shrink back from Doxie infestations, stray Manticores, or Quintaped hatchlings. She didn’t shirk from her first broomride or her first battle. She wasn’t even afraid of You-Know-Who. Even if my late-wife’s suspicions were incorrect, my Luna is a stronger person for it.”</p><p>“Risky wager, Sir,” Harry’s voice was stone.</p><p>Xenophilius didn’t seem to notice the atmosphere. Then again, he never had before. “I expect, whatever happened, she wasn’t afraid of this, either.” He flipped the page. “Seeing as she didn’t choose a dragon-related title, she was never really in any danger.”</p><p>Hermione’s face contorted. “So, is it the naming or Pandora’s suspicion that you believe predicts it?”</p><p>“Does it matter?” Xenophilius asked mildly. He glanced at Luna, then looked away, and his jaw seemed to tighten. Mr. Lovegood flipped the page again, and this time, the parchment tore a bit. “Anyways, I am told it was a dragon. No one seems to know for certain.”</p><p>George ducked his head. Xenophilius put up a rather convincing serene front, but he could see through it. Behind the calm, almost ethereal voice, there was a shrewdness and exactitude. The bloke was angling for more information.</p><p>And he wasn’t the only one.</p><p>Harry glanced between Xenophilius, Luna, and Minerva—who had paused in her lecture to Fred to watch the bedside.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and glanced at George.</p><p>They’d all agreed—no one outside those involved should know the precise details of how they were working to free the elves. Wizengamot considered the elves somewhere between property and wards of a magical estate, all while claiming they were there of their own free will. At the very least, they could be charged with invasion of property. At the most—kidnapping.</p><p>If things went poorly, family and friends could claim plausible deniability in front of the Wizengamot, and they’d like it to stay that way.</p><p>And of course the elves wouldn’t be allowed to testify. Nonhumans weren’t permitted to represent themselves in court.</p><p>Even if they did manage to free every last elf in the Isles, they had a lot of work in front of them.</p><p>“It was a dragon,” Winky said finally. “Winky knows.” Xenophilius’s gaze snapped to hers, but Winky said nothing more.</p><p>“So long as it was a magical creature and not, you know…” Harry trailed off for a moment before continuing hurriedly. “Not that I’d want anything to happen to Luna when she’s working with magical creatures, but if she were being targeted by former Death Eaters, like Hermione was—”</p><p>“No—no—” Hermione cut in, stammering. “Winky’s right. I’m quite sure Luna was working with a magical creature at the time. She, um, mentioned planning on it.” Granger’s face was flushed, and Harry’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George turned to her. Her hands twisted back and forth, and she studied the edge of Luna’s bed.</p><p>Granger had downed Polyjuice more than once during the war. She’d held out during interrogations and torture. She’d kept the knowledge of the Horcruxes secret. She’d pretended everything was fine as she pointed a wand at her parents’ heads and erased herself from their lives.</p><p>And she fell to bits when she had to lie to Harry.</p><p>George slung his arm around her shoulder. “You know how much Luna loves magical creatures. I’m sure next time she confronts a dragon, she’ll be more careful.”</p><p>“Next time,” Professor McGonagall said tightly. “She would do well to remember that she is not yet registered as an Animagus, and that it is thus highly inadvisable to be injured in that state. She if very lucky to have been aided by someone willing to practice discretion.”</p><p>Xenophilius blinked. “My Luna’s an Animagus?”</p><p>Fred, meanwhile, glanced at George, the usual question in his eyes.</p><p>“No,” George mouthed flatly.</p><p>They’d talked about it before—more than once. Every time, they came to the same conclusion.</p><p>Fred would never be able to shut up long enough to keep the Mandrake leaf in place, and George didn’t fancy doing so himself only to have the storm surge turn him into something pointless like a goldfish—if they lived through it, that is.</p><p>They were daring. Not stupid.</p><p>They’d rather make products that could do the same thing in a safer, albeit more limited way.</p><p>McGonagall, meanwhile, had paled and seemed taken aback. “I assumed all of you knew,” she said.</p><p>“I think most of us did,” Hermione supplied in an easing tone.</p><p>McGonagall looked mortified for a moment before clearing her throat. It was an odd expression on the usually stern, unshakeable witch. “I trust we will all keep this knowledge to ourselves,” she said. A round of nods followed.</p><p>George peered around. He and Hermione knew, obviously. And Winky knew. Fred appeared unsurprised as well.</p><p>Harry seemed to find the whole thing entertaining, and for the first time, a slight smile broke through the mask of stress on his features. That is, until his gaze returned to Luna’s still face. The mirth sputtered and died, and he glanced at Xenophilius.</p><p>“Well, she was definitely scared sometimes,” Harry said. He tossed his cards, and they splayed over Luna’s blanketed ankle. “I know for a fact. Especially during last year. I’ve heard stories.”</p><p>McGonagall’s lips pinched together.</p><p>“Being frightened on behalf of others and frightened for one’s own life are two different things,” Xenophilius said, and his smile was a bit patronizing.</p><p>George folded his arms. “You make it out like being afraid for others is easier,” he said. “Both are awful.”</p><p>“Oh, I agree,” Xenophilius said. “It is a great deal easier, in some ways, to stick to your principles when yours is the life at stake.”</p><p>Harry’s expression shuttered.</p><p>Xenophilius gave a tight smile, and a shadow flashed over his face. “For example, I think it’s quite obvious that the love of what’s different will be my demise,” he said, gesturing over himself. “Even if Pandora hadn’t said anything, I’d still think it.”</p><p>He folded the paper, forming a crisp crease down the middle. “Of course, I always imagined it would happen during the war. More than a few close calls for both of us.” A deep breath. “Especially when Fenrir was sent to take her off the train.”</p><p>Hermione went slack. “Oh,” she said. “And you were—”</p><p>“I was quite worried, yes,” Xenophilius said with a little smile. “Worried enough to conduct myself inexcusably, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Harry didn’t acknowledge the comment. Hermione swallowed.</p><p>Something had happened. Something George hadn’t been there for.</p><p>Xenophilius unfolded the paper again and opened it to the middle. “She will never forgive me, of course,” he said. The paper trembled a little in his hands. “She says she does, but I know.” He paused. “Don’t tell her I said this.”</p><p>Harry cleared his throat. “We blew up your house. Let’s call it even.”</p><p>Good Godric.</p><p>George twisted to Hermione. He’d heard the basic overview of the Horcrux hunt. They all had in the weeks following the war. But clearly, some things had been glossed over or—or left out entirely.</p><p>A stillness filtered through the room.</p><p>After a few minutes, McGonagall quietly told Mr. Lovegood that he should send for her if he needed anything.</p><p>Fred slipped a familiar package from his pocket, gave it a shake, and the candies inside rattled. He tossed it to George. George rested the Giggle Grams on the side table, beside the other potions.</p><p>“Promised Angelina I’d be back before late,” Fred said, a bit apologetically. On Fred’s way out, he slipped George the map with a slight question in his eyes. George merely nodded and stuck it in his coat without comment. He could explain why he’d borrowed it from Harry another time.</p><p>Harry, meanwhile, blinked at the package of Giggle Grams, then reached into his robe pocket and retrieved a fold-out parchment with photos of food all over it.</p><p>“A take-out menu?” Hermione asked, quirking her brows.</p><p>“Crumbs from my day,” Harry said. He paused as he set it down. “That is what we’re doing, right?”</p><p>George couldn’t stop the grin from breaking over his face. “Seems appropriate,” he said, tilting his head.</p><p>“Crumbs. Alright, then.” Hermione breathed out a laugh and began to dig through her pockets. George watched, amused, as she grew frustrated. She was resourceful. She’d sort it.</p><p>Finally, she yanked the tie from her hair.</p><p>The raggedy, barely formed plait came apart, and Hermione’s tangled, snow-messed-then-dried curls tumbled free.</p><p>It was a total mess, and George’s stomach did a happy, little flip.</p><p>Harry snorted, and Hermione shot him a glare. “Like yours is any better,” she said, gesturing at Harry’s head.</p><p>Oh no. Granger’s was clearly superior.</p><p>Hermione’s untamed hair was lovely, after all. George allowed himself a single moment to admire the way it seemed to gleam with life and magic. And when she was cross or determined, it sort of took on a personality of its own, and that was—</p><p>He tore his eyes away.</p><p>Granger murmured a few charms over the tie, changing it to a shimmering, light blue color, and placed it beside Harry’s parchment.</p><p>The rest of them looked at him.</p><p>Right.</p><p>George thrust his hands into his coat pockets. Empty, apart from the map, and that wasn’t his to give anymore. That aside, if he handed it over to a Head Girl, the makers would roll in their graves. He checked his trouser pockets next. Nothing. That was rubbish. The one time he left the flat without bits and pieces on him? He always had things. And not so much as a wilted Whiz-Bang, today.</p><p>But he hadn’t grabbed anything. He’d been…distracted. Yes. That was the word for it.</p><p>His ears heated, and he tried not to acknowledge Harry’s increasingly curious stare as George failed to procure anything from his robes.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>He had nothing but the clothes on his back, and he couldn’t very well leave his wand. Time to get creative. He winced then directed a severing charm to the threads on his top button on his flannel. He set a hover charm on it, and it floated in place over the table.</p><p>Like a star.</p><p>A veiled hint of how his day had gone.</p><p>There was a rustle at the end of the bed. Winky stood and examined her cloak and robes. She took on a pained expression, then reached into her cloak and withdrew a Honeydukes bar. It was half-eaten. She popped across the space and dropped it beside the Giggle Grams with a long, grumpy sigh. “Winky does not give clothes back to humans,” she said, more than a bit regretfully.</p><p>George smiled.</p><p>A small, choking sound echoed from his left. He turned. Xenophilius blinked several times, quickly. His throat bobbed. Then, he snatched his paper from under his arm and tore it open.</p><p>They all pretended not to hear Luna’s father crying.</p><p>Wordlessly, Hermione dragged additional seats to the bedside, and then they settled down to wait. Well, almost all of them. Granger chewed her bottom lip, assessing the chair beside George.</p><p>“I’ll be back,” Hermione whispered before she ducked from the room, following in the direction McGonagall had gone.</p><p>George tried not to look at the empty seat.</p><p>Should he get up? Give her a chance to sit elsewhere, if needed? He scrubbed his hands through his hair. They sat beside each other often before everything, but maybe she wanted to practice extra caution now?</p><p>He fidgeted, shifting, then folded, unfolded, and refolded his arms.</p><p>Luna hadn’t moved once since they’d arrived, save for the steady rise and fall of her shoulders and chest.</p><p>He’d never seen Luna sleep, and it seemed unnatural.</p><p>The younger girl had always seemed to skirt the space between waking and dream. Even when they’d bumped into the Lovegoods in passing as children, Luna had moved as though she were sleep-walking—gliding around in smooth, intentional paths that seemed to lead nowhere. Smiling like it was a private joke. Fred and George had always bound. Ginny stomped. Luna floated.</p><p>She wasn’t floating now.</p><p>If he’d sorted the dragon, she wouldn’t be lying there.</p><p>Luna had handily saved not only him, but Granger as well, and she was laid up from it.</p><p>George ground his palms into his eyes.</p><p>He should’ve moved faster. Thought of something.</p><p>After nearly fifteen minutes of this sort of frustrating speculation, Hermione sprang back through the ward doors. A bit of soot streaked her cheek, and her bulky book bag hung on her shoulder. A small tea tray levitated through the room, guided by her wand. She rested it on the small bench in front of the foot of the bed, then distributed cups without comment. It seemed McGonagall had only plain English Breakfast, but George wasn’t one to complain over good tea.</p><p>What proceeded was almost domestic, save for the reason drawing them together and the unspoken agreement that no one would talk.</p><p>Hermione settled into the empty chair without hesitation, withdrew her lilac journal and a textbook, then handed over several rolls of blue parchment that should’ve been a bit too large to fit within the bag’s canvas confines.</p><p>George’s brows knit together as he took a cursory glance. She’d nicked the wrong ones—these were for older models of the Spark Bracelets and the pyrotechnics in the Rocket Boxes. But he’d left them propped in the corner, near his workbench, and she’d seen them. Thought to grab it for him, even.</p><p>Not looking at her just then was nearly impossible.</p><p>If he did, it’d be written all over his face, and the others would be able to tell.</p><p>George unfurled the stack and decided to hunt for places where they might make improvements.</p><p>And he didn’t look at Granger.</p><p>#</p><p>After the first hour, Ginny burst through the ward doors. She took one look at the side table, then freed a leather string from her armguard and added it to the pile without comment before she  kicked Harry out of his chair. Harry was a dutifully good sport and retrieved another one.</p><p>And George didn’t look at Granger when Harry threw his arm around Ginny’s shoulders and settled back in at her side.</p><p>It’d taken longer than expected to sort through everything, and he had spotted a few areas to make their product lines more efficient. A Knut there, a Galleon there. It added up. There was quite a bit of blank space, too, and he might as well use it.</p><p>He caste a nonverbal Duro on a small section of the blueprint stack—the most crowded amongst the parchments—to harden them to stone.</p><p>Rather flimsy and he couldn’t use much pressure, but it would work as a writing surface. He propped the stack of papers on his lap. Before he had time to nick it, a sugar quill found its way into his hand.</p><p>He looked without meaning to.</p><p>Granger was already bent over her textbook again, her own quill flashing over her journal.</p><p>His chest warmed. She was—</p><p>George’s ears prickled. This was not the proper place to be waxing poetic over Granger’s many qualities. No matter how wonderful they were.</p><p>He bobbed his chin the slightest bit in way of thanks and hunched, fully intending to work on sketching out some alternative diagrams in the blueprints’ remaining free space.</p><p>
  <em>“My George.” </em>
</p><p>Dear Merlin, had she meant it? That Whiz-Bang, fluttering feeling crowded his chest, and George swallowed. He’d written it without meaning to, on the corner of a parchment dedicated to the quill he’d designed for her Christmas present.</p><p>Focus. He had to focus.</p><p>She’d said it was complicated.</p><p>They’d put a lot of items on that list, but they hadn’t officially—</p><p>He took in a breath and shifted forward.</p><p>Complicated. No matter what happened, it would be difficult.</p><p>That was one way to put it.</p><p>If Ron found out—</p><p>The butterflies morphed into a heavy stone.</p><p>Salazar. If they did make a go of it, they’d have to tell him eventually. That conversation would be a proper nightmare.</p><p>Even with people more inclined to be supportive, he’d likely have trouble explaining.</p><p>He’d always said that he wouldn’t. Every time Fred or Gin or his Dad had pried, he’d insisted it was destined for nothing. That he wouldn’t even consider it. That it wasn’t an option.</p><p>But that was before he’d known that she fancied him—even if just a little.</p><p><em>“George is—”</em> The parchment in the flat’s bottom, left-hand cupboard came to mind.</p><p>Or maybe a bit more than a little. He fought the urge to glance at her.</p><p>How deep did Hermione’s feelings go?</p><p>There was a rather sizeable “<em>Pro</em>” that he’d neglected to add to their blueprint.</p><p> He’d done a bit of digging. There was extraordinarily little written about this particular form of old magic. A sure sign of taboo—not that Granger would care for stuffy Wizarding propriety. But, he couldn’t will it into being or hurry it along by confessing it, and mentioning that he’d be miserable with anyone else was the antithesis of taking things slow.</p><p>Furthermore, he’d gotten the impression from his father that he was meant to wait until she showed signs of the same. That’s what Mr. Weasley had done, after all.</p><p>His Dad’s story was a bit vague, though.</p><p>Perhaps he should ask Arthur more about what happened with his Mum. Get a better idea of how he was supposed to go about things. Doing so without tipping him off would be nearly impossible, but with a few well-placed questions, he might be able to sort it.</p><p>At some point, he’d started to retrace and retrace the words “<em>My George</em>,” and the ink was dangerously close to soaking through the paper.</p><p>She’d said she loved before, but it had always been in a friendship context.</p><p>George frowned. Even if she did love him, that didn’t mean she’d feel the same connection. He’d loved her for a while before he noticed it, hadn’t he?</p><p>He could always ask—see if she ever felt anything odd when they touched? But what type of question was that?</p><p>He could see it now: “By the by, Hermione, do you get all sparkly when we brush hands?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then dragged his hand over his face. He’d sound like a nutter.</p><p>No, he’d have to find a better way to word it.</p><p>George swallowed again.</p><p>And he didn’t look at Granger.</p><p>When Winky quietly paced away and apparated, the resultant crack nearly made him jump from his seat.</p><p>#</p><p>After the second hour, George finished with trying to be sensible with the blueprints. He rolled them back up, and Hermione plunked an introductory Runes textbook into his hands, along with a muggle pencil.</p><p>A scrap of parchment accompanied it.</p><p>
  <em>“Would you mind terribly taking a look for more teaching ideas?”</em>
</p><p>George discreetly folded the parchment, then leaned forward to slip it into his back trouser pocket.</p><p>Don’t look at Granger. Don’t look at Granger.</p><p>Instead, he looked at Ginny.</p><p>A mistake.</p><p>Ginny smirked from her position under Harry’s arm.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Ginny returned to the game and glanced over, clearly peeking at Harry’s hand of cards.</p><p>George returned her cheek with a flat look, then crossed his ankle over his knee, leaned back, and flipped open the textbook cover.</p><p>A warm, pleasant buzz shot through his arm. He blinked. Granger had shifted, and her arm brushed his before drawing away. George cleared his throat and adjusted his seat. In the movement, his chair squeaked a bit and pushed against hers.</p><p>George pretended not to notice.</p><p>He stretched, then settled back into his previous position, all of four, precious inches closer to Granger. Her arm was a hairsbreadth away.</p><p>He didn’t look at Hermione.</p><p>#</p><p>In the third hour, George clutched base of his chair in his right hand, holding the book open against the side of his propped shin with his right. The sound of Xenophilius’s snores echoed through the room.</p><p>As always, he tried not to look at Granger.</p><p>Really, he was quite practiced at it.</p><p>He could feel her, though—she hadn’t moved, bent over her notes.</p><p>Just then, Granger leaned back, adjusting her reading position to lean slightly against his shoulder.</p><p>The glow flooded up his shoulder and neck, then filtered into his ribs.</p><p>She smelled like Chamomile, even here.</p><p>George had to reread the page on hover runes five times before he comprehended the content enough to add a few responses in pencil to her marginalia—she’d stuck ideas for lesson plans there.</p><p><em>“Use the runes to float a desk?” </em>she’d written.</p><p>Underneath, George scrawled in “<em>Or a student</em>.”</p><p>#</p><p>Sometime between the third and fourth hour, Hermione dropped off to sleep and fell more fully against the side of his chest. George adjusted his hold on the book, slipped the pencil between his teeth, and nudged her a bit higher, so she wouldn’t get a crick in her neck.</p><p>Rather than struggling to return his arm to its former place between them, he opted to drop it over the back of her chair.</p><p><em>“Can’t think of anything for this subject yet,”</em> she’d written beside a section detailing the differences between grooved lines and flat lines. It was a matter of runic syntax, really, but an important one. Bloody hard to pick up on in a two-dimensional diagram, though. It really was a spatial concept.</p><p>
  <em>“Why not have them carve the same rune with and without using the grooved line?” </em>
</p><p>Technically, actual carving wasn’t usually done in third year. But why not? They could see the difference it made with their own two eyes. He popped the pencil back behind his ear, flipped the page, and returned his arm to its resting place.</p><p>Hermione hummed and snuggled closer.</p><p>George froze as his face shot through with heat.</p><p>Traitor that it was, his heart started going like mad.</p><p>He couldn’t help it.</p><p>He looked.</p><p>She really was lovely. All golden curls and stitches, right there in his arms.</p><p>And she’d called him hers.</p><p>Hers.</p><p>Elation swept through him—warm and bubbly and bright.</p><p>But they were in the middle of the hospital ward.</p><p>He blinked and schooled his expression.</p><p>And then he looked again—around him this time, bracing to explain it away.</p><p>But it appeared he didn’t need to.</p><p>Xenophilius was still snoring. Ginny had long since fallen asleep, slumped over the side of Luna’s bed, and Harry’s left hand rested neatly between her shoulder blades. But the Chosen One’s head was tipped precariously back, mouth open and facing the ornate, arched ceiling as he slept.</p><p>George released the breath he’d been holding and smirked at Harry’s drool.</p><p>As he returned his gaze to the book, a flash of silver-blue caught his attention. George glanced at the bed.</p><p>It was unmistakable.</p><p>In a gaze fogged over by potions or exhaustion, Luna Lovegood was watching the lot of them.</p><p>Smiling.</p><p>#</p><p>February 2, 1999, 1:45 a.m.</p><p>The resultant chaos had them reeling out of their chairs, crying Luna’s name far more loudly than appropriate for the hour, then whispering it with apologies when the girl’s face contorted at the noise.</p><p>She was clearly a bit disoriented from the potions, but she brightened visibly as each person stepped forward and offered a small greeting, teasing, or thorough scolding for not practicing more caution—in Ginny’s case.</p><p>“Dragon, eh?” George said, trying his hardest to keep his unbothered tone. Luna nodded slowly. “Charlie says their claws are right nasty.” He cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels. “I suspect I’d be toast, if I’d been the one in front of it.”</p><p>Luna’s smile faltered. “I don’t—” she started.</p><p>George lifted his brows.</p><p>“Probably,” Luna said calmly. George smiled. But then Luna added a second bit, more softly: “But it was a Welsh Green, and I was a dog, so it wasn’t terribly smart of me.”</p><p>She’d known.</p><p>Merlin, she’d known, and she’d still—</p><p>George pasted a neutral expression onto his face and stepped back to allow Hermione room to greet the other girl.</p><p>They finished up the conversation, and then in no uncertain terms, Luna assumed a foggy but still suitably authoritative Head Girl voice and told them all to go home already.</p><p>#</p><p>February 2, 1999, 3:00 p.m.</p><p>“Marcus!” George practically exploded through the floo, shouting.</p><p>Healer Marcus just about leapt a foot in the air, then spun from his place before the shelf of plants. Tea sloshed over the side of his mug, and he muttered a quick cleaning charm before glancing back up at George with a bemused expression. “George?” He shook a few droplets free from his hand.</p><p>“Something’s happened,” George gasped, beaming as he dusted floo rubbish from his trousers.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>George was practically vibrating.</p><p>Marcus tilted his head. “I take it this is…good?” he asked.</p><p>George nodded rapidly. “Can I show you?” he asked. “It’s at my flat—only take a minute.” He hadn’t planned the request, but he’d been waiting and waiting and waiting all day to be able to tell someone, and he was about to burst.</p><p>Marcus shrugged, tucked his mug onto the shelf, and gestured at the floo.</p><p>George bounded back to the floo, tossed the powder, and issued the address without stopping to catch his breath.</p><p>Marcus was laughing by the time they tripped into the flat. “What’s this about, Mate?”</p><p>George could’ve told him at the office, but it was really so much better with visuals.</p><p>George vaulted over the sofa. “Okay, okay—” He stretched his arms out, signaling for Marcus to wait. Marcus peered around the little flat with a slight smile. George tripped over to the table and spun. Where to start.</p><p>“A new invention?” Marcus guessed, easing around the coffee table.</p><p>George tipped his head back and barked out a laugh. “Oh, oh, better than that,” he said. Marcus’s stride quickened.</p><p>George smacked his flat cap on the counter and beamed up at Marcus. “I told her!”</p><p>Marcus blinked, freezing mid-stride beside the armchair. “You-you mean—”</p><p>George nodded. “I told her,” he repeated, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. “And that’s not the best part.”</p><p>Marcus’s expression lit, and the small smile turned into a bright, warm grin. “You told her.”</p><p>“I told her,” George said, rounding to the countertop, where the quill from the prior evening still laid.</p><p>Marcus proceeded towards the kitchenette, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “And what’s the best part, George?”</p><p>Despite the bottle rocket feeling in his ribs, a sudden lump formed in his throat, and the words came out a bit choked. “She fancies me too.”</p><p>Marcus played at shock, and the question was teasing and gentle. “Does she now?”</p><p>George ducked his head and peered down at the quill. “Yes.”</p><p>“I’m so happy for you, George,” Marcus said. A pause. “Would you like to tell me about how it happened?”</p><p>George darted from the counter. He yanked Marcus into the closed shop, where the man grinned at all the nonsensical décor before listening to George’s summarization of the conversation, smiling wider and wider as George described how he’d walked over.</p><p>“—so then I asked her, y’know, ‘this alright?’” George said, gesturing at the spot next to the window.</p><p>“Oh, good move,” Marcus chimed in.</p><p>“Thanks,” George replied, a bit distracted as he pivoted to show where Hermione had stood. “And then she was like ‘Yes,’ but—but it was more like, earnest than that, you know?”</p><p>Marcus leaned on the counter and supplied a scholarly nod. “I think I catch your meaning.”</p><p>George spun. “So then, I said something like ‘Oh good,’ and then we, well—” He proceeded to rush through the rest of the explanation, waving a hand animatedly at the spot it had happened, just to his right. “I know the conversation happened sort of messy at first, but—still good, right?”</p><p>“Oh, still brilliant,” Marcus said emphatically.</p><p>It’s how he’d felt about it, but there was something nice—hearing it come from someone else. Having someone else be happy for him.</p><p>#</p><p>They were just finishing up the session, having returned back to Marcus’s house, when a sudden burst of sound echoed from the other room’s floo. They’d wandered into the kitchen as George chatted about some of the points on the lists he and Hermione had made while Marcus made some fresh tea.</p><p>“You keep saying things like ‘giving it a shot,’” Marcus said. “Have the two of you clearly defined what that would look like?”</p><p>George frowned. “Not yet,” he said. “We didn’t get to finish the conversation.” He accepted the tea and took a large draught without stopping to check it. Marcus always settled the temperature just right. The mug thunked softly on the counter. “Whatever it is, it’ll be slow going, I think.”</p><p>“You mentioned that,” Marcus said.</p><p>“I guess I’m a bit worried I’ll come on too strong,” George said. “I mean, it’s clear that I’ve got the stronger feelings out of the two of us. I’m the one who’s—”</p><p>“Hold on,” Marcus said, frowning. George blinked. It wasn’t like Marcus to interrupt. But the Healer didn’t say anything.</p><p>Then, George heard the tell-tale rumbling from the other room—not the room with the plants, but the one behind them, on the opposite side of the kitchen. A floo call. Marcus hurried across the floor.</p><p>“Yes?” Marcus called.</p><p>Suddenly, the rumble surged to a rush, and a clatter sounded as footsteps spilled into the kitchen. “Is my Transfiguration essay here?”</p><p>George froze. It was Emmeline.</p><p>Healer Marcus held up a hand and mouthed “Sorry” before hurrying over.</p><p>Emmeline rifled through the cabinetry’s drawers, Ravenclaw jumper rumpled, house robes falling from her shoulders. “I can’t find it, and it’s due later today—” Suddenly she halted, eyes going wide as she saw George.</p><p>“I’ve got a client, Darling,” Marcus whispered. “But why don’t you check your room, and I’ll look down here, okay?”</p><p>Emmeline nodded mutely, then sprinted for the staircase. Marcus turned and grimaced, flicking his wand in the Accio pattern. Nothing appeared.</p><p>“Rats,” Marcus muttered. “Sorry about this.”</p><p>George swallowed.</p><p>Marcus seemed uncharacteristically rattled, yanking open drawers and sprinting across the kitchen to the sitting room’s desk, where he tore through stacks of parchment. “My sister—her, um” he nodded towards the stairs. “—her mum passed in the attack on Millennium Bridge, and her father went a few years prior from Dragon Pox, so—” Marcus shook his head, wrenching open a trunk beside the window. His ramble dropped into a mumble as he continued. “She’s had a bit of a rough time adjusting, so I live in the village and—” He trailed off, searching through the trunk. A deck of exploding snap cards spilled onto the floor, followed by torn Chocolate Frog packaging and some dented, thin paperbacks.</p><p>Healer Marcus swore.</p><p>“She knows not to mention anything about clients, I promise.” He glanced up at George, urgent.</p><p>Marcus had never mentioned losing a sister in the war. But, they usually didn’t talk about Marcus during their appointments.</p><p>“It’s alright,” George said quietly. “Really. Can I help?”</p><p>Marcus exhaled. “Not unless you can write a Transfiguration essay in five minutes,” he said ruefully.</p><p>George smirked. “I could, but McGonagall would know.”</p><p>“Found it!” A shrill shriek boomed from upstairs, and Emmeline’s feet pounded down the stairs. She didn’t look once in George’s direction as she tore back to the floo, which was still rushing and presumably lit with a connection to the Headmistress’s office.</p><p>The flame roared, then cut.</p><p>George scratched the back of his head.</p><p>Marcus quietly put the things back into the trunk, then crossed to the table. “Sorry about that,” he said.</p><p>George cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.</p><p>Had Marcus known about what happened in the final battle, when George first came to see him?</p><p>Healer Marcus had never given any indication of that, but the Wizarding community was rather small at times. George opened his mouth to ask, but then thought better of it. He glanced at the clock. Their time was nearly up, anyway.</p><p>And—and—blast it. Today was a good day. He didn’t want to talk about the war, today.</p><p>#</p><p>On his way back to the flat, he stopped by Dogweed and Deathcap, then Keddle’s. The streets weren’t terribly busy, but it was best not to linger in full view of every busybody in town. Of which there seemed to be many. More than usual.</p><p>Strange.</p><p>Maybe it was his imagination, but it felt like every shopkeep and pedestrian he bumped into could see it written broadly over his face:</p><p>George Weasley had kissed Hermione Granger.</p><p>He ducked his head as he made his way past the perpetually boarded-up windows of Dominic Maestro’s Music Shop on his way back to his flat.</p><p>Gritty powder in one hand, cargo in the other, he ducked through the floo.</p><p>George left the Lavender sprig and the cinnamon scone on her coffee table, under a stasis charm.</p><p>Crookshanks trilled, George offered a polite bow, and the Kneazle watched as George loped back through the floo.</p><p>Now to wait.</p><p>#</p><p>February 2, 1999, 6:45 p.m.</p><p>George Weasley had switched seats thrice in twenty minutes. First, he’d been laying on his bed, doing a bit of reading on experimental charms. Then he’d switched to the kitchen counter, where he flipped through a Quidditch supply magazine. But he hadn’t been as close to the floo from there, so he’d flung himself into the armchair, where he paged through ads for Cleansweeps and Nimbus models.</p><p>She couldn’t sit next to him if he was in the armchair, though.</p><p>Hm.</p><p>George clambered upright, turned in a circle, then settled on the left side of the sofa.</p><p>This would do.</p><p>Yeah.</p><p>If she wanted to have her own chair, the wingback was available, and—and if she, perchance, wanted to sit next to him, there was the rest of the couch, as well.</p><p>He settled in with his cup of tea and waited.</p><p>Not ten minutes later, the floo whooshed.</p><p>“I thought of another pro,” Hermione announced as she emerged from the grate, half-eaten scone in hand.</p><p>George looked up from his record book on the sofa, where his feet were propped on the coffee table. “Let’s hear it.” He wedged the quill in the center of the book and gave her a bright grin.</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but it was playfully done, then took another bite of her treat. “Anyone here?” she asked, mouth full.</p><p>Mirth bubbled up in his insides as she peeked towards the kitchen and the shop door.</p><p>“No, I’m afraid it’s just little old me,” George said mildly. He added a dejected sigh, for good measure.</p><p>Hermione scrambled around the coffee table, tossed her bag on the armchair, and flung her arms about his shoulders. “You—” she said, beaming.</p><p>And then she pushed a kiss right onto his cheek.</p><p>George sputtered. “Me?”</p><p>He was going to have a heart attack if she kept carrying on like this.</p><p>“I could kiss you,” she announced, falling into the seat at his side. “I tried that decoding game you suggested today, and my class loved it.” Granger took another bite of the scone, and a few crumbs dropped onto her denim-clad knee. “They were engaged, and excited, and they asked questions—” She snorted at her own clumsiness as a bit of the pastry broke off. “I offered a prize—Whiz-bangs, actually—to the team that finished first, and—” As she chattered, she split the last chunk into two and held it up to his mouth, and George quite forgot to be anxious.</p><p>“Whiz-bangs, eh? Where do you plan on getting a pack of those?” he asked, grinning as he took the small piece from her hand and popped it into his mouth.</p><p>Hermione glanced down at the record book, then back into his eyes. “I know a guy,” she said, the picture of innocence.</p><p>“Hm,” George said. He flipped the record book closed and tossed it on the table with a heavy thunk. “And you plan to exploit this connection?”</p><p>Hermione erupted into giggles. The sort where her eyes squinted up and her torso pitched forward.</p><p>Excellent.</p><p>George darted in, and Hermione’s giggles accelerated as his nose bumped along her temple. “Very cheeky,” he chided, savoring the warm pitch of Granger’s laughter.</p><p>He was contemplating how he might stick her with a kiss in return, preferably without bumbling it up this time—when the floo flashed to life.</p><p>George lunged away, nearly toppling over the sofa’s arm. Hermione had flung herself further in the opposite direction, and when who else but Harry Ruddy Potter darted back through the floo, he was greeted by the sight of the two of them, sitting as far apart as physically possible on a single couch.</p><p>“Sorry to intrude,” Harry said, looking not at all bothered to have intruded. “But I had a quick question?”</p><p>“You’re not intruding!” Hermione rushed to say.</p><p>Harry brightened. “Brilliant!” he said. “You don’t mind if we join you?”</p><p>Hermione’s cheeks colored violently, the fading pink deepening back into the red. “Not at all,” she said crisply.</p><p>“We?” George asked, even though there was no reason to. If Harry had come straight through, he knew exactly who’d follow him out.</p><p>Fred jumped through, still clad in his orange apron.</p><p>Of course.</p><p>Hermione’s face remained neutral as Fred and Harry tromped to the kitchenette, laughing about something Ginny had said about the Wimbourne Wasps’s keeper. Hermione didn’t meet his eyes as she shoved her curls back.</p><p>Harry was jovial from his position across the room, banging around the kitchenette with the same ease as he did in the Burrow. “Hope you don’t mind me using the floo connection again, but it’s far faster than the train,” he called with a laugh.</p><p>There was already a direct connection between the floos located on the shop floors.</p><p>So why in the dickens had he placed one between Diagon and the hearth in his flat as well?</p><p>It hadn’t seemed to matter at the time, and he couldn’t change it now without drawing comment from Fred.</p><p>Harry was still chattering as he fixed up three cups. “Anyways, Fred had a good idea, and I came around to ask if you’d watch Teddy during Valentine’s day.”</p><p>George opened his mouth to reply, but halted. Would she—</p><p>His thought was cut short by Hermione’s hasty, immediate reply. “Of course,” she said quickly, rising to take a spot at the table. She faltered a bit as she strode, but then swiftly recovered and made her way to her seat. “Obviously.” There was a slight, anxious ring in the word.</p><p>He could hear her overthinking from across the room.</p><p>Meanwhile, Harry spun, oblivious to the tailspin he’d just sent the two of them into as he searched for the tea tin.</p><p>George rose, pulling at his collar and tried his hardest to amble over to the table without looking as annoyed at Fred and Harry as he felt. They meant well. Probably.</p><p>But terrible timing.</p><p>He brought his mug over under the pretense of dumping out the remains, then fetched the tin for Harry before he got the bright idea of rifling through cabinets to find it himself.</p><p>George glanced at the bottom, left cupboard and shifted to stand in front of it.</p><p>Fred hit the kettle with a spritz of red sparks, and it shrieked out a whistle. Hermione jumped.</p><p>“You meant me, correct?” Hermione suddenly asked, turning to Harry as he took the kettle from Fred and poured.</p><p>Harry strode from the counter and dropped into the seat at Hermione’s side with a bemused smile. He handed over a cup for her. “I actually meant George, but if you’d like to, I won’t say no,” he said. “You don’t mind?”</p><p>Hermione bobbed her head and took sizeable gulp of her drink, then winced. George frowned. It was still piping hot, and she’d given it no time to steep. “Not at all,” she said, but her voice was a bit tight.</p><p>George paced over and shifted his wand towards her mug to caste a mild cooling charm. Hermione’s blush crept up to her forehead, but she didn’t acknowledge it, fixing her gaze steadily on her tea. George took the third chair.</p><p>Did she think he was upset?</p><p>Was he upset?</p><p>No. No, he would’ve liked to chat with her about it first, but if she did want to watch Teddy on their first—</p><p>Well. They hadn’t actually decided formally what they were, so maybe this wasn’t their first anything.</p><p>George frowned into his tea.</p><p>“He didn’t want to spoil Mum and Dad’s night, so I suggested he ask someone unlikely to have plans,” Fred drawled. Rather than taking the fourth seat, Fred had opted to hop onto the counter behind Harry and Hermione’s backs.</p><p>George kept his face blank. “I could have plans,” he said. Unbidden, his hand tightened around his mug.</p><p>Fred snorted. “Unlikely.”</p><p>Hermione’s gaze snapped to his. “Do you?” The question was light and airy, but he knew her well enough to see the significance riding behind it in her eyes.</p><p>Did she really want to do this here and now?</p><p>Because he would.</p><p>Just as quickly, she ducked her head, and he couldn’t make out her expression. Hermione was studying her mug like it had the NEWT answer key.</p><p>That wouldn’t do. He needed to send her a signal—let her know that she didn’t need to worry on his account, at least.</p><p>George shrugged. “I’ll have to check my planner,” he said. Then, with a stunning jolt of mischief, he stretched his legs beneath the table and nudged his foot against hers.</p><p>Hermione jumped.</p><p>George raised his brows and took a sip from his mug.</p><p>“Well, if—if you’re uncertain of any conflicts, then I’ll handle it,” Hermione said. The flustered intonation of her voice shifting into a familiar swotty cadence. “I know I’m free that day.” She spared Harry a thin smile, then turned to George with a spark of something like a challenge in her eyes.</p><p>He mulled over the sentence.</p><p>Was she, then?</p><p>George pushed from his chair and strode to his workbench. “Let me see,” he said, voice easy and calm. “Won’t take but a moment.” He made a show of flipping open a spare notebook. Wasn’t even his planner, and Fred knew it, judging by the dry look his brother was shooting him. But George ignored him and licked his thumb before paging through with a touch more force than necessary.</p><p>He pushed the pad of his index finger along the parchment, gazing intently at the blank lines. “Fourteenth, is it?”</p><p>“Never been on any other date,” Fred said dryly.</p><p>George bobbed his head and rapped a knuckle against the bottom third of the page. “Yeah, it appears I’m free as well.” He tossed the book down.</p><p>The corner of Hermione’s mouth quirked the slightest bit.</p><p>George headed back to the table, immensely pleased with himself.</p><p>“Brilliant!” Harry said. “Well, why don’t you do it together, then? I should’ve checked earlier, but yesterday was a wash, and work’s been a heap of Hippogriff dung.” He grimaced. “Literally. We were tracking what we thought was a non-tradeable exchange, but it turns out the shipment really was—”</p><p>George tuned Harry’s voice out as he eased into his chair. Instead, he watched Granger.</p><p>He’d had never put much stock into Valentine’s Day. He’d always smirked at the sods who got dragged into Puddifoot’s, swearing up, down, and sideways that he’d never find himself in such a position.</p><p>Watching his favorite nephew with Hermione sounded bloody brilliant, though.</p><p>“—Teddy can be a handful, anyways, so it’s probably better to have you and George both here,” Harry was saying. He spoke a bit quickly, almost rambling.</p><p>Hermione smirked. “I’d imagine someone needs to make sure they don’t burn the flat down,” she said.</p><p>George folded his arms over his chest and rubbed his index finger over the side of his nose. “Yeah, Mate. I’m sure we’ll manage between the two of us,” George said to Harry before glancing at Hermione. “I’ll bring my winning personality, and Granger—” He let his voice lilt over her name. “—can bring that smart mouth of hers.” As he spoke, he cocked his head and nodded, scrunching his features a bit over the last part in a return taunt.</p><p>But under the table, he grazed his boot against hers.</p><p>Granger’s shoulders did a little jolt at the touch. She straightened and snorted at him. “Someone’s got to retain their intelligence,” she said. “Especially with this lot.” She gestured to the room at large.</p><p>Fred made some smarmy quip back, and laughter rang through the room.</p><p>George looked around at the three of them and let the conversation wash over him with a contentedness. It was nice. Cozy.</p><p>Harry was back to complaining about that Hippogriff dung incident. Hermione’s foot nudged his.</p><p>George lifted his tea to hide the smile.</p><p>Behind Harry and Hermione, Fred raised his brows. George flicked his gaze to his tea as a nervous jitter flickered through him.</p><p>But Fred was always doing that, especially when Granger was around.</p><p>It would’ve been nice to be able to share. Especially with Fred.</p><p>But she’d asked that they take things slow. No pressure. He wouldn’t disrespect that.</p><p>No.</p><p>“I just don’t see how we missed the mark so badly,” Harry groaned. “I mean, I’ve got about a mile of paperwork waiting for me at the office.”</p><p>“Yes, well you’ll have to find someone else to copy off of, now,” Hermione said wryly.</p><p>Harry snorted.</p><p>“A prefect, letting someone cheat?” Fred asked loftily. “I ought to tell McGonagall.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t balk. She didn’t rush to explain or justify, even though she probably could. George had watched the routine play out countless times in the Common Room in years past. Most of the time, she’d given suggestions, and while Harry and Ron pretended to listen, they’d eyed her work and scrawled down remarkably similar answers.</p><p>Instead, Granger lifted a brow, smiled sweetly at Fred, and said, “She’d never believe you.”</p><p>Laughter ricocheted through the room.</p><p>Hermione glanced at George, and he gave her a knowing look. Her warm, brown eyes crinkled in return.</p><p>He would be patient.</p><p>So, George took the hope—that great, thundering train bellowing <em>Onward</em>—and he held it secret in his soul as a quiet faith blossomed: It might reach its destination yet.</p><p>Around the curve of track, he could almost see the castle.</p><p>The clouds.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Pizzicato</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pizzicato:  (/ˌpɪtsɪˈkɑːtoʊ/, Italian: [pittsiˈkaːto]; translated as "pinched", and sometimes roughly as "plucked") is a playing technique that involves plucking the strings of a string instrument. (Wikipedia)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all!<br/>I'm going to make this short, since I could definitely use sleep at this point, and this chapter's already late. Thank you so much for your patience as I worked. &lt;3 </p><p>Thank you so much for reading and/or commenting or leaving kudos. I hope you all had a lovely week, full of the best parts of spring. &lt;3 </p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to this story world or to these characters. </p><p> I am deeply sorry for the typos/errors that are almost certainly in this chapter. This is probably going to be one that I come back to and polish a bit more after finishing the fic. </p><p>Playlist:<br/>"Emergence" by 2WEI and Ali Christenhusz (May 13, 2003, 11:20 a.m. --General opening)<br/>"The New Apprentice" by 2WEI and Ali Christenhusz ( --General opening but especially starting when you see Rennervate)<br/>"Imagination" by 2WEI and Ali Christenhusz ( --When you hear mention of pines)<br/>"Fire Hunt" by 2WEI and Ali Christenhusz (--When the latch makes a clicking sound)<br/>"Imagination" by 2WEI and Ali Christenhusz ( --when you see the pines again)<br/>"Morrow's Light" by 2WEI and Ali Christenhusz ( --when the door blasts to splinters)<br/>"Lay Your Head On Me" by Major Lazer ft. Marcus Mumford (May 13, 2003, 3:15 p.m.)<br/>"My Tears Are Becoming a Sea" by M83 (May 13, 2003, 6:30 p.m. --When you see the modified muggle phone)<br/>"Don't You Forget About Me" by Stephen Barton/"My Tears Are Becoming a Sea" by M83/"The Bones" by Maren Morris &amp; Hozier (May 13, 2003, 7:00 p.m.)<br/>"Godspeed" by James Blake (May 14, 1:45 a.m.)<br/>"Guardian" by Lindsey Stirling (May 14, 2003, 9:00 a.m.)</p><p>Grab your snack (I had pesto this week, and it was excellent), your drink (your most comforting tea might pair well), and your coziest blanket. Let's dive in. </p><p>(*****Content Warning [SPOILERS]: This week's chapter includes mind altering potion usage and some elements of torture. I believe it still fits within our rating, but I would consider this to be approaching the upper end of that violence spectrum, so be aware of that. If you'd rather not, skip to 3:15 p.m.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Chapter Thirty-Nine: “Pizzicato” </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>May 13, 2003, 11:20 a.m.</p><p>“I don’t think we’re through?”</p><p>The imposter blinked and tilted their head at an angle, stretching Healer Marcus’s mouth into a bemused smile. They lifted their brows as though expecting some response. Then, their gaze flicked down, to the wands in George and Hermione’s hands.</p><p>Marcus’s lips pursed. “It appears there’s been a misunderstanding,” they said. “Please come with me, and we’ll resolve it straight away.”</p><p>Meanwhile, George was attempting to ease between the intruder and Hermione, his forearm pressing into her stomach as he attempted to prod her towards the doors. She sidestepped. He wasn’t going to shove her out of the way.</p><p>They’d leave together, or not at all.</p><p>“It’ll only be a moment,” George said tersely. “The paperwork’s only out in the waiting room.”</p><p>The office clicked open, and Nurse Sam emerged.</p><p>“My assistant would be happy to retrieve them,” the imposter said.</p><p>A line of tension flexed in George’s neck, and he turned his face to the side, just barely, to shoot Hermione a frustrated look.</p><p>“That’s not necessary,” George said.</p><p>The imposter gazed at George for a moment, their smile fixed into place with an unsettling enthusiasm.</p><p>No one moved.</p><p>Then, the imposter sighed loudly, turned to Nurse Sam, and cocked their head at George and Hermione. They clicked their tongue.</p><p>Nurse Sam’s wand slashed the air.</p><p>George’s eyes widened, and his right arm flung up. A thick, blue Protego cracked into the corridor, from beaten tile to dingy ceiling. The spellfire clapped against it.</p><p>George swore. “Move!” he shouted. The two of them tripped back in unison, George’s left hand extending as they threw themselves into the double doors.</p><p>His palm hit the handle first, and with it, he gave a clipped shout. Before Hermione’s shoulder hit the surface, George twisted, flinging her back as his side slammed into the wood.</p><p>Hermione collided with the wall, and George stumbled after her, clutching his off-hand with a grimace. “Don’t touch it,” he hissed. “There’s ice.” Then, he pointed his wand at his shield and re-caste to make it thicker.</p><p>No. How much was there? She glanced at the handle. It didn’t seem to be spreading. The ice was barely visible—more of thin coating of frost.</p><p>Not freeing his gaze from the shield, George shook his hurt palm out at his hip, as though that would rid him of the sensation. Hermione blinked at the red skin. A scorch mark, right up his left palm. Blisters.</p><p>She pushed herself upright, gripping a nearby exam room doorframe for support.</p><p>Had it crept in from the lobby? Had they missed an attack, right across the ward? No—through the narrow window, the lobby looked untouched. Deserted, but—</p><p>How was that—</p><p>Nurse Sam and the intruder looked distorted through the wavering, blue sheen of George’s shield, but they were walking closer. Walking. As though they had all the time in the world. A single-note whistle rent the air as Nurse Sam lifted her fingers to her lips.</p><p>Hermione’s fist tightened on her wand as she glanced from the frosted handle to George.</p><p>They’d marked him. And not for the first time.</p><p>Something in her clicked like a switch.</p><p>“Listen carefully,” George muttered. “I’ll hold the shield, and you—”</p><p>“I know what to do,” Hermione said, raising her wand towards the imposter.</p><p>They would regret it.</p><p>George blinked. “No—No, you’ve got to blast through the—”</p><p>Hermione shifted her weight to her left foot, and her wand arm flexed overhead.</p><p>Jagged white clashed through the corridor in stuttering lines.</p><p>The light fixtures overhead burst, and sparks rained down over the tile. The imposter darted out of the way, and Nurse Sam deflected the lightning with a wand slash of her own.</p><p>“Are you mad?” George shouted. “This is an enclosed—”</p><p>But she couldn’t hear the rest of what he said.</p><p>She was already halfway down the hall, having burst through George’s shield. She braced for the impact, but the magic didn’t seem to phase her skin as she passed through.</p><p>They’d pay.</p><p>George, falling over the glass barrier.</p><p>Ice on the Muggle Liaison Office.</p><p>The Weasleys, covered in burns.</p><p>Finally. A target.</p><p>Hermione’s braid whipped around her shoulder and her wand hit the downslash of a Stupefy, but before she could coil up to release it, the intruder snaked their hand into their robe and flung something onto the ground.</p><p>Black unfurled.</p><p>Peruvian Darkness Powder.</p><p>“Hermione!” George’s roar boomed over the tile.</p><p>The dark swirled around her, and she turned in a half circle, trying to follow the clatter of footsteps. They seemed to be coming from all sides.</p><p>There—a flash of movement, like a dark robe or—</p><p>A cold wall slammed into her chest, knocking her back. She hit the floor with a heavy slam, and her lungs choked on nothing, air driven from her body.</p><p>Shouts exploded into the dark.</p><p>“Guard the doors—don’t let them leave through the floos!” Nurse Sam’s voice barked.</p><p>A crack of red light, a grunt, and a thud.</p><p>Footsteps pounded, close. Too close.</p><p>A faint groan, just to her right.</p><p>Hermione crept forward. George’s form appeared out of the darkness, sprawled on the ground. He was shoving himself aloft, a small dribble of blood leaking from his nose. His eyes widened as she knelt over him and pressed her finger to her lips.</p><p>He jutted his chin forward and jabbed a finger at her.</p><p>Oh, he was not happy.</p><p>He circled the finger through the air—illustrating the fact that they were likely surrounded.</p><p>She winced. “I know,” she mouthed.</p><p>George turned his head and flared his eyes again, then jabbed his finger towards the double doors. “We’re leaving,” he mouthed. “Now.”</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth. “But—”</p><p>“Come now, let’s not be difficult about this,” the intruder’s voice called. “We only want to chat. There’s no need for either of you or anyone else to get hurt.”</p><p>George stared at Hermione flatly.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>Hermione fixed her wand, aiming in the direction of the exit.</p><p>A blast of spellfire echoed down the center of the hallway, and George choked out a Protego, barely warding it off.</p><p>“They’re in the middle!” a new voice shouted.</p><p>The blue light had given them away.</p><p>George sucked in a breath and yanked Hermione into himself with his blistered hand.</p><p>“Protego Horribilis!” he shouted. He flung himself over her crouched form, taking her under his arm and against his chest.</p><p>A blue dome cracked over top of them, and jolts of yellow, red, and purple streaked through the murky dark. The spellfire clapped against the shield, and George’s heart pounded rapidly against her ear. His palm seared against her wrist, still holding her where he’d snagged to pull her to safety, and the battered texture grated against her skin.</p><p>That had to hurt him, but he didn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“You bloody insufferable Gryffindor!” he said, crouching over her as he laced another wave of magic into the shield. The dome shook. His voice was incredulous in her ear as the din of the attack boomed in the background. “Couldn’t just do what I say, could you?” A surge of grim, bitter laughter burst from his mouth.</p><p>“Are you scolding me?” Hermione’s tone pitched up as she sputtered. “Now?”</p><p>Spellfire zipped at them from multiple directions, splashing against the blue. “No, no, merely observing,” he said, voice going taunt as his wand arm shook under the barrage.</p><p>Hermione fought to keep her balance. “Do you want me to do what you say? Like a mindless robot?” she snapped. She wobbled, and George’s left arm slipped around her waist and drew her tighter to him.</p><p>“No, but it’d be nice if you—” His face tensed as a large wave of purple hit the shield, and the words came out rough and clipped. “—took a moment to listen.”</p><p>“I normally do!” she said, twisting to glare up at him.</p><p>George’s face contorted, and he gritted his teeth. “Fair point, Love.” The onslaught seemed to be moving, thickening, but they couldn’t see any of their attackers through the black.</p><p>They were pinned.</p><p>“Any ideas?” he shouted.</p><p>They had two options. Blast through the doors and hope the spellfire didn’t kill or maim them enough to make an escape, or clear the air and fight.</p><p>The thought of setting off a blasting charm in the dark made her stomach squeeze. There was no way to ensure that it wouldn’t rebound off of a shield and knock them out.</p><p>“I’m going to clear the dark,” she said.</p><p>George hissed. “No—it’s helping us just as much.”</p><p>“They already know our location,” Hermione said. “You prepare to stand—”</p><p>“The shield will be thinner if we’re upright,” George cut in. A particularly fierce blast hit it, and George caught his breath like he’d been hit under the ribs. “Fine. We’ll stand, you clear the air, and then I’ll need you to re-caste this shield with me.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Then we look for an opening,” she said.</p><p>“To leave,” George added in a stony voice. “Not—”</p><p>“Obviously,” Hermione bit back.</p><p>She began to rise. She could feel all of it. The quake of the spell fire on George’s blue dome, the heavy sigh he gave as he shifted to stand with her, and his hand tightening on her arm for the briefest moment.</p><p>Hermione readied her wand and turned to face the wall.</p><p>The Ventus wind snapped her braid back, almost making her feet slip on the tile as she spun in a smooth pivot. The current grabbed the particles of Darkness Powder and swept them back, slowly.</p><p>The dark whisped to nothing against the white paint.</p><p>Revealing not two, but five attackers.</p><p>The Marcus impersonator stood just behind Nurse Sam near the office they’d emerged from, and a slight distance up the corridor, towards the lobby, one cloaked figure lingered at the doorway to their right, the other at their left. The remaining one was poised between them and the double doors.</p><p>“Now!” George shouted.</p><p>Moments too late, it occurred to Hermione that she hadn’t initiated the shield spell at the Remembrance Ball, and she wasn’t entirely sure of how to go about it.</p><p>What was she supposed to—</p><p>Panic flared.</p><p>Hermione fumbled back, wand up. She tripped over George’s foot. His hand closed on her arm, and he began to tug her—</p><p>“Stupefy!” The two figures flanking them shot off a spell in unison.</p><p>The twin bolts of red cracked into the shield, and then the blue that she’d taken for granted was no longer.</p><p>And—and George was on the ground, flung back from the blast.</p><p>There were too many, from all sides.</p><p>Remove an angle.</p><p>Hermione swooped low, directed her wand to the floor beneath the one by the double doors, and shouted, “Bombarda!”</p><p>The cloaked figure leapt as the spell erupted—tile shards flinging through the air. The doors rattled, but didn’t open.</p><p>She could hear George, counter casting as he grappled to get up from the ground.</p><p>Hermione pivoted, light cracking over her shoulder, wandtip almost trailing the ground, and flung the same spell at the opposite end—where the intruder and Nurse Sam stood.</p><p>Precision.</p><p>Blue in the dust. But whose?</p><p>Her hand snagged George’s wrist. He was on his feet—when had that happened?</p><p>Ears. Ringing.</p><p>Sneakers smacking the floor, chest heaving, heart pounding.</p><p>A purple bolt shrieked over her right shoulder as she passed the one figure in the doorway. Blue cracked out between her and the cloak—blocking off the follow-up spell. Hermione tossed a shield behind her for extra measure.</p><p>Almost there. She sucked in a breath and prepared to blast through.</p><p>A cry of agony cut through her focus.</p><p>George.</p><p>Hermione turned.</p><p>Through the cloud of dust, she could see him.</p><p>Pinned by a curse from the figure in the second doorway. He’d fallen and was clawing at the tile. Wand spinning just out of reach.</p><p>“Go, Hermione!” he shouted, as another figure descended.</p><p>Absolutely not.</p><p>Hermione Jean didn’t feel it when the jinx hit her between the shoulder blades.</p><p>#</p><p>She slammed to the floor as George yelled.</p><p>It was like a Jelly-Legs jinx, but as though it had been applied to her whole body. She was limp, and her arms and legs wouldn’t obey the commands to rise. To fight. To keep going.</p><p>Instead, she laid still, barely able to twist her face against the tile to breathe.</p><p>Where was he—where was George?</p><p>Refracted, blue light splashed over the walls, flickering on the tile.</p><p>“Finite Incantatum—”</p><p>George’s spell rebounded off a crack of blue in front of her face.</p><p>There were too many of them.</p><p>The wand left her hand.</p><p>No.</p><p>Her arms wrenched behind her back. Something clicked, cold and steely, covering the skin of her wrists from the base of her thumb to several inches up her forearm.</p><p>What?</p><p>They were bothering to cuff her, rather than killing her outright?</p><p>“Accio!” she screamed, lacing the spell with as much intention as she could to make up for her lack of wand. It’d be tricky, but—</p><p>But the magic didn’t come off of her tongue. It gathered, surging in her insides, but when it rushed to leave her body, there was only a dulled lurch. The cuffs around her hands seemed to grow colder for a moment.</p><p>There were restraining her magic.</p><p>Panic.</p><p>Someone stepped in front of her, obscuring her view.</p><p>A furious shout, then a thump.</p><p>“You have my thanks, Gentlemen,” Not-Marcus’s voice was off-kilter, merry almost. “I had it all in hand of course, but I do appreciate the assistance.”</p><p>She was hoisted aloft by a vice around her arm.</p><p>“Now if you’ll bring them in here, I think we can all have a nice chat and get things sorted out, don’t you?” Not-Marcus’s question was clearly not intended to be answered.</p><p>The scene wasn’t pretty.</p><p>George, pinned to the floor by two, hulking figures in inky, black robes as not-Marcus stood over him. The hoods fell over their heads, obscuring their faces. The shape of the cloak was different than the Death Eaters’. The point was not quite so high, and no white mask peeked from the inside.</p><p>These were more ethereal. Spilling off of their heads in swaths of extra fabric, pooling around their waists, knees, and feet like fog, almost.</p><p>Like dementors.</p><p>But the hands peeking out of the sleeves were human. That was a human boot, grinding George’s face to the floor. Human knees, pushing into his spine. And human hands, attaching semi-translucent, gleaming shackles about his wrists.</p><p>Like the ones on the Wyvern, in the cave.</p><p>She would’ve sucked in a breath, but the hand clamped over her mouth blocked off the air in a suffocating barrier.</p><p>George’s shouts boomed through the hall—one spell after another, Accios, shields, counterspells, but there wasn’t so much as a spark that came off his lips.</p><p>“He’ll tire himself out,” Not-Marcus announced over the noise from the fight.</p><p>“Langlock,” one of the hooded men spat, and George went quiet.</p><p>Hermione met George’s eyes. His look was raw and urgent as he struggled.</p><p>Finite—Finite—</p><p>But the surge built then sucked away, the heat leaving her arms through the wrists.</p><p>It was sort of like the feeling she’d experienced when she’d overtaxed her magic, but the sharp pinch was absent.</p><p>Think.</p><p>She had to think.</p><p>How did the device work? She didn’t feel a pull on her magic when she wasn’t casting. It was only when the spell attempted to leave her frame that the shackles intervened.</p><p>She had to find some way to—</p><p>Then, the figure kneeling on George’s spine reeled back and clocked a fist across the side of his head.</p><p>He went limp.</p><p>“George—” Hermione’s shout was barely audible through the hand and her gasps.</p><p>His shoulders were moving.</p><p>He was breathing.</p><p>The two figures pulled George from the floor. Not-Marcus smiled at him and folded his arms, regarding George’s position with a mixture of merry interest and satisfaction. “Sorry about the unpleasantries,” the intruder said, glancing to Hermione. “My men can be a bit rough.”</p><p>“We’re not your men,” one of the hooded figures cut in. Not-Marcus waved him off with an unbothered chuckle.</p><p>“Sir—” Nurse Sam started, glancing at the double doors. Not-Marcus, potentially a man underneath the disguise, nodded once.</p><p>That narrowed it down. Sort of.</p><p>Was it Vane? Someone Vane had paid? Or perhaps one of the Death Eaters who’d been released from prison—or had never been found?</p><p>“Of course,” he said, waving a hand back down the corridor. “This way, if you please.” Calmly, the group walked them back to Marcus’s office, the double doors growing more and more distant behind them.</p><p>The hoods dragged Hermione and George to follow.</p><p>They wouldn’t have shown their hand like this unless they were confident that there would be no repercussions. Of that, Hermione was certain.</p><p>They were in trouble. Nausea twisted her stomach, but she studied the door frames as they moved, cataloguing potential escape routes. Three on the right side. Two had name plates—those would be offices. Potentially with floos like Marcus’s or people who might intervene.</p><p>But no one came through the doors, even after the cacophony. In fact, there was hardly any noise at all. No beeps, no distant running, no familiar hospital buzz. It was as though the wing had been emptied of everyone.</p><p>They should’ve just jumped for the floo in Marcus’s office. But George likely had wanted to get her out of the room as quickly as possible.</p><p>What had Not-Marcus been about to caste? Would he caste it now?</p><p>Panic’s claws gripped her, but she envisioned a muggle light switch. Flicked it down.</p><p>She could be afraid later.</p><p>She was logical. She was calculating. She was focused. She couldn’t move her head far enough to check the opposite side of the hall.</p><p>The light switch wouldn’t stay flicked. Her vision blurred. Not from impact or headache.</p><p>From tears.</p><p>No—no—Hermione Jean was not about to cry. Not now.</p><p>She could cry later, after George and her made it out. He’d wrap his arms around her, and they’d drink something warm and lovely, and everything would be alright.</p><p>And he’d tell her that she did brilliantly.</p><p>Because she would do brilliantly, or at the very least, her best.</p><p>This thought helped her blink back the gathering tears. Her inhale and exhale filtered over the top of the cloaked man’s hand as he hoisted her back into Marcus’s office, but the pace of her breath slowed. Steadied.</p><p>Not-Marcus inclined his head to the chairs facing the desk. “Have a seat,” he said, lilting as he placed George and Hermione’s wands on the dark wood, adjusting them to rest perpendicular to the front side. Then, he hopped onto the corner and drummed his fingers along the edge.</p><p>The hoods dumped George into the chair on the right, and Hermione was flung into the one on the left. George’s head lolled back.</p><p>Her stomach clenched.</p><p>Hermione tore her eyes away and braced. She’d have an opportunity to fight. She just needed to watch for the opening. The floo rested to their left, just out of reach. It might be blocked off, if this individual had anticipated a struggle. But it might not.</p><p>Her wand, first, then. She’d get her wand first, then try for the floo with George. She’d just need to find a way to reverse the jinx they’d placed on her. And to fight through the cuffs. But the cuffs would have to come after the movement issue.</p><p>Steps.</p><p>One thing at a time.</p><p>George was counting on her.</p><p>As the man removed his hand from her mouth, she caught a flash of his wrist.</p><p>No dark mark scar.</p><p>Then, as the taller hood withdrew a wand, the shorter one rounded behind the desk and began to reach into his cloak.</p><p>Suddenly, George lunged furiously against the remaining figure holding him, and he broke free.</p><p>“Break the cuffs!” Hermione shouted.</p><p>A flash of yellow sparks singed her lips. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and the vice grip returned, around her arm, this time. She pulled, pulled, pulled her neck away, but a wand at her throat pinched, and “Immobolus Artus” echoed over her ear in a growl.</p><p>Her arms, legs, and chest froze in place, the freezing spell coursing from the wandpoint at her throat and downward.</p><p>Meanwhile, George slammed himself into the wall, kicking out to launch the chair into the taller figure. He tried to twist towards Hermione and the floo, but the figure holding Hermione stepped between them.</p><p>“Flipendo!” The taller cloak shouted.</p><p>George’s form sailed back, into the bookcase—along with the shorter hooded man, who roared in anger. “Watch it!”</p><p>Not-Marcus eased to the side, scooching further along the desk towards Hermione, as though to give the brawl more room.</p><p>Hermione twisted her head, trying to sort another way out. If she could fling herself onto the floor, that was yet another distraction that could aid him. When she jolted, however, the wandtip came back down and pressed to her temple as a terrible yank pulled at her hair. The wizard had dug his fist into the strands at her crown, and was using them to wrench her head back.</p><p>“Keep moving. See what happens,” the hiss grated over her ear. Then his wand sparked—a sharp burn grazed her skin. Hermione stilled, sucking in a breath to keep from calling out.</p><p>She couldn’t distract George.</p><p>The confined space appeared to be an advantage. The two hooded figures seemed more reluctant to caste after the last incident. Even still, George was backed into a corner. Literally.</p><p>His arms worked behind him, and she saw, now—he was trying to jimmy the cuff off. Flinging his arms back and forth, twisting. But it was stuck tight around his wrists.</p><p>He’d have to break them to get it free. And that would require a lot of—</p><p>George threw himself, wrists first, into the solid bookcase. A crunch, but it didn’t—didn’t sound like metal.</p><p>George sucked in a garbled breath and without hesitation, threw himself back again.</p><p>A sickening crack filled the air.</p><p>She couldn’t help it. She flinched.</p><p>The wand at her temple twisted, and liquid fire rushed through her from skull to toe.</p><p>A single pulse of Crucio.</p><p>Her whimper tore from her throat.</p><p>George’s head whipped towards her direction. “Hermione—” he gasped.</p><p>He didn’t see the leg-locking jinx coming, nor the second charm that accompanied it.</p><p>“Somnum!” The hooded figure drove the sleeping charm sparks along George’s temple. George dropped like a stone. His elbow knocked a protruding white, ceramic flowerpot from the bottom shelf, and it smashed over the floor around his crumpled form.</p><p>No.</p><p>The room went oddly quiet as the figures pulled George aloft, then dragged him to the chair. The taller cloak dumped him into the other chair and pulled his arms over the back of it, while the other directed his wand at George’s chest.</p><p>George’s wrists hung at unnatural angles in the dented cuffs, but the restraints still gave off a faint, grey glow.</p><p>He’d broken his wrists, not the—</p><p>How had Luna gotten them off back at that cavern? Blasted with a freezing charm or something, probably. But Luna had had a wand, and Wyvern scales were a great deal more sturdy than human wrists.</p><p>They’d need another way.</p><p>“Incarcerous,” the taller figure muttered.</p><p>Thick ropes sprang out, binding George to the seat around the shoulders, arms, and legs.</p><p>Nurse Sam stepped gingerly between the two chairs and worked a vanishing charm over the broken pottery on the floor.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>No wand. No movement. No magic.</p><p>Something—something—there must be something—</p><p>The intruder stepped to the mantle and retrieved a glass from a small tray. “Aguamenti,” Not-Marcus lilted, giving Hermione a sweet smile. Water splashed into the cup. Not-Marcus raised it to his mouth and took a sip. “Ah.” He proclaimed to the ceiling, then, lowered the drink.</p><p>George’s chin was slumped to his chest, propped on the ropes.</p><p>Not-Marcus regarded the cup with interest, then tossed the contents over George’s face.</p><p>George didn’t move.</p><p>Hermione’s brows knit together. Most sleeping charms didn’t work like usual slumber. Much like a Fainting Fancy, one had to reverse it, or wait for it to wear off. It was one of the reasons why she rarely used them herself, even when she was run ragged.</p><p>Was it a mind game?</p><p>Not-Marcus didn’t seem bothered chuckled. “If you will, Madam,” he said, motioning to George as he spoke.</p><p>Nurse Sam slashed her wand. “Rennervate,” she said.</p><p>George lunged against the ropes with a startled gasp.</p><p>She could see him working it out in pieces, his face contorting—probably from the headache he was sure to have, the confusion at his dripping hair and face, then his eyes widening at the sight of the cords on his body, the panic as he searched the room and saw her.</p><p>“Let her go,” he rasped. “Now. I’ll do whatever you want—let her go.”</p><p>Not-Marcus’s brows quirked, and he stuck the glass on the desk with a light thunk. “Why would we do that?”</p><p>George yanked against the ties, and his chair shuddered.</p><p>The intruder nodded at the man standing over Hermione.</p><p>The wand twisted, and this time, he spoke the curse aloud: “Crucio—” and the vowels lit her frame with another surge of agony. Quick, like a pulse, then it was gone.</p><p>George stared at her, stricken.</p><p>“Capital, I see I’ve caught your interest,” Not-Marcus said with an easy grin and a brief clap. “You always did have trouble paying attention.”</p><p>He adjusted his cape, then turned to the shorter of two hooded men. “Be a good chap and watch the doors, would you?”</p><p>The man stiffened. “I don’t take orders from you,” he muttered.</p><p>Not-Marcus’s smile froze. The taller figure nudged the other one.</p><p>“No—” the shorter one snapped. “I’m sick of waiting on him, hand and foot.”</p><p>“Your orders were quite clear, I should think,” Not-Marcus said crisply. “And this is not the time or the place for mutiny.”</p><p>Was there a way to use this conflict?</p><p>The shorter one snorted. “You know what I think? You’re on thin ice as is, I think. Wait and see what she does when she finds out about this mess.” Hermione couldn’t see his face under the hood, but she could hear the leer in his voice. “And this is on your head, Mate, not ours.”</p><p>Not-Marcus flung a hand towards the door. “Go!” he shouted. “Now! Or I’ll hollow you out like a pumpkin!” Then he paused, hand still extended, and winced. “No—” He squinted. “Pumpkin isn’t quite suitable.” He drew his hand towards his face and pinched his index finger and thumb together. “Long-stemmed elf-wine glass?” He glanced at the ceiling, and his brows flicked upwards as he contemplated. “Hm.”</p><p>The taller figure prodded the shorter one, and with a dark mutter, the shorter strode from the room and slammed the door behind himself. Footsteps echoed up the hall, further and further away.</p><p>“Mixing bowl?” Not-Marcus asked to seemingly no one. “No, that’s not it either.” He dropped his hand. “Writer’s block, you know.” He gave Hermione a rueful smile, then ducked his head. “I’m sure it’ll come to me later.”</p><p>“What did you do with Marcus?” George snapped.</p><p>Not-Marcus’s face went flat. “I am Marcus,” he said.</p><p>George barked out a harsh laugh, projecting the noise through the space like artillery.</p><p>Not-Marcus smoothed the front of his robes. “It’s not a joking matter,” he said. “I am the man you speak of.”</p><p>“Right,” George said, like acid. “And I’m Severus Snape.”</p><p>“I think that’s rather more far-fetched, my dear boy,” Not-Marcus lilted, hopping back onto the desk and smiling at George. “You’re not quite greasy enough.” He gestured at George’s face.</p><p>The imposter was familiar with Snape. That could narrow it down.</p><p>Had George done that on purpose? He must’ve. But he didn’t show it. He only returned Not-Marcus’s look with a stony glare.</p><p>The intruder sighed. “Oh, alright. Is it that obvious?” he asked, as though speaking about an embarrassing stain on his sleeve. Except the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, the slightest bit.</p><p>He didn’t seem all that upset that he’d been spotted. He seemed pleased, actually.</p><p>Something about him struck her as oddly familiar. In an uncomfortable way. Like an itch, a discordant note, ringing in the back of her mind, but Merlin, she couldn’t think clearly with the pounding in her head.</p><p>“Yes,” George spat.</p><p>Not-Marcus clicked his tongue. “Well then. I am a better actor than most, but I suppose we can all use improvement.” He waved a hand in a circle, beckoning towards himself. “Come, come. Tell me where I mucked it up.”</p><p>George didn’t answer.</p><p>Not-Marcus sighed. “Was it my magical prowess? I suppose I shall have to—”</p><p>“Get on with it,” Hermione’s guard snapped.</p><p>Not-Marcus straightened and shot the man a look of cold disdain.</p><p>They needed to get out of here. The banter would run dry, and then things would get truly ugly. She only had to figure out what they wanted, then leverage that to secure them an escape.</p><p>Because they wanted something.</p><p>George and her would be dead, otherwise.</p><p>“Is he alive?” George asked lowly. He must’ve come to the same conclusion.</p><p>“While there’s certainly no harm in telling you, I’m hardly pressed to answer your questions, Mr. Weasley,” Not-Marcus said. “In fact, I think it’s time you answered some of mine, yes?”</p><p>He lifted his wand and strode forward, rounding the back of George’s seat. George stiffened, but not-Marcus only used the point to nudge the cords out of the way, along George’s right arm. “Diffindo,” he said.</p><p>George’s sleeve fell open.</p><p>Not-Marcus’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>“Our family will come,” George spat at the bookcases. His breath came fast and short, but he was putting on a show, grinning and shaking his head. “You’re in for it, Mate.”</p><p>“Do you mean the one near the corner of Heathgate and Meadway?” Not-Marcus said cheerily.</p><p>Hermione’s world tilted on its axis.</p><p>Mum. Dad.</p><p>George blinked. “What are you on about?” But there was an anxious pinch to the words, and it didn’t quite pass as confusion.</p><p>She couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Not-Marcus tutted. “Or the ones grouped up outside of Ottery St. Catchpole? Last I heard, they were a bit—” he hummed. “Preoccupied, you might say?”</p><p>“They’ll be here,” George said through gritted teeth. “Any moment.”</p><p>Hermione’s stomach twisted.</p><p>She hadn’t looked when they’d left, but the house had been silent, seemingly empty, even.</p><p>Most of the Weasleys were at working in the shop or the shed. Harry was sorting records at the Ministry. Ginny and Angelina had been around for lunch, but they’d left just before Hermione and George had flooed, and Hermione hadn’t thought to ask where they were headed. If—if it was Quidditch practice, it could be hours. Had they been wearing pads and Harpies cloaks?</p><p>She couldn’t remember.</p><p>Luna wasn’t likely to stop by multiple days in a row. If Mr. Weasley left the bedroom, he might see the clock. But that was a big if. He’d hardly emerged since Mrs. Weasley returned from the hospital.</p><p>It was quite possible their hopes rested on a woman in a coma.</p><p>Hermione blinked slowly.</p><p>“Then I suppose we had better hurry,” Not-Marcus said brightly. He lifted his wand from George’s skin and smiled.</p><p>“I’m not telling you a single thing,” George repeated, and his eyes flashed.</p><p>“No-no,” not-Marcus said, smiling. “Not you.” He spun on his heel and lifted both hands, beaming at Hermione. “You.”</p><p>He strode forward. “How are you, Hermione?” His enthusiasm didn’t falter. “You always were such a bright girl.” He winked.</p><p>He knew her.</p><p>Or he was going off of reputation, but—</p><p>He gestured to the man over her shoulder. The Langlock fizzed away with a flick of the wand at her temple. Hermione’s tongue came free.</p><p>“I won’t say a thing,” she spat. “Not until you send George through the floo, back to his shop.”</p><p>“Hermione—” George snapped.</p><p>Hermione didn’t look at him. There was no way these wizards would agree. They had to keep him talking. Give themselves enough time to either be noticed as missing.</p><p>And, on the off chance they let something slip, she wanted to know: Did the floo work?</p><p>Unfortunately, Not-Marcus merely tilted his head to the side and tapped a finger to her brow. “I expect you’re cleverer than that, Pet,” he said.</p><p>Hermione’s nostrils flared.</p><p>George whistled lowly. “Your funeral, Mate.” The words were acidic and barbed.</p><p>Not-Marcus didn’t acknowledge George’s jab, and instead knelt closer, grinning. “Now, you really must tell me—How did you remove the potion?” he asked, glancing at George.</p><p>“Sir—” Nurse Sam started, but Not-Marcus’s hand darted out and snapped for her to be quiet. His smile didn’t so much as flinch.</p><p>“How?” he asked. “I must admit, I’m terribly curious.”</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin. “Send George back to the Burrow, and I’ll tell you.”</p><p>Potion? Was he talking about the curse in George’s arm? He’d seemed to know exactly where to look for it, too. But that wasn’t exactly private knowledge. Half the wizarding world had seen the knife hit, it seemed. It had been in all the papers.</p><p>And if he was posing as Marcus, he’d have access to medical files.</p><p>Or was it something else?</p><p>Not-Marcus clicked his tongue. “The hard way is so messy. There’s no need for it, is there?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione pretended to hesitate. “What’s the easy way?” she asked.</p><p>Not-Marcus rose and crossed to the desk, then rounded behind it. “You tell me everything I want to know without hesitation,” he said. He ducked into the cabinet underneath the desk, then lifted a dark, wooden box onto the surface. “Whether it be your favorite flavor of Bertie Bott’s, or the reason why he’s not considerably more—” He paused. “—er, wraithlike?" He cocked his head towards George.</p><p>Wraithlike?</p><p>Her insides pinched together.</p><p>George shook his head slightly at Hermione.</p><p>Not-Marcus turned, propping his fist on his hip, then patted the box and glanced between them. “Well?” The box had an intricate, black, metallic lock on the front, and a curved latch that stuck through it. It stood almost two feet off the tabletop.</p><p>“I don’t have a favorite Bertie Botts flavor,” Hermione said, purely as a way to stall.</p><p>George raised his brows. “Yes, you do,” he said. “It’s cinnamon.”</p><p>Cinnamon?</p><p>Odd. She couldn’t recall eating many Cinnamon ones, or many at all, really. She’d always been a fiend for dark chocolate and the occasional sugar quill, but sweets like Every-Flavor-Beans held little appeal. But she was the wife of a candy seller, now. Presumably, in the last five years, she had acquired more of a taste for the things.</p><p>“Is it?” Hermione asked. George nodded. A deep, purple shadow was forming over the side of his face where he’d been hit.</p><p>“Hard way it is,” Not-Marcus said, with no small bit of cheer. He hunched over the box, and Hermione could hear a metallic click of a key in a lock, then a scrape as the man raised the handle on the latch and withdrew it. The front pulled open.</p><p>It was—it was a potions rack—or something similar. Wiring held small potion vials in rows of shelving. The interior was lined in what looked like crushed, black velvet, and the glassware held liquids that ranged in color. Most were a familiar, sparkling gold—Polyjuice. But there were also two deep greens, a couple of foggy black ones, gleaming silvers, sickly purples, and a singular copper one in the bottom, right corner.</p><p>The vials themselves looked wrong. They weren’t curved at the base, like they were in every potions kit she’d ever seen. These were sharp. They had a point.</p><p>“Do you know what this is, Mrs. Weasley-Granger?” Not-Marcus murmured, lifting a green one from its wire clasp.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said. It glinted in the light. “What is it?”</p><p>Keep him talking. Keep him talking.</p><p>Not-Marcus laughed cheerfully. “I don’t think I shall tell you,” he said. “I do know what it is of course—” he added hastily. “But let’s have it be a fun surprise.”</p><p>He snapped, and the man standing behind Hermione took hold of her jaw.</p><p>“Stop it!” George shouted. She could hear his chair, thundering on the floor as he struggled. The man’s fingers threatened to pierce her skin, they were so tight, and Not-Marcus unstoppered the vial.</p><p>“Swallow,” he said lightly. “Or I kill him.”</p><p>Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Then you’ll have no leverage,” she said.</p><p>Not-Marcus paused. For a terrible moment, she wondered if she’d called the wrong bluff. But then: “Good point,” he said with a nod. “We’ll just hurt him, then.”</p><p>Hermione clenched her teeth.</p><p>“Don’t do it, Hermione, don’t—” George shouted.</p><p>Not-Marcus lifted it to her mouth and gave it a little prod. The hand on her jaw wrenched it open.</p><p>Hermione closed her throat. When the liquid dumped over her tongue, she waited until all of it was in.</p><p>Then she spat it over Not-Marcus’s robes.</p><p>He twitched, then blinked down at the dark green stain marring the mint fabric color that poked from the top of the Healer uniform. He muttered a hasty Tergeo, but it didn’t get all of it.</p><p>“Fix it later,” the man next to George snapped.</p><p>Not-Marcus huffed. “This is spun from Acromantula silk,” he said, gesturing to himself. There was no response. He huffed and reached for the second, green vial, then stared hard at Hermione.</p><p>She was brave—she was brave—she was—</p><p>Not-Marcus held her gaze and pointed at George. The hooded figure behind Hermione lifted his wand.</p><p>The nonverbal spell hissed over the floor, and George slammed backwards in his chair, straining, face contorted.</p><p>Not-Marcus leaned against the desk, pulled out a pocket watch, and checked it with a bored face.</p><p>George’s knuckles were white on the arms of the chair.</p><p>“Stop it—” Hermione whispered. “Stop.”</p><p>Shakes overtook George’s body.</p><p>“Stop—” she said, louder.</p><p>Finally, George’s mouth cranked open, and a mangled cry tore from his throat.</p><p>“Stop it!” Hermione shrieked. “Stop it—I’ll do it!”</p><p>Not-Marcus tilted his head and frowned as he stared at the pocket watch. “I see I’ve struck a chord,” he said lightly, scrunching his nose. And George didn’t stop writhing.</p><p>He wasn’t stopping it.</p><p>He wasn’t stopping it.</p><p>George’s hoarse cries stretched longer and pitched upwards, building in intensity until it was interrupted and sliced to bits by coughing as he choked on—on—something.</p><p>Not-Marcus lifted his gaze from the pocket watch and regarded Hermione with a look of cool contemplation. He lifted the vial and waffled his head back and forth. “I’ll stop it when you swallow, how about that?” he said bracingly, then pushed it to her lips. “Don’t spill.”</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth, tipped her chin, and took the burning liquid in as fast as she could. It scorched her throat. Not-Marcus smiled and waved the hooded figure back, and the hold on her hair, her jaw, released.</p><p>“Very good,” Not-Marcus said. He tucked his pocket watch into his waistcoat as George arched against the Incarcerous, shout cracking.</p><p>Something hot and wet streaked down her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Not-Marcus turned and regarded George. “I think that’s enough,” he said, finally, with a little shrug.</p><p>The other man’s wand slashed, and George collapsed back, gasping, eyes unfocused on the ceiling.</p><p>“That’s a new one,” the imposter said brightly. “A Crucio that builds to full strength. Wasn’t sure how long it would take on someone of his size.” He glanced back at Hermione. “Twenty-three seconds, if you’re curious.”</p><p>She was not curious.</p><p>“Don’t be so sour,” Not-Marcus said. “We could’ve always forced your mouth open again, but I hate to make a mess.” He paused. “Besides, I think this was a helpful exercise.” He shot her a wide smile. “Don’t you?”</p><p>She’d intended to ignore the question, but try as she might, the searing lit her skull, and she spat “No!”</p><p>Hermione clamped her mouth shut.</p><p>So, it was Veritaserum, then.</p><p>What did she know about Veritaserum?</p><p>Some Occlumens could partially resist it, with proper training. But she didn’t have that training.</p><p>At least there were no more green ones. They couldn’t use it on him as well.</p><p>George groaned and turned to face her. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat—or was it the water from the glass earlier? His face was splotchy and red.</p><p>“Are you okay?” she choked.</p><p>George sucked in a ragged breath, shut his eyes, and nodded the slightest bit.</p><p>Not-Marcus leaned back against the desk and let out a tssk sound, then cocked his head at Hermione. “How did you remove the potion?” he asked.</p><p>Her mind shook, heat crawling, and she found the question spilling out. “Potion?”</p><p>Not-Marcus lifted his hand and waved it a bit, as though searching for the words. “Venoms. Extracts. Curse. Whatever you’ve taken to calling it—the files used more than a few terms. Notes were all over the place, really.”</p><p>Nurse Sam snorted, and Not-Marcus shot her a grin.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, but the searing feeling crawled along the inside of her skull—hotter, hotter, hotter.</p><p>A clanging echoed in her mind.</p><p>Not-Marcus lifted his brows.</p><p>“I caste a Patronus Charm,” she spat, when the burning threatened to eat away the very heart of her.</p><p>Not-Marcus’s gaze narrowed, and he pursed his lips together. “That should be impossible,” he said. “And I should know. I’m quite experienced with this sort of thing.”</p><p>The taller hood beside George made a small scoff, and Not-Marcus’s gaze flicked in that direction. The merry façade faded momentarily before snapping back into place. “Of course, you must think it to be true,” he began again brightly. “Let’s get to the bottom of this. How, exactly, did you caste it? Was it fully formed or not?”</p><p>She gritted her teeth and fought, but the question seemed to snare her. “I-I don’t remember what happened,” she gasped, and the burning sensation ebbed the slightest bit. “That’s only what I was told.”</p><p>Not-Marcus placed his hands on his thighs and stared at the floor, apparently lost in thought. He brought a hand to his mouth and chewed his thumbnail. “What do you know?” he asked softly, still watching the floor.</p><p>Hermione bit down hard enough to draw blood from the inside of her lips.</p><p>The searing rushed, hotter—hotter—hotter—</p><p>She’d have to tell him. About all of her suspicions, about the frost on the doorhandle, about Merlinsguard, about Vane, about the portraits in the papers, the stringboard in the shed. The glowing cord and the magical bond. The lighthouse photo, and the owl to Aunt Muriel, and the case against the task force, and the—the—the goblin wand distribution—</p><p>No.</p><p>The pain circled the secrets, pressure building. Trapped.</p><p>George met her eyes. “Trees,” he mouthed. “Pine trees.”</p><p>So, Hermione thought of a pine trees—great, tall ones that stretched into the grey, winter sky outside the Hogwarts grounds and around Hogsmeade. Trunks sprouting out from the ground, planted so thick and dense that if one were to slip between the branches, they might never be seen again.</p><p>Hermione locked eyes with George and thought of those trees. They became realer and realer, tinged with a spark of magic that surged in her skull, but didn’t try to leave it. The sharp tang of evergreen scent, the individual needles, the press of entwined roots against her instep, amidst the undergrowth. Hermione Jean flung herself between the trunks and into the forest.</p><p>Deeper.</p><p>Deeper.</p><p>The burning potion chased her, but the trees were so thick, and she knew them. By heart. She might’ve been sitting in that cold, hard chair, but Hermione’s feet were almost certainly in another place entirely—pounding over soft packed earth, placing distance between her and the danger. Deadening it.</p><p>She skirted the branches, twisting, further and further, until she was able to dodge the question.</p><p>The potion rattled through her body, and when it wrenched her mouth free, she deliberately misinterpreted the phrasing.</p><p>“I know that George loves me,” she said, for reasons of which she didn’t understand. She hadn’t planned to say it. It seemed to come from—from the trees. She sucked in a breath, before Not-Marcus could follow up. “And I know that ‘<em>Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was founded in—’” </em></p><p>The opening chapter of <em>Hogwarts: A History</em> came spilling over her tongue, fast as her feet could fly. There were a great many words in that book. And Hermione knew them all.</p><p>By heart.</p><p>George nodded, wheezing still, and something almost like pride flickered over his face before he schooled his expression.</p><p>Not-Marcus heaved out a sigh. “That’s not the question. I meant, what do you know about all of this? What are you planning? What are Ronald Weasley—” He spat the name. “—and Harry Potter planning?”</p><p>Hermione prattled on, describing the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor—down to the color of cobblestone laid before his father’s ancestral home.</p><p>Not-Marcus’s face tightened. “Shut up,” he snapped.</p><p>All those nights sucking back tears—all those hours, reading about Godric, Helga, Rowena, and Salazar in a dusty, overlooked volume to numb the lonely dark—all of them had been worth it.</p><p>But it was a truth-telling potion, not an obedience potion, and Hermione was feeling a bit rebellious.</p><p>“She knows quite a lot,” George’s voice rasped, and he tipped his head back to the ceiling with a tired, relieved-looking smile. “One of my favorite things about her, really.”</p><p>Not-Marcus sighed and drummed his fingers on his arm, then paced back to the box. He glanced over the contents, tracing a fingertip to the vials. He glanced at George, then back at the box before plucking out the copper one.</p><p>“This is a particularly nasty concoction,” he said lightly. He strolled over to George and lifted the bottle to his face, white label facing out.</p><p>George’s gaze fell on the scrawl. She couldn’t make out what it said from across the office, but George seemed to stiffen. He swallowed. “Keep going, Granger,” he said, tone even and firm.</p><p>She did.</p><p>“Why don’t you read that out loud for the rest of us?” Not-Marcus said cooly.</p><p>“No thanks,” George answered, gazing up into Not-Marcus’s eyes with a steely look.</p><p>Something cold lodged under Hermione’s chest, but she kept talking.</p><p>Not-Marcus spun to Nurse Sam. “Could you set up everything with the timer in the lobby and perhaps check the silencing wards? Maybe add a few more,” he said. “I think we’ll have need of it.”</p><p>Hermione’s stomach dropped out, and her voice wobbled over the birth order of Godric’s eleven siblings.</p><p>Nurse Sam pulled a black vial from the box, then reached up onto the bookshelf to retrieve a terracotta pot with a warped, brittle sprig of Dittany inside. The leaves were shriveled and brown. She stepped from the room, in quick strides.</p><p>Not-Marcus turned, lifting the copper vial to the light. “Boggart Venom,” he said. He blinked at Hermione. “Extracted and packed into a tidy little essence. Like potion. Only takes one drop. I’ve heard it can make one quite mad.”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter,” George said tightly. “Do it. I don’t care.”</p><p>But he did. She could see it. His frame was rigid, and his rasp had quickened. His hands clutched the chair arms.</p><p>Not-Marcus scoffed. “I don’t believe that for a moment,” he said. “Hold him.” The man behind George grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head back. A few strands came free, and George winced. Not-Marcus paced closer, and George’s chest rose and fell at a rapid clip, but his jaw remained set, his eyes steady.</p><p>Hermione’s stream of chatter stuttered.</p><p>“Don’t stop, Hermione!” George shouted, not looking at her. “No matter what. You listening? You keep going, now.”</p><p>When the spike of the vial neared the abrasion on the side of George’s face, he flinched. But then he steadied. “It’s my choice, Hermione,” he called, again, as Hermione’s voice pinched over the bit about Godric’s older brother’s apprenticeship with a local Goblin blacksmith. His eyes narrowed on not-Marcus. “Go on, then.”</p><p>Not-Marcus raised his brows. “You sure about that?” he asked. George firmed his jaw. Not-Marcus shrugged. Then, he swiped a rag—a long strip of black cloth, from the base of the box. His eyes fixed on George’s as he unstoppered the vial and dumped its entire contents over the rag.</p><p>The copper shine glimmered on the material.</p><p>But he didn’t lift it to George.</p><p>No.</p><p>Not-Marcus crossed the room. “This ought to drive the point home.”</p><p>“Wait—” George said.</p><p>Not-Marcus lifted it over Hermione’s head, and the hooded figure took it.</p><p>“Wait—no!” George shouted. “Stop!” A clatter, as George threw his shoulders so hard against the Incarcerous that his chair smashed into the wall.</p><p>The rag yanked against her mouth, burning the edges, then choked up against her tongue. It tasted like blood and smoke. Her head jolted as they tied it into a gag, snagging it in her curls.</p><p>But she kept talking, though the words were malformed. She mustn’t stop.</p><p>She must not stop.</p><p>No matter what, George had said.</p><p>She would be brave.</p><p>Muddy, copper smoke flourished up from the ground.</p><p>A clamor sounded, somewhere beyond the corridor.</p><p>Not-Marcus paused. He glanced at the door.</p><p>“We don’t have time for this,” the man behind George spat. “We’re already far off plan. Get what you need and clean up already.”</p><p>“Please—don’t!” George’s agonized cry spun through the haze.</p><p>A shrill cackle pierced the air.</p><p>Had Godric’s walking cape been yellow or red? She couldn’t recall. Red. Red. It was red, of course.</p><p>The imposter clutched a hand around the vial, then spun to Hermione. His step was quick, and he smacked the empty vial on the desk. “Start packing it away,” he muttered to the man behind Hermione. The wizard started towards the box, closing it up and casting a sequence of cushioning and shield charms over the front.</p><p>The latch made a clicking sound, as the smoke swirled higher.</p><p>Twisted, flickering visions spun to life.</p><p>Bellatrix, poised over George in the corner, beside the bookshelves.</p><p>It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.</p><p>It was a potion. It was only the potion.</p><p>Bellatrix drew back a flash of silver. “I don’t know where she is. I don’t, I swear it!” he gasped, sprawled on the fogged-over tile.</p><p>Bellatrix screeched with laughter. “I don’t believe you!” she shrieked in an off-pitch sing-song.</p><p>“No-no-no, please, wait, please—” he struggled, begging rapidly. His sentence broke into a sharp, guttural cry as she lunged over his arm. His legs twisted and shuddered.</p><p>Hermione’s stomach wrenched. The rag jumbled Hermione’s words about Godric’s penchant for exploration and adventure to nonsense sounds, but she sputtered on.</p><p>Not-Marcus stepped through the fog and tugged at his waistcoat in a sharp, tense motion. This time, when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “If you won’t tell me, I shall have to go in and take it by force, you know,” he said.</p><p>George was screaming. <em>Screaming</em>.</p><p>Hermione twisted her head to the side.</p><p>Don’t look at it. But—but it was here, too. Just in front of her.</p><p>The flickering image seemed to solidify, taking on the same color and shape as the rest of the room’s inhabitants. Or rather—were the rest of them fading?</p><p>George pleading. “Please—please—I can’t—” He shattered into a retching sound that that ripped through her chest like fire.</p><p>Bellatrix would kill him. He was going to die.</p><p>She squeezed her eyes shut, but she still saw it.</p><p>She couldn’t breathe, and her inarticulation swerved high.</p><p>The smoke crept higher as she choked over the information about Godric’s first duel.</p><p>“The trees, Hermione!” George cried. But was it the real George? What was real?</p><p>There was a thud and a sharp yelp.</p><p>Everything was fading—the only clear tether to before was the sight of Not-Marcus, advancing on her.</p><p>“Hermione—” George shouted. “The pine trees!”</p><p>She sucked in a breath through her nose. Evergreen. Bark under her fingers, pine in her lungs.</p><p>Think.</p><p>Boggart Venom. Boggart Venom.</p><p>
  <em>“You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.”</em>
</p><p>Professor Lupin’s voice echoed in her head.</p><p>Hermione opened her eyes.</p><p>Pines, tall as towers, sprouted up from the copper-fogged tile, bursting through the ceiling.</p><p>The best place to hunt for magical mushrooms was on the north side of the tree trunks.</p><p>The thought was odd, cropping up into the stream of details about the forging of Godric’s blade.</p><p>The agonizing screams were still there. But they were—they were further away.</p><p>It was simple. She would bring the forest here. Push it into the copper smoke.</p><p>The sensation of wind-whipped cheeks and snowflakes in her eyelashes. The crunch of boots on snow and earth and dropped needles.</p><p>The mist shuddered.</p><p>She would bring it here, and because she could, she would imagine something nice. Something amusing.</p><p>
  <em>“It’s always best to have company when you’re dealing with a boggart.”</em>
</p><p>She focused hard on a space between a group of trees in the distance. An elf appeared—chattering and hopping around the roots and frost-coated bushes. And—and a grumpy, lanky man, hoisting a large basket higher on his chest.</p><p>She would bring George to the forest. Because George never failed to make her laugh.</p><p>“Haven’t we got enough?” George called, ducking under a branch. His image flickered through the desk as he strode.</p><p>“Winky will say when there’s enough!” The elf shouted. “Wheezy isn’t afraid of a walk, is he?”</p><p>Hermione snorted, and George spun to look at her. “Oi, I’ll have you know, this is heavy.” Sun sparkled in his eyes, and a lopsided, wry grin lit his face, stretching his freckles. A light sprinkling of snow filtered down through the branches, flakes catching on a deep, purple scarf that he had wrapped about his neck. “Y’know, I’m about through with this cheeky attitude from you today. The least you could do is offer a bit of gratitude, like—” He hiked the basket higher and swung his voice into a breathy lilt. “Oh, George, you’re so impressive and strong, and—and attractive, too.”</p><p>Hermione blinked hard.</p><p>Focused her gaze on the intruder.</p><p>Narrowed her eyes.</p><p>And laughed.</p><p>The sound of her muffled, giggle-laced explanation of Godric’s route north bounced through the tree canopy. Not a word of it was discernable, except to her, but what did it matter?</p><p>She laughed harder.</p><p>Not-Marcus paused. His brow furrowed as he looked wildly over her face. Then, he ripped the gag from her mouth.</p><p>The trees remained, but they shimmered in place, beginning to fade.</p><p>George flickered. “I mean, really, I’m trying to be a gentleman, here,” he said, dropping his pitch back to normal, tone laced with false incredulity.</p><p>Hermione laughed harder, wheezing about Godric’s courage.</p><p>A hard smack rang against the side of her head, snapping her face towards the hearth. Hermione’s voice hitched at the blow, laughter cutting. A cry of outrage on her right. And Hermione kept reading, as though the page was right in front of her.</p><p>“Enough.” Someone wrenched her face forward, and Not-Marcus’s wand point pressed to Hermione’s brow. “I’m afraid it’ll be a nasty business in your injured state.” He spoke over her prattle. “It could melt your brain into a sticky puddle on the inside of your skull, empty you right out. Not what we had planned for today, however—” He smiled tightly. “I will if I must.”</p><p>Hermione lifted her chin and began to enunciate. <em>“And it was there that Godric met his closest friend, Helga—” </em>she said.</p><p>Not-Marcus did a little shrug with one shoulder, then his gaze fixed on hers with intensity. “Memory charms were always my specialty, but—” He leaned in and spoke in a hiss. “—I’ll make do.”</p><p>He uttered the Legilimens spell. Unbearable cold blossomed through her mind. She stuttered.</p><p>“Focus, Hermione!” George’s frantic shout echoed from someplace distant.</p><p>Not-Marcus flinched and twisted his wand.</p><p>The amusing bits of imaginings winked out.</p><p>Pieces of the room leaked into view. The tile. The chair. George’s frantic expression as he struggled.</p><p>The trees creaked and groaned, winking in and out of existence.</p><p>No—no—</p><p>The pressure in her head built, and Hermione gasped, tears crowding her eyes as she stumbled over a line about Godric’s journey into the Highlands.</p><p>A terrible clang echoed through her head, and with it, a flaying cold, surging out over her spine and down her limbs.</p><p>It was—it was too much.</p><p>Something hot trickled from her nose, and her—her arms were shuddering. She wasn’t moving them. She couldn’t—but they were shuddering. Involuntarily shaking as everything turned to agony.</p><p>Hermione, who had not been silent for a moment since she pictured the pine trees, cut out.</p><p>George’s hoarse cry crashed through the room.</p><p>A clatter sounded from the hall.</p><p>Something slammed close by in the corridor, and the door shuddered.</p><p>At the sound, Not-Marcus jumped back, and the Legilimens cut.</p><p>Hermione blinked, catching a sob between her teeth.</p><p>“Hermione—” George said.</p><p>Lifting her head was hard. George’s brown eyes were wide and raw, but as she turned to him, he heaved a breath out. Then, he strained to look over his shoulder as the door rattled again.</p><p>“Enough, Gilderoy!” The man over George snapped. “We’re out of time! Do it now!”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>
  <em>“Gilderoy”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Writer’s Block.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Memory charms were always my specialty.” </em>
</p><p>“Professor Lockhart,” she whispered.</p><p>Not-Marcus raised his brows, then his wand. The briefest flicker of satisfaction crossed his features as his lips formed the shape of an “O.”</p><p>The door blasted to splinters, and wood rained across the room.</p><p>“Oi!” a familiar voice shouted.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath and craned her neck.</p><p>Fred Weasley stood in the frame, sleeve rolled the to elbow, three watches ticking like mad on his wrist.</p><p>“It’s about bloody time!” George shouted, the words half sob.</p><p>Fred’s wand slashed, and his focus fixed on Lockhart. “I reckoned you could use a second!” he roared, lifting his watch arm overhead towards George as he blasted a stunning jinx across the room with the other hand.</p><p>Lockhart snatched up the box and ducked for the fireplace, and the man who’d been packing it lunged after him.</p><p>So the floo was connected, then. The observation hit her, numb.</p><p>Fred flung a jinx at the floo-bowl, and powder burst through the office, sparking green and fizzing out where it pelted hard surfaces.</p><p>An angry shout as two more redheads burst through the door. Bill’s wand was already out, and his nonverbal spell launched Lockhart from the hearth, over the desk.</p><p>The hooded figure ducked between Hermione’s chair and the wall, and something sharp prodded her temple. “I’ll do it!” he shouted.</p><p>Everything froze.</p><p>Fred, Bill, and Charlie’s gaze fell to Hermione. Something feral flickered over Fred’s features.</p><p>“Bad move,” Fred whispered.</p><p>His wand twisted, and the knockback jinx whistled like a bottle rocket, pinging the hooded figure between the eyes.</p><p>The wandpoint flung away, and a crash boomed behind her.</p><p>Spellfire grew thick, and a second voice shouted out a counter spell. George tumbled free as the Incarcerous vanished. The spells binding her in place cut, and amidst the blasts of color and magic, two hands eased her arms over the chair back, and suddenly, she found herself being hoisted into the corridor, then propped against the wall.</p><p>“What’ve we here?” Charlie’s voice echoed from behind her, and the grasp slipped to her wrists.</p><p>“Charlie,” she was sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. “George is—George is—”</p><p>“Shhhhh—” Charlie mumbled, and she could feel him fumbling around the steel. “We’ll sort it.”</p><p>Cracks of magic and shouting boomed from Marcus’s office. Bill ducked from the room, face a mask of fury. “Charles,” he snapped. “Take them and go.” He dumped George into the hall beside them, against the wall opposite the room. George slumped to the ground, back to the scuffed paint as Bill rejoined the fray, wand aloft.</p><p>His breath was fast and shallow, and his skin looked pale.</p><p>Clipped footsteps echoed up the tile. “She got away, I’m afraid.” Percy’s voice. “There are too many ruddy floos in this—” His voice halted. “What’s happened to Hermione?”</p><p>And somehow, there hadn’t been enough floos for them to get away.</p><p>“The cuffs—they take our magic,” Hermione cried as a green flash and a loud whoosh lit the office door frame. “Get them off. Get them off now. Our wands are inside, and—”</p><p>Percy nodded and dashed into the room.</p><p>Charlie’s wand worked inside the cuffs, and the metal tightened as he muttered. Her head throbbed and spun. “Hurry,” she choked.</p><p>“Confringo!”</p><p>The explosion tore through the ward. Red fire blossomed, its heat blistering her back, and the wall blasted to rubble as Charlie cried, “Protego!”</p><p>The shield caught most of the rock. Most of it. A sizeable chip clipped her shoulder, and another her leg as dust billowed against the blue glimmer.</p><p>The office stood, open to the hall. Marcus’s nameplate that had hung to the left of the door was now embedded, edge first, in the drywall near her shoulder. A scorch marked the letters over “Kettering.”</p><p>As the ringing in her ears cleared, George’s frantic shout reached her: “Fred!”</p><p>One of the hooded figures had been knocked over by the explosion, but Lockhart and the taller one stumbled through the hole, clutching the box. A streak of copper appeared in the dust, then two, then three.</p><p>Hermione let out her breath as Fred and Bill tripped out after the men. Fred’s charge was undeterred, but Bill, who had a bloody nose and a slight hitch in his step, struggled to keep up with Fred’s pace. Four steps in, and he stumbled to the side.</p><p>Percy Weasley, decked in back and hair coated in plaster, had an odd look about him. A cold, sharp, edge gleamed in his eyes. “Bill!” he practically barked the name.</p><p>Bill faltered, but didn’t stop, waving Percy off with a swipe of his hand as he lurched after Fred and the others at a slower, more uneven pace. Off balance.</p><p>Concussion.</p><p>Perce tossed two sticks towards Charlie, then pulled his own wand free. He grimaced, and his eyes narrowed, teeth gritted in a snarl as he strode after the others. “Why does no one ever listen to me?” he shouted. The sound had an extra layer, like a low growl that rumbled beneath it.</p><p>Charlie slipped the wands into Hermione’s hands, then returned to fiddling with the cuffs, muttering under his breath. “Alohomora,” he tried again. The shackles didn’t budge. He swore.</p><p>Bill hit the floor and began to dry heave.</p><p>The double doors banged open.</p><p>Ron and Ginny surged through, cutting Lockhart and the robed figure off at the end of the hall. The two veered left, charging into a room. Ginny whipped something shiny and silver into the doorway after them, and a shrill shriek echoed along the tile.</p><p>Hermione’s knees gave out.</p><p>“Easy—!” Charlie shouted, heaving her aloft. Another flash of silver, and this time, they both caved as some sort of artificial Veela call whistled around them.</p><p>Charlie’s clipped curse bit through the ringing.</p><p>Ron and Ginny disappeared into the office, and it seemed as though Fred and Percy were helping Bill to his feet, just beside it.</p><p>There was a roaring noise, like rushing, and yelling.</p><p>Then everything went still, save for the sound of her own breath, short and fast.</p><p>“Gin?” Fred shouted. “Ron?”</p><p>At first, there was no answer.</p><p>Then, a volley of curse words boomed, and then Ron emerged from the office. “They got to the floo.” A ragged, short exhale echoed beside Hermione, and she twisted her head to face George.</p><p>His legs sprawled over the ground, and dust and debris stuck to the sweat on his face. His eyes were shut as he took in shallow gulps of air. Air that tasted heavy and chalky.</p><p>She was—she was forgetting something.</p><p>Hyperventilation.</p><p>That wasn’t good.</p><p>Hermione shoved her elbow against the wall, then scrambled and kicked her legs through the cuffs to bring her arms in front. Rubble skittered under her fingers as she grappled to reach him.</p><p>Charlie’s moan sounded from her opposite side. “Is everyone alive?” he called.</p><p>“One.” Bill’s gasp echoed on the tile.</p><p>“Two,” Charlie called back.</p><p>“Three.” Percy snapped.</p><p>“Four,” Fred yelled.</p><p>A pause. George didn’t seem to register the noise.</p><p>“George,” she said, but it came out like a croak. His face contorted. “He’s breathing,” she shouted. “He’s just—”</p><p>“Five—” came George’s wheeze.</p><p>“Six,” came Ron’s shout.</p><p>Followed shortly by a feral sounding “Seven.” Ginny stomped from the room. “They called out Wandlebury Ring, but no city name.”</p><p>What was it? It was just there, lingering out of reach. Something important.</p><p>Footsteps clashed up the tile, and then hands surrounded them as the Weasleys huddled around Charlie, Hermione, and George.</p><p>“Did the Confringo hit him?” Fred asked, crouching, a look of terror coming over him.</p><p>“M’fine,” George gasped. “Hermione—get her home.”</p><p>“Bloody floo,” Ron muttered. He grasped Hermione by the arms and pulled her to her feet, then yanked a plug from his ear. “Alright?”</p><p>She shook her head. “Get—” she gasped. “The restraints.”</p><p>The panic rushed in her ears, and her whole frame shook—from shock or adrenaline or anger. She wasn’t sure which.</p><p>What was it? It was just there, lingering out of reach. Something important.</p><p>Her heart wouldn’t stop racing.</p><p>Ron’s look hardened as he took in the familiar cuffs. Then, he jimmied his wand into the mechanism and began to mutter under his breath. Magic pulsed from his wand in waves.</p><p>Bill slumped against the wall beside Charlie. “Not a word of this to Fleur,” he muttered. Then: “Someone get George off the floor.”</p><p>The cuffs constricted a bit on Hermione’s wrists.</p><p>Bill’s wand slashed, and a breeze swept through the space, clearing away some of the grime hanging in the air. Fred and Percy knelt to lift George, but as they pulled him aloft, George let out a short yelp.</p><p>“Careful!” Hermione cried, peering around Ron. “His wrists, they’re—”</p><p>Fred released George, wide-eyed, and let out a short gasp. Percy’s wand began to move through a diagnostic spell. Runes spun through the air, far too many red ones floating amidst the white, and her mind scooped up the data.</p><p>Shattered Scaphoids and Trapeziums, cracked Ulnas—</p><p>“George,” she whispered.</p><p>He faced Hermione with his left shoulder propped against the wall. His face was whiter than the eggshell shade painted there, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.  </p><p>It felt like something large was stepping on her chest. Squeezing the air out.</p><p>Fred hadn’t moved. He looked almost as pale as George was. “Mate,” he said quietly.</p><p>George’s mouth thinned. “It’s fine,” he ground out. “Get ‘em off.”</p><p>Fred reached down, and George’s frame tensed. “Gently!” he hissed.</p><p>Hermione’s cuffs constricted tighter, then tighter. “Ron—” she started.</p><p>“Almost,” Ron mumbled. “They do that when they’re about to—”</p><p>They swung free, clanging on the floor.</p><p>Her head lurched at the noise.</p><p>She rubbed her forearms, willing the flush of terror to recede. It should be safe, now. She could caste again, and the odd, numb feeling that had pulled from her wrists was gone.</p><p>Everything should be fine.</p><p>Despite her free wrists, the panic didn’t fade.</p><p>Instead, it ratcheted up.</p><p>There was something—something—</p><p>Ron was striding to Percy and Fred, and his voice sounded oddly warped. “Never mind—Let me,” he said. “I know how they work.”</p><p>Fred stepped back. “I could’ve figured it out,” he muttered.</p><p>Hermione ground her hands into her temples. “I can’t think,” she whispered.</p><p>“Yeah,” Ron said, as though it were obvious. “But his wrists won’t thank you for it. Keep his arms still.”</p><p>She needed to slow her breathing. This was shock—or—or—</p><p>“They’ll be fine,” George muttered, tensing as Ron set to work. Then, he winced and turned his head to speak through gritted teeth over his shoulder. “Do you mind—” he broke into a hiss.</p><p>She couldn’t catch her breath.</p><p>“I’m being as careful as I can,” Ron said, quiet.</p><p>George swallowed. “Sorry.” He turned back towards her. His eyes rounded.</p><p>What was—</p><p>“Hermione?” George’s voice came in a whisper, but it was almost like he was speaking from above the surface of water, and she was submerged.</p><p>“I can’t—” she stopped. Blinked. “No.”</p><p>Heart banging in her eardrums.</p><p>Drowning.</p><p>She tripped back. She was failing. Failing. Failing. Failing. Failing.</p><p>“Could someone please help my wife?” George snapped.</p><p>Fred backed away, and Percy took his place steadying George’s arms.</p><p>“You okay, Hermione?” Fred asked quietly.</p><p>“I—” she blinked. Her insides were shaking. “Something isn’t right.”</p><p>A second clang. Hermione blinked and jolted.</p><p>George shifted, as though he might reach for her, but Ron snatched his arms back.</p><p>“Hold still,” Ron said. “Percy’s got to set your wrists.”</p><p>George grimaced. “Make it quick,” he said.</p><p>“I’ll make it right,” Percy said in a clipped tone. “Not quick. ‘Make it quick,’ these are your hands you daft—” his voice dropped off as his cool stare worked over George’s back. “I’ll have to immobilize them for now. This is too much to do on site.”</p><p>Her heart was throttling, unsteady in her ribs. “George—” she tried. Her voice pinched off. He stared at her, anxious. Hermione swallowed and twined her arms around his neck.</p><p>“Granger?” George said.</p><p>She needed to think, but she couldn’t think until she could breathe, and she couldn’t breathe until she calmed down. “I just need to hold onto something,” she whispered.</p><p>“Happy to oblige,” he murmured. “You okay?”</p><p>“No, it’s—.”</p><p>She couldn’t string together the bits and pieces. There was something, and she was too fragmented to think clearly.</p><p>Fred glanced down at his forearm. He frowned. Tapped the glass face on one of the watches. “Um—”</p><p>Charlie’s yelp echoed down the tile. Hermione whirled. Charlie clutched his hand, staring down at the double doors.</p><p>“It burned me,” he shouted. “There’s some sort of—”</p><p>It hit her, then. What she had forgotten.</p><p>The timer.</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth. </p><p>Bill yelled, unleashing a blinding, massive wave of aquamarine as—</p><p>
  <em>Boom.</em>
</p><p>Surely, the loudest noise she’d ever heard.</p><p>Light and sound unraveled.</p><p>The double doors flung wide off their hinges, and Charlie’s body soared backwards as deadly white rushed at them.</p><p>Hermione threw her arm in front of George.</p><p>Doors did not flip through the air.</p><p>Not usually.</p><p>That was her last thought before her feet untethered from the floor.</p><p>Weightless.</p><p>#</p><p>Rushing, roaring.</p><p>Breathing was fire.</p><p>Where was George?</p><p>#</p><p>Something hard under her back.</p><p>"Charlie?"</p><p>She couldn’t open her mouth.</p><p>“No—no—She’s not breathing!”</p><p>George.</p><p>Who wasn’t breathing?</p><p>“Move—” a harsh, barking snap.</p><p>#</p><p>“—only one still out, besides Charlie.” A familiar, clipped voice echoed overhead.</p><p>A shard of dim light. A glint off of a pair of spectacles. Percy’s gaunt, scorched face leaned over her. “Vulnera Sanentur,” he said. Then: “They’d better hurry up with that Dittany.”</p><p>Spinning runes.</p><p>So, so many red ones.</p><p>A flash of blurry copper, over his shoulder.</p><p>“Was it—” a second voice, this one like—like <em>him</em>, only not quite. “Was it ice from the initial blast, d’you think?”</p><p>“There’s no way to tell,” Percy snapped. The room swayed through her eyelashes. “Unless you’d like to shake her awake?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“No need to get snippy,” the second voice said.  </p><p>Everything hurt.</p><p>Another pause.</p><p>“It’d kill him.” A soft mutter, that second voice again.</p><p>Fred, she realized. It was Fred.</p><p>“Salazar,” Fred whispered. “It’ll kill George, if she—”</p><p>George.</p><p>Where was George?</p><p>She blinked hard.</p><p>Percy started forward. “Hermione?” he asked.</p><p>A rushing sound, and heat blossomed against her side. “We got it!” A hoarse wheeze. “Knew—knew there was more—”</p><p>“She’s opened her eyes, just now,” Fred said hurriedly. “Quick, hand it over, Gin.”</p><p>Something thudded by her head, opposite of Percy.</p><p>And then George’s face was there. Streaked and scorched, just like Percy’s.</p><p>But there.</p><p>The pinch in her chest eased.</p><p>“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’ve got you,” he said, and he sounded winded. “Had to run to the flat for more.” He searched over her, speaking rapidly. “It’s okay. Yeah? It’s okay.” It was like he was trying to reassure someone, but she wasn’t sure that it was her. He leaned in and rested a hand on her forehead, but his fingers were stiff and unmoving.</p><p>Why was his hand like that? Like he was frozen, but still warm.</p><p>Hermione knit her brows together.</p><p>There was a popping sound—a stopper.</p><p>George studied her face. “Granger?” he said. He swallowed.</p><p>She opened her mouth. She meant to ask him what was wrong, but she was so terribly glad to see him. He’d been gone, but now he was here, and that was ever so much better, really.</p><p>“There you are,” she mumbled.</p><p>George exhaled and closed his eyes. “Yeah.”</p><p>Something splashed and fizzed over her temples. Her head went light.</p><p>#</p><p>May 13, 2003, 3:15 p.m.</p><p>Hermione woke with a gasp. It wasn’t a slow waking. Not the type where you drift into yourself bit by bit.</p><p>No, this was hurtling upright, drawing in air like she was drowning, heart pounding wakefulness.</p><p>Ron knelt over her, wand in hand and a grimace on his face. “Easy, Mione,” he said, lifting a hand in front of her face. “We’re all okay. Everything’s fine.”</p><p>“We’re alive.” Percy’s voice cut in from the side. “I would hardly classify most of us as ‘okay.’”</p><p>“Awake, then,” Ron said, shooting a hard look over Hermione’s shoulder.</p><p>Hermione blinked hard. Ron’s grey auror robes were scorched and torn. But the Burrow’s living room rug was under her hands.</p><p>“You should be resting, but it really can’t wait,” Ron said. “I need to—”</p><p>“Would you give her a minute to breathe?” George snapped from somewhere behind her. Hermione turned. The room tipped slightly with the motion. Several yards away, George glared from the armchair as Percy crouched over his left arm, muttering softly. A crack echoed, and George’s face contorted as he jolted. His foot slammed into the floorboards. He whipped his head towards Percy. “Bugger—” he yelped. “What did I just say, Mate?”</p><p>“Let Hermione breathe,” Percy muttered, checking the spinning runes above George, then tracing his wand tip up a few inches.</p><p>George huffed. “Before that.”</p><p>“Warn you,” Percy mumbled, voice flat and distracted. “Stop throwing a fit. You’re a grown man.”</p><p>Another crack, and a sharp, pained inhale hissed through George’s clenched teeth.</p><p>What was that about?</p><p>And why was she so far away?</p><p>Hermione pushed her hands to the floorboards and scooted back. Gravity swayed.</p><p>Slowly. She’d have to do this slowly.</p><p>“Mione?” Ron asked.</p><p>“Sorry, um—” she said, pushing herself back again. Then once more, until her shoulders bumped George’s shins.</p><p>Hermione wound her left arm under and around George’s left calf, then tilted her head to rest against his leg. The world seemed to stabilize, a bit. Ideally, she’d be closer, but this was the best she could manage at present.</p><p>“How’s your head?” George murmured.</p><p>A soft warmth began to seep through the skin on her temple, and Hermione pulled in a deep breath. “It feels like I got hit by the Knight Bus.” Everything felt rather jumbled up, and it was hard to think.</p><p>She’d been so afraid, only moments ago. Hadn’t she?</p><p>A strained pause.</p><p>Ron crossed to her, then knelt. “I am sorry, but I’m heading over soon, and I need to get everyone’s memories before the briefing with Shacklebolt. D’you mind?”</p><p>Hermione pressed the heel of her other hand to her eye. “Um—”</p><p>Another crack.</p><p>George’s frame flinched.</p><p>Hermione tilted her face into his leg. “Are you okay?” she asked.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said. A stiff hand fell over her curls. She blinked and turned to face it. His fingers were warm, but frozen into shape, and the immobilization seemed to reach all the way to his elbow—sort of like a caste.</p><p>“That is definitively untrue,” Percy muttered. “Episky.”</p><p>Another flinch. Then, shakily: “Shut it, Perce.” A scorch mark lined his palm and fingers, and the skin was red and raw looking.</p><p>Then, it all came rushing back. And it felt like the Knight Bus really might’ve hit her.</p><p>“Oh,” she said, suddenly feeling winded. “Oh.” Her voice wavered.</p><p>“He’s not okay,” Percy continued. “And if I were a smarter man, I’d vanish his bones and just let him regrow them.” The comment brought the revelation to the forefront, through the chaos.</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “Lockhart—” She forced the words out. “Ron, it was Lockhart.”</p><p>There was no answer for a few moments. When Hermione brought herself to face the wizard, Ron was frowning. “George did mention that,” he said, slowly. “And it’s not that I don’t believe you, but—”</p><p>“I’m right,” Hermione snapped.</p><p>Ron rubbed his temples, streaking the soot there. “But Mione, Gilderoy’s a real common Wizarding name. It doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the same bloke.”</p><p>Hermione shook her head. “I’m almost certain of it,” she said, swaying slightly as a wave of exhaustion washed through her. “I should’ve seen it sooner. You’ll understand when you watch the memories. The way he was talking—it was the same, almost.”</p><p>Ron winced. “He was barmy, Mione.”</p><p>Hermione breathed out a harsh laugh. “Not anymore.”</p><p>“You’ve got to admit it doesn’t look convincing; Charlie’s old wand did him in!” Ron said. “I was there! And you saw him, that one time—”</p><p>Hermione wrapped her arms around her ribs. “Is he still there, then? In the Janus Thickey ward? Because I haven’t seen him, and I’ve been through Spell Damage more than a few times recently.”</p><p>Ron paused.</p><p>“Well, no,” Ron admitted. “Some people in Mungo’s went missing, after the war. A last-ditch Death Eater strike, or—”</p><p>Hermione’s mouth thinned. </p><p>“But that’s not exactly unique, Mione. Loads of people disappeared during the war,” he said.</p><p>“From a fully-staffed hospital?” Hermione asked flatly.</p><p>“Hermione,” Ron said lowly. “Around that time, Mungo’s had a line out the door. It’s not so hard to believe that a couple of Death Eaters might’ve—.</p><p>“Freed a memory charm expert, right before the start of trials?” she cut in.</p><p>Ron hesitated. A look of horror came over him. “That would’ve given him a way out of Mungo’s without facing consequences.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Hermione said firmly. “And since then, he’s been Polyjuicing himself, running around and—and—”</p><p>Something cold settled in her chest. “—Obliviating people.” She finished in a whisper.</p><p>George stiffened behind her. “Salazar.”</p><p>“Hold still,” Percy snapped.</p><p>“You don’t think—” Ron started.</p><p>Her mind whirred.</p><p>Who else had wiped memories so completely that the victims had never been found? Who made a living off of stealing lives and stories?</p><p>Lockhart.</p><p>And Hermione’s memory loss was anything but normal. It didn’t quite fit the patterns of stagnation or regression, nor did they return like they did for other people.</p><p>He’d been involved. He had been there, that day. Perhaps in Polyjuice.</p><p>She knew it.</p><p>George cleared his throat. “The—the people he Obliviated, though—” His voice sounded odd. Strained. “They never recovered?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and wrapped her arm a bit more snugly around his shin. “I don’t think so,” she whispered.</p><p>“Right,” George said. “Okay.” He was trying to sound casual, but he was failing terribly.</p><p>“Maybe it was someone else,” she whispered. “It doesn’t necessarily mean—” she trailed off, staring at the striped rug beneath her folded legs.</p><p>Percy’s soft casting was the only sound for a few minutes. That and George’s tight, uneven breath. Without speaking, Hermione shifted her left hand up a bit to rest on his knee.</p><p>Then, slowly, George’s battered hand brushed hers, closing overtop of it somewhat awkwardly, due to the rigidity.</p><p>“D’you think he’s been that Healer this whole time?” Ron finally asked.</p><p>“No,” George said firmly, leaning forward a bit. “Last time I saw him in person, Marcus was himself, but that was—” he exhaled roughly. “—that was weeks ago. A month, maybe.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“We already sent word to McGonagall,” George said.</p><p>Hermione twisted to look over her shoulder. “McGonagall?” she asked. “Not Minister Shacklebolt?”</p><p>“Oh, no, I meant, um—” George swallowed. “He’s got a kid. Emmeline.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Lockhart?” she asked.</p><p>“No,” George said softly. “Healer Marcus. Marcus has a kid at Hogwarts. She’s a sixth year, I think.”</p><p>The breath sucked from her lungs.</p><p>“We’ve got to go check on her,” Hermione whispered. “If they targeted Marcus, she could be—” She shoved her hands against the floor, making to stand, but her head lurched and spun wildly.</p><p>“Hermione,” Percy said disapprovingly. “You’re in no condition.”</p><p>Ron’s mouth was a grim line, and his face lined with worry. “Sit tight. We’re already sorting it with McGonagall, okay?”</p><p>Hermione grimaced.</p><p>Then a new wave of horror gripped her as she remembered Lockhart’s casual recitation of her parents’ street corner. “My parents—he—he knows where they live.”</p><p>“I already explained,” George said quickly. “They’ve got people there now.”</p><p>Ron nodded. “Their location—it’s not necessarily a secret,” he said quietly. “You’ve been documented heading in and out of that area often, for years. But the fact that he saw fit to mention it—that’s not a good sign.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve got to—”</p><p>“Not yet,” Ron said. “We’ve already got people on it. Good people.”</p><p>Hermione glared. “As good as me?”</p><p>“Better,” Ron said, with an edge in his tone. “Considering that you’ve got to sit still until your head rune turns white.” His gaze flickered to the space beside her ear. Hermione twisted. There, in mid-air, was an orange, floating rune, but it was twisting too fast for her eyes to catch the line work, and her head had yet to fully clear.</p><p>“Percy?” she asked tightly.</p><p>“Cerebral swelling,” he said. “It’s going down. The spell takes a bit. Was red, until a few minutes ago.”</p><p>Ron winced. “I should’ve let you sleep longer, but I promised I’d drop the memories to Harry before the briefing,” he said. “I promise, though, we’ll will fill you in on the details after. Okay?”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and lowered her chin in a stiff nod. Ron pushed up to his feet. “We’ll find them. Lockhart and your Healer. That’s a promise.”</p><p>His footsteps echoed on the floorboards, and then he disappeared through the back door.</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “Lovely,” she bit off. “Fine. I’ll sit here and be useless.”</p><p>“Not wholly useless,” George mumbled, nudging her with his free leg.</p><p>“Mostly,” she said.</p><p>“Episkey,” Percy said.</p><p>A crack.</p><p>“Agree to disagree,” George said, voice a bit hollow.</p><p>#</p><p>May 13, 2003, 6:30 p.m.</p><p>She’d tried to hardest to scrub the ghost of the events from her skin, until she was red and raw—especially around her wrists. But she could still feel the prickle of spellfire, the harsh, blunt edge of the cuffs, and the panic building under her chest.</p><p>When she emerged, she’d found George downing Skele-Gro in the armchair, still covered in filth as he muttered to Percy, who was bent over parchment at the table. “Offer up here, as well. She won’t ask, but if the school gets compromised, she’ll be safest here,” he said, gesturing. Percy nodded.</p><p>The stair creaked under her foot.</p><p>George’s eyes lit as they landed on her. “You’re looking better,” he said, taking a swig.</p><p>Hermione glanced down. Her hair was pulled into a damp braid, and she’d located the bag with clothing from the flat. She’d hardly had energy to move, so she’d only reached in and grabbed the first, soft things she could find—a random pair of blue pajama bottoms and a soft, grey t-shirt.</p><p>But George was looking at her just now like she’d descended the stairs in a ballgown.</p><p>He still had bits of plaster stuck in his hair, but someone had taken a layer of the bruise-removal paste to his temple and eye, at least. Hermione swallowed as she searched him, detailing each part to ensure that it was in proper order.</p><p>His left hand was still frozen stiff. After a couple of hours with the wand, Percy had announced that there were a few, small pieces that had been crushed too far into smithereens during combat and the explosion (guarded though they were by Bill’s large Patronus wave). Unfortunately, George would have to re-grow them.</p><p>George watched her and took another gulp from the cream-colored, wide-based jug.</p><p>“Slow down with it,” Percy said at the sound of the liquid sloshing from the bottleneck to base. “You’re meant to drink it over a night.”</p><p>“But then I’ll have to taste it longer,” George said. He swung his legs down, rested the bottle on the table, and headed for the stairs. “Loo’s open, yeah?”</p><p>Hermione nodded and passed him the bag.</p><p>George hesitated. “Are—are you still wanting to head to your parents’ house, this evening?” he asked under his breath, haltingly.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Right,” He said. “Okay, um. I can drop you off, if you’d like. If you don’t mind waiting for me to clean up a bit, that is.”</p><p>Her hands twisted. She glanced at the potion on the table. “Will you be alright?”</p><p>George frowned and nodded, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in a playful manner. “It’s not my first bout with Skele-Gro, I’m afraid,” he said.</p><p>“Why does that not surprise me?” Hermione muttered, staring at the ground.</p><p>“Come off it, Darling.” George swooped in and kissed her cheek. “We both know you love a bad boy.”</p><p>Hermine snorted. George tapped the bridge of her nose. Her gaze shifted to his hand as it lowered. The blisters were gone, and the burn’s swelling had receded, but the skin still looked red and raw. “George—” she started. “Your hand is still—”</p><p>George’s brows flicked up, and he glanced down at it. “Oh,” he said, with a little shrug. “We’ll get some Murtlap on it or something. It’ll be good as new.” He spoke in an easy, assuring cadence. “Just haven’t had time yet.”</p><p>“Your Dittany blend would probably be more effective for that, surely—”</p><p>George gave a little wince. “‘Fraid we’re out of the Dittany blend, Love.”</p><p>Hermione looked at him blankly.</p><p>Then, she glanced down at her smooth hands. Felt the tender spots on her cheeks, where it was a bit sore, but not sharp. “George,” she said slowly, and his name was equal parts question and rebuke.</p><p>Because she knew, already, why there was no Dittany potion left.</p><p>George took her shoulders, stepped in, and fixed a kiss on her brow. “I’ll live to fight another day,” he said. “Now go bother Percy on my behalf. Bloke needs to eat. And a kip, I think.”</p><p>He darted off and into the loo before she could reply.</p><p>Percy was working on his own potion when she climbed back down the stairs, and the sharp scent of Aconite filled the room. “He’ll regret downing it like that,” Percy muttered dryly, eyeing the Skele-Gro. “You stretch it out to keep the pain managed. I expect it won’t be pleasant.”</p><p>George was already too many floors away to mind a lecture, so Hermione grimaced and turned to the seat.</p><p>It was covered in dust and small pieces of debris.</p><p>She set a few Tergeos and Scourgifies on it, then dropped into it with a rough sigh.</p><p>“What’re you working on?” she asked.</p><p>Percy applied an orange, waxen seal to the envelop. “A follow-up letter to Headmistress McGonagall,” he said simply. “Harry arranged for a faster message, but George wanted to follow up with something more substantial.” He rose from the table and whistled, and Hermes swooped in through the window. “We thought it prudent to elaborate a bit more, as well as offer asylum and assistance to his daughter, should she need any help or a different place to stay.” He glanced at Hermione. “But, seeing as she’s about to enter her N.E.W.T. year, she may have living arrangements for after term already.” He handed the envelop over, and the owl took flight.</p><p>“And if Hogwarts falls?” Hermione asked quietly.</p><p>Percy didn’t turn from the window. “Then she likely won’t be any safer here, but the offer stands.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>Percy said nothing more.</p><p>Surely, Hogwarts would be safe. McGonagall had always been a stickler about student well-being, especially in comparison to some of the other professors.</p><p>But in her heart, she knew that she couldn’t take such a thing for granted.</p><p>“Are Harry and Ron back?” Hermione asked. She’d rather hoped he and Ronald would’ve returned while she was showering.</p><p>“They’re still with the Minister,” Percy said softly.</p><p>Hermione twisted her hands. “I haven’t seen Harry once today.”</p><p>Percy turned and regarded her with an appraising look. “He was at the Ministry this morning, going through records when the lot of us found out. There was no time to retrieve him when Fred arrived from the shop with Charles. And since Ginny was here, Harry sat it out, as did Angelina.”</p><p>“Even though it was my turn,” Angelina called dryly. Hermione blinked and turned. The other witch sat at the dining table with a mug. “But it was George. I wasn’t going to ask Fred to stay home in my place.” She took a sip from her cup and shrugged.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Your turn?”</p><p>“I’m not sure if you recall, but after the battle, when Tonks and Remus both, you know—” Angie ducked her head with a grim expression.</p><p>Hermione nodded. Seeing their bodies in the Great Hall, just before Fred came to—it was one of her last memories, before the gap.</p><p>“Harry and Ginny have a practice of trying to leave at least one parent at home, when things look dangerous or the hands are on mortal peril, just in case. Fred and I took it up when we had Angelo.” Angie shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea.”</p><p>Hermione’s throat closed. “It is,” she said. Then, she peered around. “Where’s Fred?”</p><p>“Outside, with Bill, examining the wards,” Angelina said. “They’re talking about re-activating the Fidelius Charm.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Oh.”</p><p>There was something monumental in it, despite how casually Angelina had said the words.</p><p>It meant something. Something Hermione wasn’t ready to admit.</p><p>“Charlie’s still sleeping,” Angie continued, and a shadow passed over her face before she proceeded on to say: “Dad’s still minding Mum—” A heavy sigh. “And Fleur and Ginny have the children upstairs, for now.” She propped her chin on her hand and stared absentmindedly through the window in the back door. “It’s best to keep them out of the way. They’ll have questions, I’m sure.” She glanced back at Hermione with a wry, tired smile. “Haven’t yet figured out how I can explain to a two-year-old why his tongue won’t let him speak about his grandparents’ house any longer, but I’m sure it’ll be difficult.” She rubbed a couple of fingers down the bridge of her nose.</p><p>Silence fell.</p><p>“Hide and seek, maybe?” Hermione suggested.</p><p>Angelina shrugged. “I don’t want him to feel like we’re hiding,” she said, a bit thickly.</p><p>Hermione bit her lip. “Yes—right. Of course.”</p><p>“Maybe something along those lines, though,” Angie murmured. “Turning it into a game…” she trailed off and took a bite of her pear.</p><p>“Angie?” Hermione asked, and her voice was higher than expected.</p><p>Angelina looked at her, face open. “Yes?”</p><p>Hermione rose and crossed the floor, then wrapped her arms around Angelina’s shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It couldn’t have been easy, watching him go after us.”</p><p>“No,” Angie said, with a wry twist in her voice. “It wasn’t. Though I didn’t realize it would get that out of hand.” Then, her arms tightened around Hermione. “But I’m so glad you’re okay.”</p><p>Hermione sniffed. “I could kick myself,” she whispered hoarsely. “I should’ve reacted better, or found a way to—I don’t know—but I didn’t, and we almost—”</p><p>Angie’s grip tightened. “Don’t go down that road.”</p><p>They’d been sitting there, helpless, as Lockhart threatened to—started to, really—ruin her mind. He very well might’ve, and George would’ve had to watch and—</p><p>Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “You don’t understand how very grateful I am that Fred crashed through that door,” she whispered. “That all of them did.”</p><p>Angelina pulled back. “You should tell them that, then.”</p><p>Hermione paused. “I should.” She turned.</p><p>Percy frowned into his goblet across the room. “No,” he said flatly, not facing her. “I do not want a hug.”</p><p>“I wasn’t going to ask to hug you,” Hermione said as she pushed to her feet.</p><p>Percy blinked. “Oh.” Then: “Are you certain? If it would be helpful to you, I would allow one.” His tone was a bit hesitant. “But only one.”</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. “Percy?” she asked.</p><p>“Hm?” He scratched his temple.</p><p>“Do you want a hug?” she asked slowly.</p><p>Percy frowned harder. “I’m not sure.” His brow wrinkled. “Perhaps a bracing handshake.”</p><p>Hermione padded over and extended her hand. “Percy?” He took it. “Thank you for showing up,” she said. She shook his hand in a firm, up and down motion. “And, um, for working all day on healing George.”</p><p>“And you,” Percy said. “And Charlie. And also Bill, but Bill kept insisting on doing most of it himself.” He rolled his eyes. “Angelina helped Fred, and together, they took care of Ginny.” His grip slackened as he spaced out, considering. “You and Charlie took the most damage, so mind that head.” He frowned. “I still have some work to do on Charlie, actually, but he wanted to sleep, so I—”</p><p>The front door creaked open, and Fred and Bill tromped in, wiping mud from their boots. Rain howled outside, and Bill caste a quick drying charm before they made a lake in the entryway. The two were both still covered in grime.</p><p>Fred glanced up. He snorted as he took in Percy and Hermione’s handshake. “This a place of business?”</p><p>Percy rolled his eyes and dropped Hermione’s hand.</p><p>Fred’s first boot thunked onto the floor. “Let me guess—” The other boot followed. “Textbook resale.” He picked the shoes up and settled them in the line with others. “Or, hold on, I can think of something funnier—”</p><p>“Freddie,” Angie piped up. “Hermione has something to tell you.”</p><p>Fred raised a soot-streaked brow. “Can it wait until after I’ve—”</p><p>“Shower’s not open yet. And besides—She’s doing hugs,” Angie added, in a somewhat significant tone.</p><p>Fred straightened. “Oh.”</p><p>“Doing hugs?” Hermione asked, twisting to Angie.</p><p>“It’s a thing you do sometimes,” Angelina said with a wry smile.</p><p>“Like at Christmas,” Bill said as he peeled his own shoes off.</p><p>“Or like when everyone almost dies,” Fred added. “I got two, after a particularly gruesome Death Eater raid, once.”</p><p>Percy shouldered Fred as he strode to the kitchen. Fred snorted.</p><p>Angelina smiled. “Anyways,” she said slowly. “We’ve all made peace with it. Well. All of us except Percy.” Angie flicked a wry glance at the former Head Boy, who was downing the last of his goblet’s contents.</p><p>“A Granger hug is only effective if desired,” Percy said brusquely, tossing the goblet into the sink. It clattered.</p><p>Hermione smiled. “My mum says that.”</p><p>Percy nodded. “And you repeat it, every time we do this routine.” He pulled his glasses off and tossed them on the counter with a wry smile.</p><p>Fred cleared his throat. “Well?”</p><p>Hermione turned.</p><p>A glint on Fred’s wrists caught her eye. Shattered glass—his watch faces had gotten smashed at some point. Likely the explosion.</p><p>Suddenly, a lump formed in her throat.</p><p>Fred took a step back. “Oh, it’s a weepy one?” he winced, sounding a bit put out.</p><p>“Don’t be a prat,” Hermione said, sniffing.</p><p>They were all lucky to be alive, and firmly in control of their faculties. It could’ve been far worse. The lot of them could’ve ended up like Sturgis or Timmy, or any of the victims who’d suffered from varying levels of amnesia after being struck by ice from an initial blast.</p><p>She’d already had enough of that to last a lifetime.</p><p>They’d been rather close to the explosion, it seemed. How was it possible that no one had lost their memories?</p><p>Fred rolled his eyes and strode over, then wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “It’s not that big a deal,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t very well let you die, so—”</p><p>Hermione sputtered and squeezed him around the ribs. “Thank you,” she said. “I thought for sure—I didn’t know what to do, and then you burst through the door, and—” She pulled away and wiped her sleeve along her eyes.</p><p>Fred folded his arms, and a calculating expression shifted over his face. “Do me a favor, and keep this gooey, grateful—” He waved a hand in a circle in in front of her face. “—feeling in your heart, the next time a product goes wrong, and George comes home with magenta eyebrows. Okay?” Then, he flicked her on the nose and strode to the kitchen table.</p><p>Bill stepped up and took her arms in his hands, staring at her with a wrinkled brow. “How’s the head?” he asked.</p><p>“I could ask the same thing,” Hermione said, cocking a brow.</p><p>“Totally fine.” Bill shrugged the question off. “Mine was less swollen.” He wasn’t talking very loud, just searching her. “You don’t have the context for this,” he said slowly. “But what happened at Mungo’s wasn’t even top five, if it makes you feel any better.”</p><p>She couldn’t tell if he was lying.</p><p>Then, he clapped a hand against her arm and tugged her in. Hermione blinked, returning the brief hug. After he released her, he raised his brows. “You know we’ll always come, when either of you need it.” He said it like a statement. No room for protest.</p><p>Then, he proceeded to the stairs. The wood creaked. A few moments later, there was a pounding sound, and a distant, “Hurry up, George. Your wife’s doing hugs.”</p><p>Hermione brushed the flecks of grime from the front of her grey cotton shirt, then glanced at the clock.</p><p>No one’s hand was on <em>“Mortal Peril.”</em></p><p>That was something.</p><p>There was a squeaking sound overhead, and the rushing in the pipes stopped.</p><p>Hermione backed towards the sofa, drawing one of Mrs. Weasley’s knit blankets around her and went in search of something to eat.</p><p>Percy hunched over the sink, watching the cleaning charm streak suds over the goblet. He huffed. “Should’ve had this outside. Smell won’t fade for days, and Mum will—”</p><p>An awkward pause.</p><p>Percy swiveled towards the far cabinets. “These need to be reorganized. It’s like none of them have ever noticed how she keeps them.” He yanked open the door. “Dinner glasses go above the mugs, not on the same shelf.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>“Percy, you should take a break,” she said.</p><p>“I will,” Percy said quietly.</p><p>Gently, Hermione pressed the cabinet door closed. “I’ll tell on you,” she said. “When she wakes up, I’ll tell her that you ran yourself ragged, if you don’t lay down right now.”</p><p>Percy’s face acquired a pinched look. “That’s the last thing she needs.” He took up a kitchen towel from the counter.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said firmly. Perce pulled the rinsed goblet from the basin, then began to thoroughly pat it dry. “The last thing she needs is you capsizing in her kitchen because you won’t slow down.” She paused and leaned in for emphasis. “Be rational.”</p><p>Percy flung the towel against the spigot. “Fine.”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>Percy took a short breath, and his face flattened out into a neutral expression. “Sorry.”</p><p>The staircase creaked, and slow footfalls thudded down.</p><p>“Georgie?” Hermione called.</p><p>A faint groan answered her. Hermione hurried around the corner as Percy’s ireful “Told you to drink it slow” echoed from the kitchen.</p><p>“M’fine,” George mumbled, but he sounded anything but. He stopped over the coffee table and nicked one of Fred’s modified muggle phones and their wands.</p><p>Hermione took hers as he offered it. “Georgie,” she said softly.</p><p>He flipped open the phone and began to tap something in. “Hm?” When she didn’t immediately respond, he blinked up at her with a bleary look.</p><p>“You don’t look fine,” she said.</p><p>George dropped the phone to his hip. “It’s just my left arm that smarts. Well—and a bit of a headache, but I always get that from Skele—”</p><p>“Do you want to stay with me, tonight?” she cut in quietly.</p><p>George paused. Something wistful entered his gaze. “Yes, but I—I told Harry I’d be here to chat about the Fidelius plans when he gets back,” he said. “And he’s not likely to be done until rather late.” He bit down on his lips, and his shoulders stooped forward.</p><p>“You could Patronus me when you’re done, and I could let you in?” she offered. “My parents are both heavy sleepers, so it won’t bother them, so long as we’re quiet.”</p><p>George smiled. “Are you suggesting I sneak in?”</p><p>Hermione reached for her shoes. “Perhaps, yes,” she said mildly.</p><p>George let out a tired laugh. “Alright.” He pulled the Skele-Gro up to his lips, winced, and took a sizeable drink before thunking it back down. “Let’s get you to their place, before it gets dark.”</p><p>She nodded, then stopped to pull on her trainers. George handed over a slicker that she didn’t recognize—green, covered in yellow flowers.</p><p>“It’s Mum’s,” he mumbled. “It’s really coming down, and she won’t mind.”</p><p>No, she wouldn’t have. Because Molly was the sort of person who shared without asking questions. She looked around, found needs, and filled them. Like some sort of magic spackle, or—or—</p><p>Glue, really.</p><p>Hermione put on Molly’s raincoat, and she looked about her.</p><p>First at Percy—who seemed to have shut down, staring mutely at his parents’ bedroom door. At Fred, who knelt in front of Angelina’s chair, whispering something under his breath as Angie blinked hard. At Ginny, who appeared to be asleep already, right in the dining room table chair, unfinished plate of shepherd’s pie in front of her.</p><p>And finally back at George, who was watching out the window with a stern, wary expression as the rain doused the fields.</p><p>There ought to be a word to say, a string to pluck, that would resonate at just the right frequency to lift the tension and grim certitude that had fallen over the group of them.</p><p>A reverse of what it seemed they were all waiting for.</p><p>Because they were—all of them—pressed to a fretboard in the shape of a minor chord, waiting for disaster to reach its hands in and strike where they might feel it most keenly.</p><p>To make a great and terrible sound that would distort the world beyond repair.</p><p>#</p><p>May 13, 2003, 7:00 p.m.</p><p>When George dropped her off at her parents’ front door, he pressed the black, modified phone into her hands. “I want you to take this. Hold on to it, actually. It’s got my number, right at the top of the list. In case you need anything, alright?” George backed away from the thresh hold, steps ginger and slow. He’d been walking like that since coming down from his shower. Like each movement hurt. “I want you to call me, if you do.”</p><p>Rain pounded the pavement behind him, gushing off the small outcropping of roof over the front door. The leafy hedge on her left rustled and shuddered under the assault. The light affixed to the front of the house had been left on. Despite apparating quite close by, they’d gotten soaked in the downpour.</p><p>Hermione took the phone and flipped it open, thumbing through the list of contacts. Most of them were labeled with numbers and nothing else—likely for devices that Fred loaned out—but George’s number was right at the top—listed under <em>“George Weasley-Granger.” </em></p><p>She glanced at him. He waited for her reply with his arms folded, studying the houses lining the blacktop to their right. Hermione opened up the contact and clicked it.</p><p>George’s pocket trilled. A familiar song.</p><p>“<em>If you change your mind—”</em></p><p>Hermione blinked as a turntable flashed through her mind. The one they had in the flat.</p><p>Odd. Sometimes, little pieces of the muggle world crept up on her, and she realized how much she’d missed. Not just from the Obliviate and gap. From the war, too.</p><p>Things like ringtones made out of songs.</p><p>He shot her a dry look, retrieved it, then flipped open the plain, muggle phone.</p><p>“Yes?” The threads of his voice wove together—one tinged from the metallic speaker and the other a warmer, realer sound.</p><p>“I need something,” she said slowly into the mouthpiece.</p><p>George stared at her. Water dripped off his nose, over his slicker. “What’s that?”</p><p>Hermione swallowed, and it was painful. “My George.”</p><p>George didn’t break eye contact as he snapped his phone shut and tucked it away.</p><p>He crossed the expanse.</p><p>At first, when his lips touched hers, it was only the faintest brush. A whisper of breath over her cheek, but Hermione wavered like candleflame.</p><p>Melted, like wax.</p><p>George shifted back the slightest bit, watching her, drawing the mobile from her hand and slipping it into her jacket’s pocket.</p><p>The magic surged—crescendo, crescendo, in her chest. Beat back against the tide, the tempest.</p><p>George stepped in. Hermione bumped against the threshold’s frame.</p><p>Then, he snogged her senseless. Open-mouthed, back to the door, right hand slipping beneath the open raincoat and around her waist to clutch the wrinkled, grey fabric of the t-shirt over her shoulder blades. Rainwater, cinnamon, and her old front step.</p><p>“Please, Georgie—” she breathed. “I want to forget.”</p><p>Together, they stepped once, twice, three times until they emerged from under the small portico.</p><p>Together, they welcomed the rain.</p><p>And Hermione let it douse the image of George, shaking in the chair. Of him, pinned to the floor, hands clawing tile. She let it drown the crack in his voice as he’d shouted for her to run, the cold pressure of a wand tip on her brow. She let it submerge the knowledge of the scant, few seconds that had separated her from having all of this ripped away. Again.</p><p>The water pulled the sting out of everything she offered it, and Hermione let the sparks surge from her fingers into George’s scalp.</p><p>George broke away, breathing hard. His forehead twisted against hers, his eyes closed. “Careful—” he said roughly. “It might take from you more than you expect. I—I’m running a bit low.”</p><p>Hermione drew in a gulp of rain and air, then reeled him back in by the sopping collar.</p><p>George let out a short sound, and there was something desperate in it. He held her, so, so close. And then George melted too.</p><p>The sparks began to stream between them. His were fainter—less concentrated than they’d been the last time, in the pantry. So, Hermione grappled—held his shoulders, his face. Hands in his hair—pushing magic into his frame, kissing him earnestly. Back and forth as streaming flecks of light levelled out and became entwined, and emotions rocked the golden string.</p><p>And amidst it all, the lingering cold was slowly, slowly unwinding. Hands calmed, rain drummed down on them, and two people dissolved into glow.</p><p>It was a different kind of kiss.</p><p>The sort that makes you forget.</p><p>A kinder, warmer Obliviation.</p><p>#</p><p>May 14, 2003, 1:45 a.m.</p><p>No.</p><p>No.</p><p>No—</p><p>Hermione hurtled through the air and slammed the floor in a heap. Sweat stuck curls to the back of her neck, and her heart wrenched, pounding in her chest and ears.</p><p>She dug her palm into her sternum, willing her insides to settle.</p><p>But she couldn’t find the tempo of her breath.</p><p>It was only a nightmare.</p><p>Only a—</p><p>She breathed in, but her inhale was cut by the shivering.</p><p>It’d been so real. Merlin, they all were.</p><p>It’d started with Bellatrix, then proceeded through a serious of more and more terrible things. This time, Fred hadn’t burst through the door.</p><p>Her hands were shaking.</p><p>Hermione swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut, climbing back onto the bed.</p><p>George hadn’t called yet.</p><p>She rolled over and checked the phone, just to be sure.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>It was only a nightmare.</p><p>She was fine. It was fine.</p><p>Truly—</p><p>So it made no sense, did it? That her hands were picking up the phone, clicking the buttons?</p><p>The tone cut after a ring and a half.</p><p>A sharp inhale. “Granger?” George’s foggy croak echoed in the speaker.</p><p>Hermione’s eyes slid shut. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said. “Um, I was—I was wondering if Harry had gotten there, yet.”</p><p>Please, let them almost be done.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“No, sorry,” George said. “I’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him.”</p><p>“That’s— that’s fine.”</p><p>Oh, her pitch sounded higher than she’d meant it to. She bit her lips together and stared at her duvet.</p><p>“What happened?” George asked, sounding significantly more awake.</p><p>Hermione ground a palm to her eye. “It’s silly, I just—” she swallowed. “I had a nightmare, is all.”</p><p>A thud.</p><p>George’s breathing picked up, then another thud, and a hiss, and a muttered “Lumos.”</p><p>“George?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“I’m on my way,” George said. “I’ll be there in five.”</p><p>#</p><p>Hermione watched at the window, dressing gown around her shoulders, spinning her wand back and forth in her hand. Her phone remained dark.</p><p>It had been a little over five minutes, and she hadn’t heard the crack of apparition. She frowned and leaned closer to the glass. She hadn’t been awake enough to consider the risks of him travelling alone this late. But now, it was all she could think about.</p><p>Just then, a figure caught her eye.</p><p>It was George.</p><p>She exhaled in relief.</p><p>George looked back and forth as he bound across the street. In the dim haze of the streetlamp, she could just make out his crop of messy, copper hair that jutted from under ballcap, and the pattern of the blue, striped pajamas under his dark, wool coat.</p><p>He yanked the hat’s brim lower and darted into the yard. Hermione made to turn—she had to let him in through the door, after all, but she paused when George stepped from the pavement and into the soggy grass.</p><p>What was he doing?</p><p>Hermione pushed her window open.</p><p>“George?” she whispered.</p><p>“Shhh!” his loud whisper answered. Then, he swooped into a quick bow before spreading his arms wide. “Cinderella, Cinderella, let down your hair.”</p><p>Hermione choked down her laughter. “Close, but not quite,” she whisper-called.</p><p>Merlin, wizarding-borne kids were something else.</p><p>George stuck his hands on his hips and appraised her window.</p><p>Without warning, he took a large stride and jumped onto the ivy.</p><p>Hermione balked. “George!” she hissed.</p><p>He didn’t pay any mind. Instead, he proceeded to scale the side of the house with cat-like grace. Which is to say, in the most confident and ineffectual way possible. After his third near-tumble from the ivy (which really wasn’t strong enough to be climbed by anyone, let alone someone of George’s stature), Hermione leaned a bit further out the window.</p><p>“Please tell me you’re wearing sticky shoes,” she hissed.</p><p>George’s face was a mask of concentration. “Oh, most definitely,” he said, reaching for a closer vine about ten feet up of the wall. “But I’d like you to pretend that I’m still as reckless as I was ten years ago.”</p><p>Hermione leaned her elbows on the sill. She was opening her mouth to make a witty reply when a dark shape streaked from around the hedge, launching up and yanking George from the brick.</p><p>Hermione bolted from the window and apparated into the side yard with a crack.</p><p>She hadn’t bothered with socks or shoes, and the grass slipped under her feet as she hurtled towards the attacker, wand drawn—</p><p>They had red hair.</p><p>And a very familiar frame.</p><p>The figure had tackled George to the earth and was drawing back a fist when they suddenly stopped.</p><p>“Bloody Hell?” Ron’s whisper was loud and confused. “George?” He shoved the brim of George’s cap back, revealing the other man’s face.</p><p>“Ronald!” Hermione hissed, stomping over. “Get off of him!”</p><p>George dragged his hands down his face.</p><p>Ron’s shoulders began to shake. Hermione paused.</p><p>“What’re you thinking?” At first, Hermione thought he was cross. But, as Ron tried to keep his voice hushed, Hermione realized she’d been wrong. He was—he was laughing. “Why are you trying to sneak into Mione’s window?” Ron wheezed. He climbed off of George and stuck a hand down to help him up.</p><p>George took it, then prodded Ron back and dusted the grass from his coat. “That’s none of your business,” he muttered, clearing his throat. He straightened his hat back into place. The front read <em>“St. Grogory’s”</em> in faded, white stitching.</p><p>Ron lurched, bracing his hands on his knees, then whipped his wand with a garbled Patronus charm. “Stand down—” He barely managed it. “Stand down. Only my git of a brother.” The blue Jack Russell Terrier loped off to the corner.</p><p>George’s face looked rather red in the streetlamp light.</p><p>“Merlin’s Beard,” Ron said, wiping a grey sleeve hem along his eye. “Thought you were a murderer.”</p><p>“He’s not,” Hermione said.</p><p>“I gathered,” Ron said with a snort. He began to back towards the street, whispering just loud enough to reach them: “Next time you want to get frisky, do us a favor and warn the security teams, Mate.” He pointed at George. “Someone else, on the team, mind.”</p><p>“Sure thing,” George drawled. “I’ll send out a schedule so you lot can plan ahead.”</p><p>They watched Ron recede into the dark, two distant figures around the corner stepping out to join him.</p><p>“Glad they noticed, though,” George murmured. “Makes me feel a bit safer on your parents’ behalf, and yours.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Not a word of this to anyone,” George said quietly. “I’m still perfectly capable of scaling a wall. I’m just a bit out of practice, but with—”</p><p>Hermione lifted her brows at him and snorted, then spun back towards the front door without agreeing.</p><p>“Oi—Granger!” he whispered, starting after her.</p><p>That night, when she climbed back into bed, she tossed the pillow onto the mattress, then laid on top of it. George tossed his coat over the chair, kicked his shoes free, then burrowed into the covers beside her. Hermione drifted off to the feel of George’s hand, traveling a gentle line as he stroked up and down her back and whispered about nonsense.</p><p>“I meant to tell you,” he said eventually, in the same quiet, frank voice he’d just used to discuss the merits of honey as a toast topping. “You were brilliant today.”</p><p>Hermione cried.</p><p>George didn’t let go.</p><p>#</p><p>May 14, 2003, 9:00 a.m.</p><p>Despite the crowd, the Burrow’s breakfast table was tense and quiet. So quiet. Hermione picked at her yogurt, glancing uneasily from Weasley to Weasley.</p><p>Bill and Fleur were absorbed in a hushed discussion in the kitchen as Victoire, the only family member present who seemed immune to the moratorium on noise, babbled near their feet.</p><p>Ron had taken his breakfast in the armchair, balancing a plate on one knee and Angelo on the other. Fred watched AJ with a distracted air, and Angelina pushed her hand back and forth along Fred’s arm in silence.</p><p>Percy, in a break from propriety, had his forehead resting directly on the dining table. He hadn’t eaten a bite of his meal. Ginny was cutting up an apple for Teddy, turning the little slices into different shapes for him to sort.</p><p>Charlie sat beside Percy, working on a single mug of tea. Hermione had been glad to see him awake, but he’d been strangely withdrawn. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since she and George arrived.</p><p>Harry still hadn’t returned from his work at the auror office.</p><p>The reason for their silence, besides the mounting stress, was a simple question—who ought to be secret keeper for the Burrow. Because it had been Arthur last time.</p><p>No one had said as much aloud, but Arthur looked rather frayed.</p><p>Bill had volunteered, until Fred pointed out that he was secret keeper for Shell Cottage, and it did take a bit of energy to be secret keeper for anything.</p><p>No one knew quite what to say.</p><p>About ten minutes into the tense silence, the bedroom door cracked open.</p><p>Arthur Weasley stepped out, red hair in mussed whisps, wearing the same clothes he’d had on for two days. Haggard. On the ground behind him, a lifetime’s worth of clutter was piled in heaps on the bedroom floor.</p><p>He must’ve opened every trunk. Again.</p><p>“Hello Weasleys,” he mumbled.</p><p>There were a few, quiet greetings in return.</p><p>Victoire shrieked a beaming reply. Arthur dropped a hand onto her head and ruffled her hair before wandering to the cabinet. He pulled it open and stared at the glasses.</p><p>“Oh,” he said. “Someone’s fixed it.”</p><p>Hermione glanced at Percy, but he didn’t move. He must be exhausted. They all were. But, with the full moon so soon—</p><p>“Can I make you some tea, Dad?” Hermione called, rising from the table.</p><p>Arthur nodded. “If you don’t mind, that would be lovely.” His voice had that same, distracted air to it. “Thank you.” He frowned out the window at the orchard.</p><p>Hermione put the kettle on the stove.</p><p>Victoire tottered around Arthur’s ankles, then when she found him to be preoccupied, her eyes rounded.</p><p>Hermione had her hands full of kettle and stove, so she was quite powerless to intervene when Victoire suddenly tripped from the kitchen, into the bedroom. Her little feet smacked on the wooden flooring.</p><p>Hermione rested the kettle down, but George was already on his way over.</p><p>Victoire’s blonde curls bobbed behind a black case in the corner.</p><p>“Come on Victoire,” Hermione coaxed, extending a hand. “Let’s let Grandma rest.”</p><p>“No!” Victoire shouted.</p><p>The latches on the case popped.</p><p>“Victoire—” Bill’s admonishment echoed from behind them.</p><p>Victoire shook her head. </p><p>She didn't so much as touch it, but the lid flew open.</p><p>Then, the girl reached inside with chubby, determined hands, grabbed hold of the fiddle string like a lifeline, and drew back.</p><p>When the tension caught and snapped over her fingers, the instrument almost seemed to spark and rattle.</p><p>And little Victoire didn't back down.</p><p>The note boomed, hurtling through the Burrow.</p><p>Pizzicato.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley’s eyes opened.</p><p>Plucked from sleep by the inheritance of the rebellious, enduring Prewett way. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Fancy Feinting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fancy + Feinting</p><p>Pack that in a snackbox and sell it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all. &lt;3</p><p>Oh dear. This chapter's being posted wildly later than I'd hoped it would be. I got a bit too precious with some parts of it, and I want to apologize up front for any typos or mistakes that I missed while editing, of which I'm sure there are plenty.</p><p>Thank you so much for your kindness and encouragement on last chapter! I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to read, let alone kudos and/or comment. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 You are all so, so lovely, and I hope you had a wonderful week.</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or to this story world.</p><p>This chapter is another double-feature. &lt;3</p><p>Playlist:</p><p>1. First, I recommend the following video for background music for the scenes leading up to February 6, 8:00 a.m./generally throughout the chapter:<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgZjI7JRi1I&amp;ab_channel=AmbientWorlds<br/>2. "Fireworks" by Nicholas Hooper (Feb. 6, 8:00 a.m.)<br/>3. "Harry's Wondrous World" by John Williams (Feb. 6, 8:20 a.m.)<br/>4. "Leaving Hogwarts" by John Williams (Feb. 6, 11:30 a.m. --when George leaves the Quidditch Pitch.)<br/>4. "Gimme Gimme Gimme" by ABBA (Feb. 6, 1:00 p.m. --you'll know)<br/>5. "The King Has Lost His Crown" by ABBA (Briefly, Feb. 6, 1:00 p.m. --you'll know)<br/>6.  "Arcade (feat. FLETCHER)" by Duncan Laurence (Feb. 6, 2:00 p.m.)<br/>7. "Orchard House" by Thomas Newman &amp; London Symphony Orchestra (Feb. 6, 2:00 p.m. --When he gets the book off the mantle)<br/>8. "I Want to Know What Love Is" by Foreigner (Feb. 11, 6:00 p.m. --you'll know)<br/>9. "Trouble's Coming" by Royal Blood (Feb. 11, 6:00 p.m. --When George shuts off the speakers)<br/>10. "Wonder" by Shawn Mendes (Feb. 11, 6:00 p.m. --Last bit)</p><p> </p><p>Alright. :) Grab your snack (I had miniature orange scones this week and they were sublime), your drink (I went a bit Granger and consumed an improper amount of coffee), and your coziest blanket. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Forty: “Fancy Feinting”</h2><p>
  <em>George</em>
</p><p>February 4, 1999, 8:15 p.m.</p><p>George stretched over his sofa with his feet on one end. His Mum would have a cow if she saw him with boots up on the coach. But one of the beauties of adulthood was the simple pleasure of putting one’s scuffed shoes on the furniture without being scolded.</p><p>The clock on his bedside table clicked across the room, and George checked his pocket watch.</p><p>Rather late.</p><p>Granger likely wouldn’t be coming over, then. He hadn’t seen her since the evening with Fred and Harry a few nights back, although she’d snuck him a note the day before.</p><p>A short little thing. Only said: <em>“Fifty inches of parchment due next week.”</em></p><p>And George was fluent enough in Granger-ese to know what that meant. Hermione would be far too busy tearing her hair out to entertain distractions.</p><p>It made sense. George quirked a brow, glancing up from his book towards the ceiling to think about it. The term always did pick up around February. He’d known this was coming, and it would only get worse from here. Helga’s Garden—she had N.E.W.T.s in several months.</p><p>Maybe they wouldn’t be as bad as the Mastery Qualifiers had been.</p><p>He knew it was a lie as soon as the thought occurred to him. Even if they weren’t, Granger would likely make them as bad. It wasn’t like her to give any less than her best at exam time, even if it was at the cost of her functionality.</p><p>He sighed and scratched his brow, right below his hairline.</p><p>Her busy spurts, the long hours, her living out of the library—all of that was part and parcel of being close to Hermione Jean. What George wouldn’t tolerate, however, was letting her deteriorate from the nonsense sure to accompany it.</p><p>The endless stream of coffee. The skipped meals. The blasted “fifth waves,” or whatever she called them. Hermione didn’t properly take care of herself when she was submerged in a project, and that caused her to work more slowly, which in turn increased her panic, which only reinforced the cycle.</p><p>So, he’d snuck a few covered dishes into her fridge during the day, as well as topped off Crookshanks’s food bowl. He’d put a short note about it on her counter. And, because he couldn’t very well not, he may’ve added an extra slip of parchment fixed to her coffee container, reading, <em>“Sleep.”</em></p><p>She had yet to reply, and he suspected she’d ignored it.</p><p>If it went on longer, he’d deliver a firm lecture.</p><p>The prankster scolding the prefect. Who’d have thought.</p><p>George bounced his socked foot and skipped to the next chapter. This one didn’t have anything about the founders’ enchantments in it. He’d picked up a copy of <em>Hogwarts: A History</em> from Tomes and Scrolls, since Merlin knew where his copy had gone.</p><p>It seemed to be the best place to start, given that the house points system was nearly as old as the school itself. He skimmed past the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. Salazar and Godric’s infamous argument. The sorting hat.</p><p>Finally, he came to a section on the hourglasses. After a bit about the making of the glass containers, the collection of the rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and sapphires, George finally found something promising.</p><p>
  <em>“The stones were then enchanted to replicate or reduce, depending upon the word of instructors and other authorized people. In 1802, Headmaster Everard granted added the Prefect roster to the staff cabinet to grant this power to these special leaders.”</em>
</p><p>George snorted.</p><p>Staff cabinet. So, it was as simple as that, then.</p><p>He knew all about the staff cabinet. It was on the ground floor, in Room 234-00, guarded by a cantankerous man who’d gloried in the possibility of beating children. He’d been in Filch’s office more than enough times to memorize every wooden drawer that lined the back wall. “Staff” was just to the left of the towering set which held student files. George suspected there was an extension charm on he and Fred’s drawer.</p><p>Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Filch once since the start of the school year. Perhaps Minerva had let him go, or maybe the miserable sod had finally had enough after the last battle.</p><p>George wasn’t exactly comfortable with Azkaban, especially after his encounters with Dementors. But anyone eager to beat children like Filch had been—</p><p>George’s grip shook on the book.</p><p>He hadn’t intended to start thinking about it. He forced a couple of breaths in and out, then redirected his attention.</p><p>Perhaps this was something to discuss with Healer Marcus, later.</p><p>As for the hourglasses—</p><p>He’d need to be stealthy about it, obviously. George would have to put together a parchment that added him to the staff drawer. Then, he’d need to ensure that it wouldn’t be noticed.</p><p>What format would it need? He could always check Granger’s and copy it. There was likely some sort of enchantment in the materials, too. He could forge it after witnessing her scrawl on countless detention slips, but using a signature from McGonagall’s actual hand and quill was probably smartest.</p><p>He ought to ask Fred.</p><p>George stopped.</p><p>Might be fun, just this once, to pull a heist without Fred’s involvement. Just to see if he could.</p><p>After all, it was George’s bet with Granger.</p><p>It’d be harder—Fred had a bit more of an understanding with Peeves, who tended to frequent that hallway.</p><p>George swung upright, laced his fingers, and extended his arms.</p><p>It was time for mischief.</p><p>#</p><p>February 5, 1999, 8:45 a.m.</p><p>A sharp tap rattled the owl door before the entrance fluttered open, bringing a quick shot of frigid wind with it. George peeked out from the Wonderwitch aisle, where Tabitha Snipping had managed to trip and topple an entire shelf of products, right onto him. The lot of it had shattered over the floor, splashing, exploding, and reacting before he had a chance to dodge.</p><p>George was soaked in it, stained pink and red by Crush Blush and ever other rotted thing designed for couples. It was enough to make his head spin.</p><p>Tabitha, thankfully, had skirted out just after, claiming a sudden errand that “simply can’t wait. You understand, of course?”</p><p>George had been left blinking at the mess, dazed.</p><p>Beguiling Bubbles buzzed around his ears, reading his fancy with an irritating precision, whispering about Hermione’s adorable, scrunched up nose. As though he didn’t already know. The kissing Concoction Mouthwash had tripled his pulse in such a large dose, and now he’d smell like Peppermint for days. His boots were soaked in Crush Blush, and a sizeable crate of Lovelorn Lotion—a personal care product designed to mimic the pleasing scent of Amortentia without the effects— had splattered against his apron, wafting a familiar Chamomile through the sharp waves of Peppermint.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Individually, none of the products were dangerous. They weren’t mood affecting, apart from making him feel put out, just now. But in concert, George found himself gagging, bent over the mess with a white-knuckle grip on the shelf.</p><p>Merlin, he was love sick. Well and truly.</p><p>And not in any shape to take mail or mind the till, should another customer come in.</p><p>He fished the slingshot from his back pocket, loaded a pellet of condensed floo powder in, and drew it back.</p><p>A new idea. His. It’d seemed clever at the time. Activating the floo from across the room could only be helpful.</p><p>But he missed the first shot, and the second, and the third. It was hard to hold the wooden handle steady, what with his retching and all.</p><p>Perhaps they could adapt a Depulso to create some sort of aiming charm and apply it to the stretchy bit?</p><p>The fourth shot landed, however, and George was able to manage “93 Diagon!” before another wave of nausea had him clapping his palm over his mouth.</p><p><em>“She’s so pretty, especially when she’s all cozy—”</em> the bubbles whispered. George swatted at them, managing to pop a few. But a lone remainder zipped in again, adding: <em>“Remember when she threw her arms around you? Ask her to be your girlfriend. Don’t you want her to be your girlfriend? You could take her out to dinner at Mon Bonheur’s or—” </em></p><p>“Fred!” George shouted, smacking the last bubble into mist. He stumbled around the endcap, tracking lilac goop and fogging, pink puddles with each step.</p><p>He was going to be ill.</p><p>The hearth whooshed.</p><p>George’s hand left a sticky print on the countertop.</p><p>“Mer-lin,” Fred pronounced the name like two separate words, amusement cracking out from his tone. “What’ve we here?”</p><p>“Shut up and—”</p><p>George lurched and spilled his honey toast all over the floor.</p><p>Looked a bit less appetizing, once it was chewed and swallowed.</p><p>Fred darted in and set to work on vanishing the sick, then the mess of potions, George helping nonverbally as he could.</p><p>It took a few minutes, but as the last of it was siphoned from his clothes, George was able to inhale without his stomach wrenching.</p><p>Fred smirked. “Reckon we could add this to the Snackboxes?” he shoved George’s arm. “Special holiday promotion?”</p><p>It wasn’t a bad idea.</p><p>“When did being lovesick get you out of Transfiguration?” George asked.</p><p>Fred quirked his brows. “There was that time a few months after Yule Ball, when I teased Ange so much that she hexed me? McGonagall sent us both out of class and to detention.” He grinned. “Had my first proper snog with my lovely bride that day.”</p><p>George rolled his eyes. “I don’t think that counts as snogging, Freddie.” Angelina told the story a bit differently. Fred had done the trophy scrubbing for both of them while she directed, and afterwards, she’d rewarded him with a slight peck on the mouth.</p><p>Fred snorted. “Yeah?” he asked. “And how would you know? Got a lot of experience with that, have you?”</p><p>George’s face went hot. “That’s original,” he muttered, heading to dispose of the shattered glass in the aisle.</p><p>Through his proximity to Fred and the way that school rumors tended to spin insignificant interactions into epic, ridiculous narratives, George had acquired a bit of a rakish reputation. But in truth, he’d really only kissed two people. An awkward, stuttering encounter with Alecia sixth year in the Astronomy Tower that had left them both cringing, and—and Granger, really.</p><p>But there’d been more important things to worry about. Like Quidditch, and fireworks, and the shop.</p><p>And then the war.</p><p>And staying alive. And always, always worrying. By the time he’d realized that he might actually fancy a kiss with someone, and that it was Granger, no less, well—it was very clearly outside the scope of possibility. Until recently.</p><p>Fred gestured at the residual stains on his clothes. “You’ll be smelling like peppermint, rain, and Quidditch pads for days.”</p><p>George rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to fall into that trap.</p><p>“That is what you smell, right?” Fred asked, giving him a side glance.</p><p>“You bloody well know it isn’t, and if it was, you’d have reason to worry,” George said, flicking his wand at the last bit of mess. It vanished with a purple pop of sparks.</p><p>Fred laughed. “Not so, Georgie. Angie knows I’m the better-looking twin,” he said.</p><p>“Here we go again,” George said. He scoffed and stepped around him to collect the letter the owl had left. It hadn’t landed with the owl order things, so it must be personal.</p><p>Some might expect Fred to lay off that bit, especially since George lost the ear, but if anything, the git had doubled down. It was nice. Normal. Fred seemed to know where the line was, too. He never did it in such a way that it made George feel truly ugly.</p><p>Fred lilted on about Angelina’s appreciation for his many great qualities as George sliced the envelop open. “And she agrees that I’m the better dancer—” Fred said. “Obviously.”</p><p>George laughed. There was no doubt of that. George could manage the steps and turns to the traditional Weasley Stomp as well as any of his siblings, but any other partnered dancing was a bit of a mystery.</p><p>He could jump. Bob his head. Keep in time.</p><p>But when it came to moving in tandem with a bird—well. Once again, there hadn’t been much opportunity. And most of George’s more reckless, impulsive, arm-flailing-singing-aloud-and-improvising style dancing was done alone, in solitude, to the wireless.</p><p>It had been that way for as long as he could recall. He had no idea how to dance with a partner. At least not properly.</p><p>George paused as he unfolded the note.</p><p>Would that matter to Hermione? She’d seemed to enjoy dancing with Krum at the ball years ago, and every time he’d seen her dance since. In the shop, at Ginny’s party, the wedding.</p><p>She’d been radiant during their dance at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but he’d known the steps for that, and—</p><p>George blinked, spacing out as he stared at the parchment.</p><p>“—Angie thinks it’s due to my slightly taller build,” Fred was saying. “I’m just the better mover. By far.”</p><p>George shot him a flat look. Now that was rubbish, and they both knew it. They were exactly the same height, though George often looked a touch taller due to Fred’s propensity for slouching when bored. Furthermore, Angie wasn’t stingy with her compliments, but she’d never been one to pad Fred’s ears with empty flattering.</p><p>So, instead, George scoffed and folded his arms. “She gather that from half a song at Yule Ball, did she?” George drawled. “Because I don’t recall dancing with her any other time.”</p><p>Fred grinned. “Only because I’m so superior a partner that Angie can’t stand to step away for—”</p><p>George rolled his eyes and glanced over the letter, tuning Fred out.</p><p>Ginny’s scrawl greeted him.</p><p>
  <em>“George,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ve hit my limit. Harry says there’s no such thing as war hero immunity, so I’m not allowed to strangle Peakes and Coote. If someone doesn’t teach these nutters how to properly aim a bat, I am going to—” </em>
</p><p>A broad, angry scribble marred the sentence.</p><p>
  <em>“Since you’re the best beater we’ve had for decades, McGonagall says you can help with Quidditch practice tomorrow morning. Please. I might just end up in Azkaban if you say no, and I’m not joking. I will straight up murder them in their beds, and they’ll have gone to the trouble of surviving a bloody wizarding war only to die from a fistful of sickles swung in a tube sock.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Be there at 7:00 sharp, or I’ll come for you next.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gin”</em>
</p><p>George smirked and dropped the parchment to the counter. “Alright, Maestro,” he lilted. “You might be the better dancer, but Ginny says I’m the better beater.” He cocked a brow.</p><p>Fred stopped. “She didn’t say that,” he said.</p><p>George tossed over the letter and hopped onto the counter with a smug grin.</p><p>“I wonder—d’you think Angie agrees? You reckon she ever regrets picking the worse Quidditch player?” George added a pause for emphasis. “What do you think, Freddie?”</p><p>Fred’s face shifted into a deep red as he gazed at Ginny’s letter. “I know you’re joking,” he said, glancing up at George with a hard stare. “But no. And if you so much as—”</p><p>George threw his head back and laughed.</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 7:45 a.m.</p><p>Minerva McGonagall was nearly a foot shorter than George, but he still had to hurry to match her rapid clip through the courtyard. When he’d agreed to help Ginny work with the two Gryffindor beaters, he’d assumed he would meet them on the Pitch.</p><p>The Headmistress had been waiting at the gates, wordlessly gesturing for him to follow her up to the castle. And when Minerva gave a command, outright refusal was rarely a good idea.</p><p>Besides, he might catch a glimpse of Granger, if he was lucky.</p><p>He still hadn’t seen her, despite dropping a carton of soup off the prior evening. At the least, it appeared that she’d eaten. The other dinner dishes had been taken out of the fridge, and he’d found them mostly cleared of food, laying beside the sink.</p><p>She likely hadn’t had the time to supervise or double check the cleaning charm, so he’d recaste the charm on the other dishes, fixed her a cuppa, stuck it under a stasis charm, then brought his plates back to his flat.</p><p>“I appreciate you taking the time to assist Miss Weasley in this way,” Minerva said over her shoulder. Her dark green robes billowed behind her. “Peakes and Coote are well intentioned, but they miss more bludgers than they hit. I fear it’s only a matter of time before one of the others fails to dodge and gets knocked from their broom.”</p><p>“Not to mention the Quidditch cup,” George said easily. “Reckon it’ll be harder to keep that in the proper house once Ginny’s gone.”</p><p>Minerva’s step fell off-cadence for a moment, but she recovered, flicking a stern gaze back at George. “Privately, I may root for one house over another, Mr. Weasley, but as Headmistress—”</p><p>“Oh, no,” George drawled. “No, of course.”</p><p>Liar.</p><p>McGonagall nodded firmly as she started up the steps. George took them two at a time to keep in pace, his trainers smacking firmly on the ancient stone. He waited until they were nearly up the staircase, then cocked his head to the side and grinned at her.</p><p>“So, you’ll be bringing in experts for the other teams as well, then?” George asked. He couldn’t resist the taunt. Winding McGonagall up was one of the things he missed most about Hogwarts, and without Fred at his side, there were conversational openings.</p><p>“If they request permission for a suitable player to visit, I will grant it,” McGonagall said. She glanced down her nose at him through her spectacles and propped the entry door open. George followed her inside, where the hall teemed with students in weekend wear, sporting everything from classical wizarding robes to denims and muggle t-shirts. “This way, Mr. Weasley. I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”</p><p>Alright, then.</p><p>The jab was well-aimed and said far more loudly than needed. No fewer than thirty heads—students, staff, and faculty, swiveled to take George in. The dull roar of conversation and shouting dimmed.</p><p>Oh, absolutely brilliant.</p><p>He wasn’t kitted out to be in front of a crowd today.</p><p>In his late start on the day, he’d grabbed his old navy and white beanie, and it just got worse from there. He’d thrown his patched, grey coat overtop a bulky, maroon jumper with a “<em>W</em>” on the front. He had an old canvas bag over his shoulder holding his beater’s bat, the map, and a few odds and ends. His grey Quidditch pants were a smidge too short and sporting grass stains that pre-dated the war, if he was honest. The hems didn’t quite meet his raggedy trainers.</p><p>Not that it mattered, but he generally tried to keep up appearances. He and Fred were charming, mischievous business moguls. But just now, he looked like he’d been raiding his younger brother’s wardrobe.</p><p>He looked ridiculous, but he hadn’t planned on being in the Castle, and he certainly hadn’t expected McGonagall to draw attention to his presence.</p><p>She was watching him with barely concealed mirth—well, barely concealed for McGonagall. George had gotten better at reading the old bird more than most. All those hours of detention and lectures, after all.</p><p>That slight, smug smile? She was practically crowing.</p><p>George pinned her with a flat stare, mustered his bravado, and spun to the gawking child beside him.</p><p>“Fred Weasley,” he boomed, extending a hand to the round-eyed Hufflepuff. Luckily, his hat rested low enough to cover the evidence proving the claim wrong.</p><p>The boy blinked and shook his hand in a slight, clammy up-down motion. “Declan.”</p><p>Chatter resumed, and through the clamor, he heard an incredulous voice cry, “Blimey! She brought in Fred Weasley!” Laughter exploded out of that portion of the corridor, beside the Great Hall entrance. “She must be—”</p><p>“Mr. Weasley?” McGonagall asked shrewdly, lifting one brow at George’s deception. “If you don’t mind?”</p><p>“Of course,” George said, skirting a disgruntled, lanky boy with a stack of caldrons in his arms. He bounded after McGonagall in an easy jog. The Headmistress stopped short in front of the Great Hall.</p><p>George frowned. “There a reason we’re taking the long way to the pitch?” he asked.</p><p>McGonagall regarded the doors. “The Shrieking Cans—is there a fail-safe?” She spoke the question without turning from the oak slabs.</p><p>George tilted his head to the side, playing at confusion. “Pardon?”</p><p>One of their more annoying noisemakers, inspired by the Caterwauling charm, but less sinister. They’d adjusted the frequency and pitch. It wouldn’t bring the same sense of danger and doom that the other did. Just annoyance.</p><p>Pop the tin lid, and the can would shriek and scream for ages, until it petered off and ran out of—</p><p>McGonagall did not look amused.</p><p>Instead, she pinned him with a stare he was all too familiar with. It was the intimidating one, where not a muscle on her face moved, and her eyes were flat. It usually proceeded detentions, massive point deductions, and owls home to his Mum. “There are numerous parties invested in this information, Mr. Weasley.”</p><p>Other professors, no doubt.</p><p>George scratched the back of his neck. “Can’t say that there is, I’m afraid,” he said, with a jaunty grin.</p><p>There was.</p><p>He and Fred enjoyed a good bit of noise, but even they had limits. Product testing took a long time. They’d made it two days before adding in the switch. It would resist almost all other charms. Otherwise, it could be muffled, but not silenced.</p><p>It was marvelous. Really, a remarkable feat of magical engineering.</p><p>“Might I suggest then, that such a measure would be prudent,” McGonagall said, not looking as though she believed him for a moment.</p><p>George thrust his hands in his back pockets and shrugged.</p><p>Minerva didn’t so much as flinch. She thrust the doors wide, and a shrieking wail tore into him.</p><p>Ah. The sound of success.</p><p>“As for your purpose here—I thought you may want to collect Miss Weasley from breakfast yourself,” Professor McGonagall said, straining to speak in an even shout over the racket. “And while you’re here, you may as well find a way to disable the contraption that has taken over the Ravenclaw table? If anyone can, I should think it would be you, Fred.” And the corner of her mouth twitched before she strode away, towards the Transfiguration classroom.</p><p>Sharp as a tack, that one.</p><p>It wasn’t difficult to locate the culprit. Students of all houses grouped around the far end of the Ravenclaw table. A couple of younger-looking prefects he didn’t recognize loitered close by with lofty, smarmy glares.</p><p>Alright, perhaps not smarmy, exactly.</p><p>But, certainly self-righteous. None of them seemed to be doing anything to help,.</p><p>The crowd was too thick for him to fight through without knocking some poor firstie to the floor, and amidst the chaos of the shrieking, no one had noticed his presence.</p><p>“Oi!” he shouted. The students on the outside of the throng broke away, clutching their ears. George snorted. No doubt, some ruddy Ravenclaw had decided to take one apart, and—</p><p>“I’m trying!” Someone in the thick of the group shouted. “But it’s—” A particularly loud screech cut them off. They sounded young. George broke into a jog, using his forearm to carve a gentle path between bodies.</p><p>“It’s been going nearly an hour! Why don’t you just owl them already? You said you know them!” A tall, blonde boy in a Ravenclaw Quidditch jumper shouted. “I heard you, just the other day at practice—bragging that you knew Mr. George.”</p><p>Mr. George? He’d always just been George or Mr. Weasley. Or Fred. Mr. George was an oxymoron.</p><p>George’s brows lifted, and he tapped a short girl with pin-straight black hair on the shoulder. “Pardon,” he mouthed, making his way through. The girl started at the sight of him, then broke into laughter, elbowing her friend beside her.</p><p>“That—that doesn’t mean I’m able to summon him here like a cab!” The original voice shouted back, and a jolt of anger laced the words. “And I wasn’t bragging—”</p><p>“I think you’re lying,” the blonde boy snapped, his back to George. “If you did know him, it wouldn’t be that big a deal.”</p><p>“Come off it, Smith,” a second boy yelled. His voice sounded familiar, but George couldn’t place it with the racket. Suddenly, the blonde jostled backwards.</p><p>A new voice cried: “Stop! If you get banned for fighting again, Ginny will—” The rest of it was drowned by the Shrieking Can.</p><p>This prank had gotten rather out of hand, it seemed.</p><p>George stuck his fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle.</p><p>The fighting ceased, and the shrieking was the only sound as the group parted.</p><p>George didn’t recognize the blonde, but the source of the third voice soon became clear—Dennis Creevey—all mousy, brown hair and pale skin that was flushed with agitation.</p><p>The bloke looked ready to riot, the sleeve of his crimson, Quidditch practice robes held by a shorter girl beside him. Demelza Robins, George remembered. She’d been a third year when he was in seventh. Now, she seemed considerably less jumpy, and stood in a matching practice robes, hair slicked back into a ponytail.</p><p>But neither of them held the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes product. Dennis’s face blanked as he saw George, then his expression twisted into a hard stare before he yanked away from Demelza.</p><p>None other than Emmeline sat at the bench, frantically jabbing her wand at the device, attempting to shove the lid back into place. It wouldn’t stick. That was part of the design. Instead, the shrieking pitched louder, and the crowd exploded into grumbles and shouts.</p><p>Ginny was nowhere to be seen.</p><p>“Emmeline!” George shouted. Emmeline’s face whipped upwards. Her mouth dropped open. George pointed at the Shrieking Can. “May I?” he mouthed.</p><p>Emmeline nodded hurriedly, and George slid into the seat beside her. Calmly, he flipped the can around, lifted his wand, and caught Emmeline’s gaze, ensuring she could see. Emmeline had gone still, blinking between him and the noisemaker. He lifted the wand and his brows, then spun the can three times on its back to throw off the self-stabilizing charm before bracing his wand point against the seam between the rubber and metal.</p><p>Then, he shot off a nonverbal Glisseo. The freezing charm slipped into the inside and overrode the wailing mechanism, tripping and shattering the cogs in the center in a way that wouldn’t trigger the layered shields.</p><p>The shrieking stuttered to a halt. George took the can, set it on its edge, and spun it like a top, then smacked his hand against the wobbling side, launching it into the air. He snatched it and held it to the side of his face like one of Fred’s modified muggle devices. “D’you need anything else? I’m owl ears, Emmeline,” he said, grinning at the lot of them. He paused. “Well, half ears.” He offered the bright, yellow can back to her.</p><p>About half the group burst into laughter—the others uttering groans and mutters. Except Emmeline.</p><p>Emmeline blinked with round eyes, looking rather startled at the quip. Like he’d dropped a dung bomb onto the table. But then she cracked into a small smile, picked up the can, and thrust it back at the blonde boy. “Here’s your toy, Hank.” she said, no small amount of vindication in her tone. Her nose lifted as the boy turned red and grabbed it. Slowly, the crowd began to filter away, though a few stragglers lingered.</p><p>“Do you have sweets?” a girl with beaded braids asked in a hopeful tone. She looked vaguely familiar. The cogs in his mind whirred. May. Hufflepuff. One of Flitwick’s second years. “Like last time?”</p><p>George offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I didn’t think to. I wasn’t expecting to make a stop by the Castle on my way to the pitch.” It was mostly true. He’d hoped to sneak in and maybe pay a visit to Filch’s cabinets, but he hadn’t expected to actually interact with any students apart from Gin’s team beyond a casual head nod.</p><p>Most of the Hufflepuffs dispersed. “If you stop by the shop with your Mum or Dad, I’ll see if I can find some, free of charge,” he added.</p><p>“Thanks, but my parents are muggles,” May said dejectedly. “They can’t come to Hogsmeade. I’ll have to wait until next year.”</p><p>George blinked. Right. He’d forgotten. While it was technically possible for muggle parents to visit the school in situations of great emergency, they usually didn’t linger. And the anti-muggle wards on Hogsmeade likely made staying there physically uncomfortable—even if they could get in with their child’s assistance.</p><p>That was rubbish.</p><p>But how did the muggle parents pass the time when they came to see their kids’ important matches? Or graduations? Or—</p><p>The realization struck him cold. They didn’t. They didn’t get to socialize outside of Keddles. They didn’t get Butterbeer at Rosmerta’s pub. They either waited in the Headmaster’s office, or they didn’t come at all.</p><p>Salazar.</p><p>By the time he looked up again, May was gone.</p><p>Maybe—maybe Aberforth would have some sort of solution.</p><p>As he’d been lost in thought, a new argument had broken out. Something about why second-years should be allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but first-years still shouldn’t.</p><p>George snorted and rapped a knuckle on the tabletop. “You lot seen my sister, by chance?”</p><p>“She went to wake Peakes and Coote,” Demelza said. “They usually try to skive off of early morning practices.”</p><p>George stretched his hand over his brow and pinched at his temples with his index finger and thumb. “Of course they do.”</p><p>“Well, I—I would hurry if I were you, because Ravenclaw has the pitch just after,” Emmeline announced, rather loftily.</p><p>Dennis sighed, and a quiet, bitter sounding laugh escaped with the puff of air. “And to think I was just helping you.”</p><p>“Thanks, Dennis, but personal favors do not extend to the Quidditch Pitch,” Emmeline said. Her voice was quiet but firm, and a current of snark laid just beneath the words. She dusted her hands on her jumper—another Ravenclaw Quidditch pattern—and stood.</p><p>Interesting.</p><p>George hadn’t been present for the first Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match, so he hadn’t seen the other team’s participants.</p><p>“You a seeker?” George asked. She was of a similar build as Harry’s had been when he’d joined the team.</p><p>Hank snorted. “No,” he said icily. “I’m seeker. And assistant to the Captain. She’s a chaser.” The way he said “chaser” sounded as though what he really meant was “only a chaser.”</p><p>George raised a brow. “Probably a decent one, I’d bet. Heard you beat my sister on technicality,” he said, opting to ignore Hank’s jab.</p><p>Emmeline bit her lips together. “Penalty shots aren’t technicalities,” she said.</p><p>“They are when the only reason you got one is because the other team’s beaters lobbed the Bludger at their own keeper,” Demelza said, sounding quite put out. “Still don’t see why Hooch—”</p><p>“Yes, well—” Emmeline cut in then faltered, pausing halfway through her sentence.</p><p>The group waited.</p><p>Emmeline swallowed, and her chin lifted as she stared Dennis—not Demelza—down. “If you wanted to win,” she said, more clearly this time. “You should’ve blocked my shot.”</p><p>Demelza broke into laughter. “I stand corrected. She’s got a point, Creevey,” she said. “You did sort of freeze.”</p><p>Dennis tipped his head back toward the ceiling. “We’re not going over this again,” he said flatly. “The rain was in my eyes.”</p><p>George frowned and nodded. “Right, right,” he drawled. “Well, I’m going to sort some things. I’ll see you lot at the pitch in a few minutes.”</p><p>He left them, Demelza and Emmeline submerged in a far merrier argument from the one in which he’d found them.</p><p>As he slipped from the Great Hall, he pulled the map from his coat.</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 8:00 a.m.</p><p>Room 234-00 still smelled like fried fish, but the layer of thick dust obscuring the room seemed a bit heavier than usual. The cabinets were the only things that looked to have been disturbed anytime recently. Clearly, whoever was serving in the Caretaker role had been using the space to a minimal extent.</p><p>George slipped the bit of wire he’d used with his wand to jimmy the lock loose into his pocket and paced to the staff filing cabinets.</p><p>He had to hurry.</p><p>A quick unlocking charm did the trick for the second to last drawer, labelled “Prefects and Student Teachers,” and George slid it open. Might as well use Hermione’s documentation as a template.</p><p>He thumbed through the files until he came upon the one labelled “Granger.”</p><p>Inside, there was a thick stack of parchment.</p><p>Oh. It wasn’t just her official form—it was her application, letters of reference, what looked to be a copy of her Mastery Qualifier Exam. George flicked through, not stopping on any of it. He was here to do mischief, not invade her privacy.</p><p>Besides, he’d probably heard her recite her answers for that exam at least three times as she debated what impression she’d left on potential Mastery advisors—the first round of whom she had yet to hear back from.</p><p>A sheet of parchment a bit yellower than the rest peeked at him.</p><p>There.</p><p>George slid it out.</p><p>It was a simple form—listing Hermione’s date of birth, her house, and the date at which she’d been made a prefect. At the bottom, a new set of lines had been added, amending the document to reflect her student-teacher status. McGonagall’s signature splashed across the bottom in thick, black ink. When he tilted the page to the side, it took on a red sheen.</p><p>Bugger. It was special, then.</p><p>George sucked in a breath through his teeth and fished a quill from the side pocket of his bag. He couldn’t very well forge McGonagall’s signature. The wards would know. It’d have to use the same ink, likely.</p><p>He spared a glance at the map. Gin’s marker was still lingering near the Gryffindor dormitories, but a cluster of students were heading towards the pitch.</p><p>Little footprints peppered the first floor, but in this back corner, the corridor was abandoned. That is—it was. A single pair paced closer.</p><p>Peeves.</p><p>Bloody brilliant.</p><p>He’d have to rush it. George darted over the student cabinet and pried his and Fred’s drawer free. It extended three feet.</p><p>A loud cackle bounced around the walls. George rolled his eyes and rifled through the documents. Anything would do. A detention slip. A formal warning of expulsion. Most of them were formal complaints filed by Snape and Filch, however, with a few from Vector, Sprout, and—there! McGonagall.</p><p>He nicked the first from the file.</p><p>Oh, this one had Fred’s name. Alright then. Another one.</p><p>He flipped faster.</p><p>Faster.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>All of these had <em>“Fred Weasley” </em>or <em>“Fred and George Weasley”</em> at the top. Like—like they didn’t think he ever did any mischief on his own.</p><p>George’s brow furrowed.</p><p>Some of these pranks—like the water bucket over the dungeon doorway, beside the Slytherin common room? That had been all George. Fred was already serving detention when it happened, and George had been out to get Flint back for a snide comment about—</p><p>“What’s he doing?” Peeves’s screeching cackle sang. “And where’s the other one? Twinsy-twinsy, come in twos.”</p><p>George cleared his throat and smacked the form he’d found on the rickety desk. He could vanish the ink with Fred’s name.</p><p>“Bit of fun,” George murmured. “What’re you doing, Peeves?”</p><p>It was best to treat Peeves with general, somewhat distant amusement.</p><p>Peeves swooped low over George’s shoulder, and a George stilled himself to keep from flinching at the frigid shiver that rumbled up his spine. Instead, he worked his wand over the sections of parchment that diverged from his template.</p><p>“Boo!” Peeves screeched, right as George lifted the quill.</p><p>George stiffened a bit, then rolled his eyes.</p><p>Peeves floated onto his back and began to circle while George filled in a copy of the text proclaiming him a student teacher.</p><p>He couldn’t make himself a prefect. Not even in jest. Not even for a good cause.</p><p>“I ought to tell McGonagall-Bonagall about what you’re up to,” Peeves lilted, knocking an old bottle of ink from the desk. He hissed when George’s self-inking quill didn’t stutter.</p><p>George raised a brow, still scrawling rapidly. “Think of all the mayhem you’ll miss out on, if you do,” he said.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>George dotted the period at the end of the last sentence, then set to shrinking the form until it was no larger than his thumbnail.</p><p>“What sort of mayhem?” Peeves asked, well—peevishly.</p><p>George replaced Hermione’s document, then affixed his forged parchment to the back of drawer with a permanent sticking charm. There was a small jolt, and the cabinet lit with a brief, faint, golden flash.</p><p>George slammed the drawers shut, then turned to face Peeves with a lopsided smile. “You’ll see.”</p><p>#</p><p>He couldn’t resist. As he hurried towards the front entrance, George ducked close to the Great Hall and peeked inside. It was risky, setting Peeves’s impulse control against his wish for more chaos. But, if Peeves knew anything about Fred and George, it was that they could be trusted to deliver.</p><p>And hopefully, George’s efforts would do just that.</p><p>The breakfast tables were emptying of students as turn of the hour approached.</p><p>“Five points from Gryffindor,” George whispered.</p><p>Like magic, a couple of rubies spiraled from the hourglass. He whispered the reverse, and they dropped back in. How far would it reach? He knew it went deep into the forbidden forest, at least. And Hogsmeade. He’d had points taken at both.</p><p>A rush of power filled his veins.</p><p>No wonder Percy got such a big head.</p><p>This morning, George had fancied revealing his mischief to Granger straight away. Gloating, taking the win, distributing a ridiculous amount of points to Hufflepuff to make good on his months-old threat, and letting her tattle on him. But now, a particularly nefarious impulse tugged at him.</p><p>It would be far more satisfying to not tell her. To tease her.</p><p>To let her wonder, every time he quipped about taking or giving points, if he was merely joking, or if it truly worked.</p><p>It would drive her up the wall.</p><p>A cause worth taking a N.E.W.T. for, if it came to it.</p><p>George grinned.</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 8:20 a.m.</p><p>The reason for Ginny’s stress became clearer the further into practice the team got. It was a split squad, and nearly half of it would be graduating in June.</p><p>Ralph Peakes and Davy Coote, the Beaters, were members of Ginny’s year. But they didn’t seem to believe they were on the team, despite having played under the Gryffindor banner only one term less than Ginny had.</p><p>Demelza Robins was a tough sixth-year and the second chaser. She seemed to have grown a thicker skin since George’s time at Hogwarts, and he was glad to see it. He’d heard stories from Angelina and Gin, about Ron having made the girl cry ages ago. Clearly, she’d grown since then.</p><p>The seeker was a third-year by the name of Beth Jones. She seemed rather more interested in the Bludgers than the Snitch, however, and continually called out the location of the projectiles to the chasers across the field with the occasional, frantic “On your left!” and “Duck, Robins!”</p><p>George hadn’t the faintest of how she could find the things better than Peakes and Coote, especially given the curtain of curly, red-brown hair that fell into her face.</p><p>Leya Ogden, a second-year and the third Chaser, was clearly still getting used to a new broom. A Nimbus her father had gotten her for her birthday, as she’d said more than once. The witch seemed very intent on not scratching it and was being a bit too precious about how far she’d open it up.</p><p>Not for the first time, Ginny’s voice rang across the pitch, “For crying out loud, Leya, the wind won’t hurt it.”</p><p>Out of everyone, however, Dennis seemed the least happy to be in attendance. He played as Keeper and was poised in the middle of the group’s age range as a fourth-year. The poor bloke had flipped from being the youngest of his year to the oldest in the one beneath it due to missing two terms while in hiding. Must’ve stuck close to the school, as Collin had been around for the battle and even manned some of the radio shifts from Hogsmeade.</p><p>Had Dennis been there, that night? He seemed averse to meeting George’s eyes, and had gone to the trouble of pretending to have something stuck in his ear when George called his name in greeting earlier.</p><p>Demelza had said something about Dennis fighting. George’s brow furrowed, and he glanced towards the hoops yet again.</p><p>It could’ve been him, in a way. Easily. Had Fred—</p><p>George wrenched the thought free and forced his focus back on the sport at hand.</p><p>Ginny seemed intent on leaving the squad in good shape to continue the legacy, but with half the team leaving, George wasn’t sure how things would sort out.</p><p>Hopefully, Demelza would be able to find better Beaters after Davy and Ralph left.</p><p>A Bludger zipped by, and Beth dived precariously out of the way once again. With the distraction, the charmed snitch took off like a shot, swooping laps around the pitch as it built speed. Beth huffed and started after it.</p><p>“Coote!” George shouted over the wind. “You hit that straight at her, Mate! Watch it!”</p><p>Coote shrugged and Peakes frowned, glancing around.</p><p>George rubbed a hand down his face. The two weren’t listening to a word he said.</p><p>Ginny, Demelza, and Leya were running Quaffle drills while Dennis tried his hardest to keep them from sinking shots through the hoops.</p><p>Half the time, Dennis’s hardest seemed like he was barely trying, and George might’ve thought just that, had he not seen the heavy rise and fall of the other boy’s shoulders. He moved slowly, and seemed to flinch when blocking with his right arm especially.</p><p>Apart from the Chasers and Seeker, the team was in poor shape. Ginny’s speed and the combined talents of the others could make up for rubbish beaters, but with a dysfunctional Keeper—</p><p>It didn’t matter how many points they led with. The second round of matches would demolish the Gryffindor team’s lead.</p><p>“Ralphie!” Beth shouted, flailing a hand so hard that one of her wrist guard straps came loose. The Bludger had narrowly missed her forearm as she snatched for the snitch. Ralph craned his neck to look up at her.</p><p>“Not my fault!” he shouted. “You should’ve been paying attention.”</p><p>Beth’s cheeks went crimson.</p><p>George pulled his broomstick back to make room. Maybe Ralph would listen better if it was coming from a classmate.</p><p>Beth sucked a breath through her nose, but she didn’t yell. “Your job is to keep that—” she said firmly and pointed at the iron ball, now dancing on the far end of the pitch. “—away from me. Your teammate.”</p><p>Ralph watched the empty stands. “It’s just practice,” he muttered.</p><p>“Oi,” George said, snapping his fingers in front of Peakes. “Doesn’t matter! She’s right. You should care that your team can’t trust you to protect them.”</p><p>“I didn’t see it, okay?” Ralph snapped. “I’m sorry. I-I’m doing the best I can.” He shook his head tightly. “Really.”</p><p>George sighed. He’d tried explaining the various approaches—playing Beater by zones, tag-teaming players, or simply following one Bludger each, but none of these ideas seemed to resonate with the two.</p><p>To make matters worse, George was seated on a school broom, due to his own being smashed to pieces by the Travers run.</p><p>It tilted to the right and shuddered whenever he tried to fly over thirty miles per hour. Hardly ideal for demonstrating.</p><p>Peakes could hit with his bat well enough, if a Bludger should happen to wander in front of it. Coote, on the other hand, was better at spotting the Bludgers, but he seemed to hit them in the opposite direction than intended.</p><p>Meanwhile, the iron projectiles rocketed around, coming close to hitting other members of the team. George was running ragged, trying to intercept them on the rubbish Shooting Star he was riding.</p><p>He’d have to get a new broom straight away.</p><p>Even if he never helped with a practice again, he needed one for his own, personal use.</p><p>After all—once Aberforth was released from Mungo’s, the group would formulate a plan for returning to Travers Mansion, and it would probably involve broom flight.  </p><p>And besides that, he needed one for more mundane travel as well. Or simply flying. He’d done less of it this winter with the frequent storms, but it had always seemed to clear his head.</p><p>There were loads of reasons for him to want a new broom, and not a single one of them had to do with Granger, potentially wanting to ride with him again.</p><p>But if she did, it’d be good to have one. Wouldn’t it?</p><p>And this time, he could tip her chin up and—</p><p>“Look out!” Beth cried. A streak of dark brown barreled towards him, and George cracked his bat across the surface.</p><p>Probably best not to think about Granger with live Bludgers around.</p><p>George wheeled his broom to the side and pointed to Coote, then at the Bludger, signaling the other Beater to direct it away from the cluster of Chasers on the opposite end of the pitch.</p><p>The boy leaned forward and took off. When he caught up to it, he swung. The Bludger redirected towards Dennis, who had to reel towards the ground to avoid it.</p><p>Another near miss. George winced and turned his broom to find the other Bludger.</p><p>In doing so he caught sight of the path leading between Hogsmeade and the Castle. Would Granger be in the library today? She often preferred to work at there when things were especially busy. Practice had begun early enough. Maybe he’d see her on her way in.</p><p>But the path was empty of travelers.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>He was being ridiculous. Dear Merlin. It’d been less than a week.</p><p>Even if Granger was brilliant and soft and—and fancied him, and laughed like music and smelled so good, all the time—</p><p>White, hot pain blossomed through his shoulder as an unyielding force clipped across his back.</p><p>“Oh—” George sucked in a breath and bit back a slipstream of language that would’ve put Ginny to shame.</p><p>He never missed. What had happened?</p><p>“Sorry!” Coote called. “Meant to aim the other way!”</p><p>Beth leaned forward on her Cleansweep 11 and zipped across the pitch. “Ginny!” she called. “Davy’s hit your brother with a Bludger!”</p><p>Ginny spun around on the firebolt, holding her hand over her eyes. “George?” she shouted. She sounded concerned. And a bit shocked.</p><p>That made the both of them.</p><p>He waved her off with his good arm, then glared at the Bludger. It whistled in a loop around the middle of the pitch. “It’s fine!” he called.</p><p>Peakes’s laughter echoed overhead. “So, I should—”</p><p>“Shut it, Ralph!” Leya cried, stopping on a dime on her Nimbus.</p><p>George yanked his wand from his coat pocket and flicked it over his shoulder with an Episky, just to be safe. Nothing cracked.</p><p>Good.</p><p>It smarted like the Dickens, though. He swallowed and circled the arm in the joint, then returned his grip to the broomstick.</p><p>It occurred to him that perhaps there was a reason Fred had missed things, from time to time.</p><p>The rogue Bludger dipped, then hurtled, narrowly missing Peakes.</p><p>Beth watched it with a frown.</p><p>“Oi, Beth,” George called. She glanced up. “Mind taking care of that?” He tossed her his bat.</p><p>Beth caught the handle. “Me?” she asked.</p><p>“There another Beth here?” George asked.</p><p>Ginny had paused on the opposite end of the pitch, watching as she sat upright on her broom.</p><p>Hopefully she wouldn’t be cross. He wasn’t aiming to re-arrange her roster or anything. He was only curious. Had a bit of a gut feeling.</p><p>Beth shook her head.</p><p>“Hold it in your writing hand,” George said.</p><p>Beth adjusted her grip, and her posture fell, almost like magic, into the relaxed form. Like it was an extension of her arm. Sitting there on the broom, she looked born for it. Like she’d pulled it out of a stone.</p><p>George nodded. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. He demonstrated the one-arm swing. “Like this—” he said, moving through the motions. “Or like this.” He pointed at her. “And don’t lock your elbow, unless you’d like to shatter it.”</p><p>The calls across the pitch had quieted.</p><p>George grinned. “I want you to put a hole through the faculty stands,” he said, tipping his head towards the abandoned section of wooden bleachers.</p><p>The Bludger rocketed past, heading straight at Peakes.</p><p>George nodded. Beth unleashed.</p><p>There was no doubt she was a decent Seeker. She had the flight skills and the speed.</p><p>But Beth drew back her arm like a sword, and the bat cracked like lightning, and the iron collided with the top row in a thunder of raining wood. Right in the middle.</p><p>Any Quidditch position could be learned. But the best Beaters had a sense about them. A compass, with a little needle that ticked wildly, as Charlie would say.</p><p>Beth had a compass.</p><p>“Jones,” Ginny shouted. “Coote.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Switch.”</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 11:30 a.m.</p><p>They ran practice until nearly noon, when Gryffindor’s pitch reservation expired. George did his best to coach the two Beaters. Ralph seemed to be aiming his bat alright, but locating the Bludger was still proving difficult.</p><p>He wasn’t sure what he could do to help, besides giving the seventh-year a new set of eyes.</p><p>Davy hadn’t caught an unbridled Snitch yet. If he couldn’t, they’d have to keep the players in their old positions. But things like this took time, and Coote had only had a few hours of practice.</p><p>The last half-hour was punctuated by the presence of a line of royal, blue cloaks in the stands. Some of the Ravenclaws went so far as to take notes on some of Ginny’s flying formations.</p><p>Ginny didn’t seem bothered. When Leya tentatively nudged her, Ginny shrugged and explained that they couldn’t kick them out of the stands and that the formations weren’t anything terribly novel.</p><p>“It’s far more important that we focus on solid passing,” Ginny said, starting a list and raising a finger just as George had seen Angelina do on more than one occasion.</p><p>He coughed into his sleeve to cover the laugh.</p><p>“Fast, controlled flying,” Ginny raised another finger. “And moving as a unit.” She shot Peakes a pointed look. Peakes saluted, but in doing so, he accidentally knocked his broomstick into Dennis.</p><p>Dennis’s jaw clenched, and he shot Ginny a flat, furious look.</p><p>Ginny exhaled a huff. “Alright, let’s land,” she said. The rest of the team headed down, and George and Ginny brought of the back of the group.</p><p>“Ravenclaw can study all they want,” Ginny whispered with a grin as they dismounted. “They won’t be able to catch us.” She elbowed George and nodded towards Leya, who’d shown some marked improvement in her flight times over the several hours. “If you can believe it, her dad didn’t want her playing at first. But once he saw our game against Slytherin, he changed his mind.”</p><p>Leya didn’t hear the murmured comment. She stood on her broom’s foot rests, bristles hovering upright, just over the ground. She gave twist to her shoulders and began to spin in a rapid twirl. Her long, dark braid whipped out from the force of it.</p><p>Beth was attempting the same trick but couldn’t stop laughing long enough to keep her balance.</p><p>“You ever seen someone made to be in the air,” Ginny muttered, nodding at Leya. “Like they might’ve been a bird, had they not been born a person.”</p><p>George smiled at Ginny. “Yeah.”</p><p>Dennis’s voice snagged George’s attention. “Are we done, then.” The question was flat and dead, and the boy wouldn’t look at any of the others as he said it. Instead, he studied the frozen mud beneath his boots.</p><p>He was so very different from the cheeky tag-along that had butted his way into Dumbledore’s Army.</p><p>He hadn’t seen Dennis smile once since arriving.</p><p>George blinked. “You okay, Mate?”</p><p>Dennis scoffed at the ground, and his tongue poked his cheek out a bit. But he didn’t answer.</p><p>“Dennis?” George asked, more quietly.</p><p>Dennis raised his gaze, and it was ice. “Yeah,” he spat. Then he turned and stomped off to the locker rooms without waiting to be dismissed.</p><p>George frowned. He’d seen a bit of Dennis at Collin’s funeral, but not much since. Only fragments in passing, really. “Gin?” George murmured.</p><p>“Mm?” Ginny looked up from the storage crate, where Davy was helping her strap each of the supplies back into place.</p><p>George furrowed his brow. If Dennis was having a rough time, asking about it in front of the whole team probably wouldn’t make it better.</p><p>He’d have to pull Ginny aside later, or maybe send an owl.</p><p>Ginny interpreted his interruption as a request to head out and swiped his borrowed broom after pushing to her feet. “Thanks for the help. I think I saw Ralph hit one on purpose a few minutes back.”</p><p>George snorted and rubbed his shoulder, then waved Ginny off as the Ravenclaws took the pitch. Not wanting to intrude, he loped through the stadium gate and into the thick snow in the field beyond it. Sweat from the practice dampened his clothes, and without the exertion, the winter wind cut right through his layers to his clammy skin.</p><p>Better hurry for the outer wards before Grinkit Lane. He could apparate from there.</p><p>Fingers still working the sore spot on his back, George darted for the path. As he neared the main stepping-stones where the snow was packed down by traffic, a dark bundle collided with him.</p><p>“Oh!” The figure squeaked, and a pallid, rapidly-flushing face blinked up at him from under the rumpled hood of a school cloak.</p><p>Hermione.</p><p>The breath left his lungs.</p><p>She stood in her school uniform, book bag clutched to her chest, dark circles shadowing her eyes. She blinked a few times, then her gaze focused on him.</p><p>“Hi—hi George,” she sounded dazed and a bit breathless.</p><p>Her body tipped to the side.</p><p>George’s eyes rounded. “Granger,” her name snapped out of him as he snatched her arm before she could topple into the snow. “Please tell me you’re wearing that because it’s laundry day.” He frowned at her school uniform, then used his free hand to fish his pocket watch from his coat.</p><p>His mittened thumb slipped on the button, but it clicked open.</p><p>Hermione burst into giggles, lurching in his hold.</p><p>George frowned at the timepiece, then up at her. “It’s nearly quarter to noon.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together and lifted her shoulder.</p><p>“Granger,” George said in a low warning. “When was the last time you slept?”</p><p>Hermione coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Ask me no questions,” she said, leaning towards him with a wobbly head shake. “And I shall tell you no lies.” She poked a bare finger on his nose. “Not a one.”</p><p>More giggling.</p><p>Salazar.</p><p>George huffed, grabbed her bag, then flicked his wand over it. “Accio mittens.” They tumbled from her cloak pocket instead. “Blimey,” George muttered. “You daft—” he wrestled one mitten free from her pocket, then stuck it over her hand. Hermione rolled her eyes and yanked the other one on, then extended her hand for her bag.</p><p>Suddenly, he didn’t want to let it go. He rather liked the way it felt. It fell nicely against his.</p><p>George swallowed and hoisted the strap higher onto his shoulder.</p><p>Hermione paused. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying it,” she said, snapping into a serious tone. “It’s mine.”</p><p>George held the bag strap, eyes working over her face. “But what if I want to carry it?”</p><p>Hermione snorted and bit down on her lips. But then a nervous laugh sputtered out as she glanced away. “You—you mean like—like a boyfriend?” she asked, a mocking chime entering her tone, but the pacing of it was all wrong, and the last word was laced with a touch too much incredulity for it to be an earnest mockery. “Like in the movies?” she added. “You know? They walk the girl home from school, and—and carry her books, and kiss at the door.” She rolled her eyes at the last part. But then she swallowed.</p><p>Heat flushed his face. “Would you like that?” George asked quietly.</p><p>Hermione blinked at her shoes. “I don’t know,” she whispered.</p><p>She was too far gone to be having this conversation.</p><p>George sucked in a cold breath and straightened his shoulders. “Well,” he said, staring at her with a lifted brow. “How about we start with me carrying the books.”</p><p>Hermione’s cheeks went pink. “Okay.”</p><p>She stole not-so-sneaky glances at him all the way to Grinkit Lane, each one more happy-looking than the last.</p><p>George pretended not to notice as his insides lit like a whole sodded Blaze Box.</p><p>Judging by on the sparkle in her eyes, it had been exactly the right thing to say.</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 12:45 p.m.</p><p>After apparating Granger to her front step, George spun on his heel and headed for his own flat. A quick shower and a bit of time over the stove later, he had scraped together the makings of a late breakfast.</p><p>There were no students in the village, seeing as next week would be the Valentine’s visit. He ought to open the shop, even though he’d already stuck a sign up that morning, announcing it was closed for the day.</p><p>Water dripped from his hair into his eyes. His Mum was right. It was getting rather shaggy, occupying that irksome length where the fringe was too short to shove behind his ears but too long to sit neatly.</p><p>He could always do a Crinus Muto spell. But shortening required an understanding of how to cut hair—at least, it did if he didn’t want to end up looking ghastly. Meanwhile, growing hair out took a bit of extra magic, and the sensation of it usually left him with a headache.</p><p>George shoved a hand through it, absent-mindedly finger-combing it to the side. Then, he caste a drying charm. Perhaps he’d make an appointment at Snipping’s.</p><p>Unless Granger preferred it longer?</p><p>The thought popped through his mind, and George stopped, spatula freezing midway through its path on the pan’s surface. Would it be strange to ask her perspective?</p><p>He isolated the thought and worked back a step.</p><p>What did he want?</p><p>He wanted to have his hair out of his ruddy face, one way or another.</p><p>And also, he wanted her to like looking at him.</p><p>Obviously. There was nothing abnormal about that.</p><p>George coughed and stirred the eggs with a bit more ferocity than required.</p><p>The pragmatic side of him prompted him to roll his eyes. Hermione didn’t seem the sort to get picky about that kind of thing. It’s not as though she’d stop fancying him over a haircut.</p><p>It’s not as though she’d never seen the scar.</p><p>But the style he had sort of covered most of it, at present. How he usually got it trimmed would place it on full display.</p><p>And he wanted her to like looking at him.</p><p>Unbidden, the image of Hermione cringing away as he turned towards her filled his mind.</p><p>George frowned and scraped the eggs onto a plate.</p><p>He wasn’t hungry anymore.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>George pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was close to one in the afternoon. Hopefully, Hermione was sleeping.</p><p>George stared at the wall, knowing full well that Hermione Jean wasn’t asleep.</p><p>He shoved the food into a glass, square dish, then fixed the lid on top. She could probably use to eat. A flick of his wand found a Fainting Fancy in his palm.</p><p>Just in case things were dire, and she wanted it.</p><p>He paced to the floo, tossed the powder, and called her name.</p><p>A loud racket echoed back.</p><p>“Granger?” he called, brow furrowing as he leaned closer. “Can I come through?”</p><p>Familiar laughter bounced over the brickwork, and a nearly-insensible, giggled reply sang over the thrum of loud music.</p><p>George stepped through.</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 1:00 p.m.</p><p>Of course, she was doing the exact opposite of sleeping. She appeared to have started the process, judging by her wet plait. And she’d changed into pajamas, at least, but she hardly seemed to be making a concentrated effort otherwise.</p><p>Her book bag was spilled open on the coffee table. Stacks of parchment were strewn there, and even more scraps fluttered along the brickwork on the far side of the room, where she’d stuck them like makeshift wallpaper.</p><p>But Granger wasn’t studying. No.</p><p>She was dancing, and George held a plate of eggs in two hands as he watched her defy the laws of energy.</p><p>Hermione jumped, twirling and spinning through her flat, and the turn table boomed— <em>“Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a man after midnight!”</em></p><p>And Hermione shouted along with it, tell-tale steam pouring from her ears. She bounded back and forth to the beat, arms in the air, laughing raucously.</p><p>“<em>Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows away—”</em></p><p>George placed the covered dish onto the coffee table and regarded her with a raised brow. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” he called over the music.</p><p>Hermione’s baggy, faded purple shirt hung around her knees, and she had those blasted snowflake bottoms on. And—and mis-matched socks, even, that wrinkled around her ankles. George’s heart gave a warm lurch.</p><p>If he wasn’t so bloody worried that she’d collapse from exhaustion, he’d call it adorable.</p><p>He really shouldn’t encourage it.</p><p>She flung her arms out as she jumped in circle and grinned at him. <em>“Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a man after midnight!”</em> Granger hurtled over, singing at him with some sort of defiance in her gaze.</p><p>George pulled his watch from his waistcoat and showed her the time. “Think you’re a bit confused, Love,” he said, tucking his chin and regarding her with a smirk.</p><p>She doubled over laughing, and when her head lifted to grin at him, her eyes sparkled. “I don’t think so,” she breathed.</p><p>George thrust the watch back and stuck his hands in his plaid trouser pockets to keep from reaching for her. He cleared his throat and regarded the ceiling. “Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I don’t think you’re in any shape for a visit from a midnight man.”</p><p>Hermione’s laughter rang louder, and George couldn’t help but peek down at her.</p><p>“Is there a man out there?” she sang loud, diverging slightly from the record’s words as she leapt back and pointed at him.</p><p>“Merlin, how d’you have so much energy?” George asked, gawking at her. He could hardly roll out of bed without eight hours.</p><p>“Sixth wave, Georgie!” Hermione shrieked.</p><p>Dear Godric.</p><p>She bounded back around the sofa, hurtling past the dormer windows in a river of uncontrolled speed. She spun from the end table, along the armchair until she collided with George’s chest in a heap of breathless giggles.</p><p>Bugger, he was smiling. When had he started smiling? George hid his mouth in his hand, making as though he was scratching his jaw.</p><p><em>“Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a man—” </em>The gramophone sang.</p><p>Oh, but she had one.</p><p>Hermione’s knees swayed, and her hands closed on his biceps, clutching his Oxford sleeves.</p><p>George caught her around the waist to keep her upright. “You need to—”</p><p>Hermione finger on his lips cut him off. “You carried my books,” she whispered, suddenly serious.</p><p>George’s mouth went dry. “Yes,” he said, haltingly, muffled against the narrow column of her finger.</p><p>Hermione’s brown eyes fixed on his with a startling intensity. “You walked me home,” she added, just as softly.</p><p>George nodded slowly.</p><p>Hermione tipped her chin up. “But you didn’t kiss me at the door,” she breathed.</p><p>Godric’s Blade.</p><p>His head went suspiciously light. Had he accidentally gotten some Fainting Fancy residue on his mouth? And Granger—She wasn’t thinking clearly, especially if she was talking about him kissing her in broad daylight.</p><p>George sucked in a breath and stared at the ceiling. “Alright, Granger,” he said, strained. “I’d—I’d like you to take that thought—” He swallowed and willed the rapid thrum in his chest to settle. “That brilliant, lovely thought you just expressed, and—and—” He glanced down at her, head tilted, and pointed at the wall with the notes. “Give it a sticking charm, and put it, um—just—”</p><p>She was leaning in.</p><p>His voice took on a weak tinge. “—Just there,” he managed, hand faltering as he looked at her.</p><p>He pulled back in a herculean effort and gestured towards the parchments once more, then set his mannerisms into the business-mischief charm that he used for customers. Practiced, witty, and distant. “And we’ll revisit it when you’ve slept,” he lilted.</p><p>Hermione’s head cocked to the side, and she studied him. “How much?”</p><p>George blinked. “Pardon?” His arm was still extended at the wall.</p><p>Hermione gestured, wheeling her hand in a circle in mid-air. “How much sleep?”</p><p>George brought his extended arm in and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you negotiating this?”</p><p>Hermione stepped back and folded her arms. “Yes, I’ve got work to do,” she said, as though that made all the sense in the world.</p><p>“Clearly,” George said dryly beneath his hand, gesturing the free one towards the turntable, which was thrumming with a lyric-less beat. “And enough that you have your mental faculties restored.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know, Sir, that this is how I push through.” Hermione leaned in, grinning. “It’s part of the process.” She ignored the second part of his answer as she tilted her head at the turntable.</p><p>George dropped his hand. “The process of what?” he asked.</p><p>“What about on the cheek?” Hermione replied, stepping closer.</p><p>George cleared his throat. On the cheek? Couldn’t be much harm in it.</p><p>“Fine,” he said. “But then you’re going to sleep.”</p><p>Hermione hummed noncommittally.</p><p>George pretended not to hear it, knowing full well the battle in front of him. One thing at a time.</p><p>He slipped his hand over her cheek to hold her face steady, then leaned down, picking a spot on the middle, opposite side.</p><p>His lips sparked on her soft skin. The sharp tang of coffee, mixed with lavender and chamomile.</p><p>It’d been days.</p><p>George dragged in a breath as a heady feeling rushed through him, and he found his other hand drifting to her waist to pull her in. “Two for good measure,” he whispered, then placed another kiss right where he had the first.</p><p>She felt like Heaven, just now.</p><p>Then, he stepped away.</p><p>Hermione’s face was red. But her eyes crinkled as she took in a short breath, then watched him with an impish, pleased smile.</p><p>The kettle whistled.</p><p>George and Hermione regarded each other.</p><p>Both bolted for the kitchen at the same time.</p><p>Because they both knew why she was heating the water.</p><p>Hermione, however, had the advantage of exhaustion-induced, reckless depravity, and she flung herself in front of George in such a manner that he had to swerve to avoid knocking her over.</p><p>Therefore, she reached the coffee tin first.</p><p>“Hold on, hold on!” George said, plucking the tin away. He paused. “Didn’t you used to keep this in its package?”</p><p>“Tins are easier to open,” Hermione said, staring at it.</p><p>George closed his eyes and groaned. “You’re mad.” She swiped for it, and he lifted it higher. “You’re off your rocker, Granger. Go to bed.” He held it over her head, and Hermione leapt for it fruitlessly.</p><p>“Hermione, seriously,” George entreated. He held out a hand to hold her off, but she suddenly slashed her wand, and the tin ripped from his fingers and into her grip.</p><p>“You know we’re best friends,” Hermione said, pinning him with a steel-filled gaze as she clutched it to her chest.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said.</p><p>“Who’ve kissed a few times—” Hermione mumbled, growing distracted as she looked over the tin and backed towards the waiting mug.</p><p>“Three times,” George said, before he could stop himself.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “What?”</p><p>“Um—three times,” George said. “We’ve kissed three times. Well. Or two. Depending on if you count, um—” he trailed off as Hermione stared at him in confusion.</p><p>“Anyway, yes.” he said, abruptly switching tracks. George folded his arms and fixed her with his driest look. “Your point?”</p><p>She pulled open the tin. “If you take my coffee again, I will level you.” She said it with a laugh and a head shake, dumping the grounds into a filter that rested over the cup.</p><p>George scratched his head. She could. He had no doubt.</p><p>But that didn’t mean he was about to merrily congratulate her on staying up for another six to twelve hours. “Hermione—”</p><p>“I mean flatten.” She smacked her flat hand over the tin, fixing the lid back on with a bright popping sound. “You—” she pointed. “The ground.” She pointed again, as though he might need this visual indicator. “One.” She clapped her hands together.</p><p>“That so, is it?” George said, tracking her every move with a cool stare. Hermione nodded. George nodded back.</p><p>He sighed, then made as though he were heading back to the living room. But at the last moment, he pivoted and swiped his arm over her shoulder, snatching the mug.</p><p>Hermione froze, her hand still extended where it had held the cup. “George,” she said softly. “Give it back. I’m not joking.”</p><p>George’s face contorted. “Please, Love,” he said. “How long’s it been? Days?” But he extended it towards her.</p><p>Hermione shrugged a bit and began to pour the boiling water over the filter.</p><p>The sharp tang of coffee filled the kitchen. George refolded his arms and leaned back against the fridge, watching her with a deep line between his brows.</p><p>She rested the kettle on the stove and flicked off the flame. There was a small jitter in her fingers as she did it, and George blinked slowly.</p><p>Hermione brought the cup to her lips and took a slight sip. “I don’t know why you’re put out,” she murmured. “I’ve always done this sort of thing.”</p><p>George said nothing, only continued watching her.</p><p>Hermione took another sip, avoiding his eyes. Then another. Crookshanks’s quiet mewl sounded in the kitchen threshold. Hermione drained the mug, plunked it on the counter, then scooped the cat into her arms.</p><p>And George watched.</p><p>Still cradling Crookshanks, Hermione returned to the counter, vanished the spent grounds, and then much to George’s horror, promptly began to scoop more out into the filter.</p><p>George rubbed his hand over his eyes.</p><p>Hermione peeked at him, then did a double take, glancing between him and the coffee cup.</p><p>George frowned, watching her through his fingers. “By all means,” he said, gesturing the hand out, now, at the mug. “Crack on.”</p><p>“George—” she started, sighing. Crooks’s paw caught in the fabric of her shirt, and Hermione huffed as she adjusted him.</p><p>“I mean, don’t let me stop you,” George said, nodding at the cup.</p><p>“Why are you here?” Granger asked.</p><p>
  <em>Because I love you.</em>
</p><p>“Reckon someone’s got to be here to make sure you don’t hit your head on the counter, when you collapse,” he said mildly.</p><p>Hermione contemplated the counter. “That’s appreciated, I suppose.”</p><p>The floo whooshed. “Hermione?” Ginny’s voice rang from the other room. “Can I come through?”</p><p>What was Gin doing here? It wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend.</p><p>Hermione didn’t look away from George’s gaze. “Yes!” she called.</p><p>The record was still spinning on the other side of the bartop. Hermione nuzzled her face against Crookshanks’s orange fluff and stalked from the kitchen.</p><p>George glanced over his shoulder and muttered a vanishing charm over the grounds in the filter before proceeding after her.</p><p>Ginny crouched over the coffee table, sorting through the stack of parchment there as Hermione laid the cat on the sideboard. The beast tipped a paw at the flower vase. Hermione didn’t notice. The paw prodded again.</p><p>George darted forward, snatching the small, glass vase as Crooks batted it from the surface. Water splashed over the floor, and the sprig of lavender almost came loose.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him. “Careful, George,” she said with a frown.</p><p>George squinted at her and nodded. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “My bad.”</p><p>Was this their first fight?</p><p>He didn’t want to fight like Ron and her had. The memory flashed through him in a streak of pain. The feeling of newspaper, crisping in his hands as he watched them spiral. Hermione’s confusion. Ron’s anger. The talking at each other. The continual misunderstanding. The unmet expectations.</p><p>No. If she did want to give things a shot, they would fight differently. Wouldn’t they? He and Ron were different people, and Granger had already grown since her time in that relationship. And he loved Granger.</p><p>But he could still hurt her, and she could still hurt him.</p><p>The realization hit him like a lightning bolt.</p><p>If he and Granger did end up together, he was setting precedent, just now. A pattern.</p><p>Better set the right one.</p><p>He’d wait. They could chat about Hermione’s sleep schedule. And he would listen because he wanted to be listened to as well.</p><p>“Merlin, Hermione, I haven’t even started my essay,” Ginny was muttered, pushing through the stack of notes. “There’s no way you need all of this to analyze Grinkit Battle.”</p><p>“It’s fifty inches of parchment,” Hermione said, settling into place on the couch. She frowned deeper, glanced around, then looked at her hand.</p><p>“Twenty-five to fifty,” Ginny corrected.</p><p>George bit his lips together.</p><p>Of course.</p><p>“Same thing. Merlin knows it’ll take twice that to persuade Binns to stop using that textbook,” Hermione mumbled. She paused. “I’m forgetting something, I just—” she trailed off.</p><p>George returned to the kitchen and began to fix a cup of Chamomile. Perhaps, if he got it into her hand, she’d be satisfied with that instead of coffee. The living room was quiet, save for the record player as it spun into a new song.</p><p>
  <em>“Disaster and disgrace, the king has lost his crown.”</em>
</p><p>Peachy.</p><p>George snorted as he poured the tea.</p><p>
  <em>“Suddenly, he’s clumsy like a clown. The world is upside down.”</em>
</p><p> He padded from the kitchen and placed the mug in Hermione’s hand. She glanced up from her book with a confused expression. “There a reason you stopped by, Gin?” George asked.</p><p>Ginny flicked her hand towards the wall behind her, where his bat leaned against the hearth. “You left it at practice, and McGonagall said I could drop it by,” she murmured, reading over Hermione’s notes. She shifted a few pages aside. “You weren’t at the flat, so I thought—” she paused.</p><p>Her brows shot up.</p><p><em>“Risk Mitigation—”</em> Ginny read aloud, darting to her feet.</p><p>Hermione slammed her tea on the table and bolted forward. “Ginny—” she started.</p><p>Ginny leapt back, reading more hurriedly. <em>“Will look different depending on where we’re at in the relationship—” </em>Her voice built to a booming question on the last two words, and George froze.</p><p>Hermione dashed after Ginny, but Ginny skirted the end table. <em>“Take things slowly?”</em> she cried. “What’s that mean?” She glanced from the paper to Hermione as she darted back and forth to avoid Hermione’s swipes for the parchment scrap.</p><p>“It’s not what you think,” Hermione said in a clipped, desperate tone. “Give it back—”</p><p>Ginny shrieked. “What are you not telling me?”</p><p>George reached over Ginny’s shoulder and snagged the traitorous parchment from her grip. “Give it a rest, Gin,” he said with as much unfeelingness as he could muster. “If Granger wants to tell us, she will.”</p><p>The blasted thing only had two items listed—but that was more than enough to give them away. Anxiety clawed at his throat.</p><p>Hermione glanced at him, then at Ginny.</p><p>Ginny folded her arms. “I tell you everything about Harry,” she said, and her tone was a bit wounded.</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Hermione’s jaw flexed, and she snatched the paper from George before proceeding back to the sofa. “You tell me too much about Harry,” she muttered.</p><p>Ginny’s shoulders went rigid. “You don’t mean that,” she said.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze flicked to Ginny, then back down again, a decidedly guilty pink tinting her cheeks. “No,” she muttered. “I don’t.” She flipped the page. “Although I could do without the snogging details.”</p><p>Ginny bounded over, clearing the arm of the couch and landing in the far cushion with a thud. She sat, legs folded, leaning forward. “Well?” she asked.</p><p>Granger hadn’t looked at George once. That was probably smart if she wanted to attempt any sort of subterfuge here.</p><p>But it did feel a bit like flying a Firebolt with a blindfold on.</p><p>“Well, what?” Hermione muttered, taking a sip from her tea.</p><p>Ginny poked her arm. “You know—” she said with a grin. “Are you seeing someone?”</p><p>Hermione’s face blushed a deeper pink, and she didn’t look up. Ginny gasped. “You are,” she said, tone somewhat awed. Then, she looked over her shoulder. Right at him.</p><p>Salazar.</p><p>George studied the sideboard, not letting himself move a muscle. Several moments passed before Ginny’s gaze returned to Granger.</p><p>“Why didn’t you say something?” Ginny asked, looping her arms around her legs. She wore a clean set of Quidditch warm-ups.</p><p>Hermione shrugged and pretended to search for something in her bag. “It’s complicated, is all,” she muttered.</p><p>“Oh?” Ginny asked. “Well, who is it?”</p><p>“I—” Hermione glanced at the floor. “I—um—” George was about to open his mouth to offer some sort of redirection when Hermione breathed out in a rush. “A muggleborne—you don’t know him. He—he went to Ilvermorny. His—his name is John.”</p><p>Oh, bugger. She couldn’t think of a more creative name than that?</p><p>George rubbed a hand down his face.</p><p>There was no way Gin would buy this.</p><p>Ginny’s brow wrinkled in bemusement. “When’d you have time to start dating someone from Ilvermorny?”</p><p>Hermione frowned and scratched her arm. “We’re not dating. I’ve only seen him a few times,” she mumbled. “Not anything serious.”</p><p>Ginny folded her arms. “Define not serious?”</p><p>Hermione grimaced and kneaded her fingers against her temple. “I don’t know,” she said. “Does it matter?”</p><p>Ginny balked. “Yes,” she cried. “It does. This is the first time you’ve seen someone since—well, you know. Not to mention, it’s the most normal thing you’ve done in ages, so it does matter!” Ginny folded her arms. “I worry sometimes. You’re always trying to fix everything.” She leaned in further and spoke softly. “But you’re allowed to have normal life things.”</p><p>Hermione sighed and snapped her volume shut. “I do,” she said, gesturing the study materials. “This is a normal life thing.”</p><p>Ginny bit her lips together but didn’t disagree.  </p><p>“And I don’t know what you expect me to say,” Hermione added, still not meeting Ginny’s eyes.</p><p>Ginny leaned forward. “Details, Hermione!” she said. “I mean—do you like him? Do you want to see him again? Have you kissed? Does he—” She halted as Hermione’s flush deepened.</p><p>“Merlin’s Beard,” Ginny whispered. “You <em>have</em> kissed him.”</p><p>George ducked towards the kitchen. He couldn’t trust his face to not betray him, and it would be far safer to observe the conversation at a distance, while he pretended to make something.</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, anyways, it’s not a terribly big deal.” She continued, standing and pacing rapidly to the turntable. She flipped the lever, and the music cut out.</p><p>“Do you think it will be?” Ginny asked quietly.</p><p>George watched the two over the bartop, out of the corner of his eye as he began to wash some dishes the muggle way. Anything to get his hands moving.</p><p>The cabinet overhead cut off part of his view. But he could still see Hermione twisting at her sleeve hems through the gap between the storage and the counter. She didn’t turn around from her place at the record player and shrugged. “I suppose that depends on how things unfold.”</p><p>George’s hand slowed before he shook himself free and returned to scrubbing.</p><p>Ginny was quiet a moment before rounding the sofa. Then: “Right, um—” she said. “Well, it sounds like you’ve had a nice time, at least?”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “I have.”</p><p>That was encouraging, at least.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>George finished washing the single, dirty plate. Something else, then. He reached for a clean mixing bowl and the carton of eggs.</p><p>Ginny folded her arms. “It’s a bit unlike you, is all. Kissing someone you barely know.”</p><p>“I try new things every day,” Hermione bit back.</p><p>Ginny folded her arms and nodded sarcastically in a stunning impression of Fred. “Yeah, I mean, it only took you seven years to kiss Ron. So, this tracks.”</p><p>Hermione stiffened. “I kissed Krum after a few months.”</p><p>George dropped the whisk into the frothy egg, and the metal clattered and splashed in the bowl. He smoothly pivoted away from the living room as he nicked it out of the mixture and kept stirring.</p><p>Brilliant.</p><p>That was fine. Totally—totally fine. Brilliant.</p><p>Krum. Victor Krum. Twiwizard champion. Professional Quidditch star. Probably snogged loads of birds.</p><p>Probably didn’t trip while he did it, either.</p><p>Embarrassment flooded through him.</p><p>No need to re-light the burner. He could likely lean down and do it with the heat from his face.</p><p>What was wrong with him? He hadn’t been jealous when Hermione and Krum went to Yule Ball. Was he jealous now?</p><p>George reflected.</p><p>No, not particularly.</p><p>He was the one Hermione was interested in, at present. Things with her and Krum hadn’t worked out. He was surprised, maybe. George had always thought they weren’t an item, after that conversation with Granger in the hall.</p><p>Something must’ve happened after the lake task. But it didn’t really make a difference now.</p><p>So, he wasn’t jealous. Just mortified, really. And no longer laboring under the delusion that she might’ve somehow found him smooth.</p><p>Even if Krum had given her the best bloody kiss in her life, George was good at other things. Like cooking. And Quiddi—best not go down that road.</p><p>Oh. That’s what this was. Insecurity.</p><p>He scraped the whisk along the side of the bowl and bit back a dry laugh.</p><p>Well, he was good at knitting, too. And making her laugh. And baking.</p><p>Merlin, what was he even making?</p><p>He snuck a glance at Ginny and Hermione.</p><p>“And I’m telling you, that hardly counts,” Ginny was saying, eyes narrowed on Granger. “Considering you misunderstood when he asked you.”</p><p>“Felt like it counted at the time,” Hermione said ruefully, lifting her brows and pulling the vinyl free from the table. She slipped it back into its cardboard sleeve, opened the sideboard’s cabinet door, and shelved the article among an assortment of others.</p><p>“So, James, was it?” Ginny asked lightly.</p><p>“John,” Hermione replied.</p><p>“Hm,” Ginny said.</p><p>Silence radiated through the flat as the tension mounted.</p><p>George considered the merits of vanishing himself. Apparently, he was making meringue. What for, he hadn’t the foggiest.</p><p>Finally: “How’d you meet?” Ginny asked.</p><p>“He came into town for Edwin Bailey’s lecture,” Hermione said smoothly.</p><p>That was at least a bit more believable. There could’ve been a John there.</p><p>Ginny nodded. “Seems like an appropriate venue for snogging.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes. “We didn’t snog there,” she said tightly. “We didn’t snog anywhere. It was a kiss—not a snog!” Then, she paced into the kitchen. George swerved to the pantry cupboard against the wall, leaning far over the top drawer as he pretended to search for the sugar, which he knew very well was hidden in the cabinet over the stove.</p><p>Ginny muttered darkly and started after her. “Then how’d it happen?” she asked.</p><p>He needed to change the subject. Now. But what would seem natural?</p><p>A joke, maybe. Or—</p><p>But then Hermione declared in a bold, confident voice: “He took me dancing,” she said. “At a muggle place.”</p><p>George’s brows lifted the slightest bit as he dug through jars of preserves. Now she was going far off-script.</p><p>Ginny snorted.</p><p>“What?” Hermione asked, spinning to face his sister, her tone a bit sharp.</p><p>Ginny shrugged against the doorframe. “Sorry—I just find it hard to imagine you choosing some spot like a crowded pub for a first kiss.”</p><p>“It wasn’t there!” Hermione said hastily. Ginny raised her brows and gestured for Hermione to continue. “It—it was after.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Ginny asked.</p><p>George scratched the back of his neck. “Alright, Gin, I think you’ve given Granger a hard enough time about it. Clearly, she’s sorry she didn’t come straight over and paint nails with you, but—”</p><p>Both girls shot him a frigid look.</p><p>That had not been the right thing to say.</p><p>He lifted his hands and turned back to the cabinetry.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. She stepped forward. “We were walking home, and it started to snow, and the ground was all frozen from the ice and—and John slipped and accidentally took me with him, and—”</p><p>“Oh, like in that muggle movie you showed me?” Ginny cut in, curt and flippant. “What was it? While You Were Asleep? The one where the bloke swoops in and steals his brother’s girl?”</p><p>George’s head lifted involuntarily, smacking the drawer he’d left open over him.</p><p>Hermione’s arm reached up to close it, but she didn’t so much as look at him while she stared Ginny down.</p><p>“No,” she said firmly. “Different from that, but I do like that film.”</p><p>“Do you?” Ginny said, and she sounded almost cross.</p><p>Hermione took the lid off the coffee tin.</p><p>George sighed.</p><p>Hermione ignored his protest, raking the scoop through. “See, we fell into the snow, instead.” She quirked her brows. “A great, big snowbank, actually, just near the recommended apparition point, and I looked down at him, and he looked up at me—"</p><p>George blinked. Some of this sounded a bit familiar.</p><p>“—and it just sort of happened,” Hermione said, then swallowed. “Like gravity.”</p><p>“Just like that?” Ginny said, sounding a bit incredulous.</p><p>“It was excellent,” Hermione said in a waspish, swotty tone. “The most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”</p><p>George bumped the drawer closed and resolved to find a suitable snowbank. Right quick.</p><p>Ginny watched Hermione with an unreadable expression. “Good,” she said mildly. “Well, I’m glad for you.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Thank you.”</p><p>Ginny examined her cuticles. “I trust you’ll bring him to the Burrow, in time?”</p><p>Hermione coughed. “If um—I suppose. If things, you know—” she trailed off.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Ginny said brightly. “I’m sure I speak for all of the Weasley children when I say that if he breaks your heart, we’ll tear him limb from limb.” She turned to George. “Right? You’ve been awful quiet. What do you think of this bloke?”</p><p>George coughed and nodded, furrowing his brow. “If Hermione’s happy—” he gestured vaguely. “I’m sure he’s alright.”</p><p>“John,” Ginny said, turning back to Hermione. “Sorry—what was his last name?”</p><p>“Brooke,” Hermione said.</p><p>George snorted before he could stop himself.</p><p>Hermione colored violently.</p><p>George paused. “Sorry, thought of a good pun to tell Freddie later.”</p><p>Ginny rolled her eyes, then peered into George’s now thoroughly-abandoned mixing bowl.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “I don’t want everyone knowing yet,” she said. “Don’t—don’t say anything, please.”</p><p>Ginny nodded, and something in her face softened. “Of course I won’t,” she said. Then she sighed. “If you and John want to keep things private, that’s your choice.” She elbowed George. “Right?”</p><p>George nodded. “Definitely,” he said, but his mind was going a mile a minute as he reconsidered the entirety of <em>Little Women</em> that he’d read thus far.</p><p>Hermione wouldn’t meet his eyes.</p><p><em>“You’ve got a good deal in common with Brooke,”</em> she’d said.</p><p>Hermione Jean.</p><p>George bit back a grin.</p><p>He was going to do three things.</p><p>First, he’d get rid of Ginny.</p><p>Next, he’d get Hermione to sleep.</p><p>Finally, after she had her mental faculties restored, he’d tease the ever-living daylights out of her.</p><p>“Although, once you deem him to be worthy of our esteemed company,” George added, slipping his hands into his back pockets. “I’d love to have a chat with the bloke.”</p><p>Hermione shot him an icy glare. “Sure.”</p><p>George frowned and nodded. “I’m not going to lie, he sounds like a bit of a prat to me,” he said.</p><p>Ginny coughed.</p><p>“Anyone who’d willingly go to an Edwin Bailey lecture can’t be up to anything good,” he said.</p><p>“You were there,” Hermione said, lifting her chin.</p><p>“Barely,” George said. “And Ilvermorny?” He winced. “An American?” He tutted, then swung his voice into an accent he’d heard on the wireless and from a few shop patrons. “Did he, like, think you’re so totally cool, dude?”</p><p>Granger jabbed her finger at the door. “Both of you. Out.”</p><p>George snickered and tugged Ginny after him.</p><p>But as he passed through the threshold, he pointed firmly at Granger. “Please. Sleep.”</p><p>She opened her mouth.</p><p>“I mean it,” he said quietly. “Please.”</p><p>Hermione blinked and peered around the corner, towards the street where Ginny waited. “Come back, after she’s gone?”</p><p>Warmth blossomed in his chest.</p><p>“Course,” he said, nodding. He glanced at Ginny.</p><p>She watched with a smirk, and her gaze drilled into his.</p><p>George swallowed, and forced himself to confront reality.</p><p>She knew.</p><p>He’d hoped, despite the direction of the questions—the clear indicators that Ginny wasn’t buying it—he’d hoped that she might accept Hermione at her word.</p><p>He returned his gaze to Granger. She looked half-dead under her eyes. Tension held her neck and shoulders taut. Ginny was right. Hermione deserved this normal life thing, and without the pressure.</p><p>There was only one thing to be done.</p><p>His stomach squirmed.</p><p>As Hermione moved to close the door, George forced himself to think of the gnawing worry.</p><p>That things wouldn’t work out. That she wouldn’t grow to feel the same for him. That the complications—the pressure might overwhelm them, even after everything.</p><p>The door clicked shut.</p><p>George focused on the pit that had formed in his stomach. His shoulders slumped, and he let them fall.</p><p>He turned to Ginny. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, as though he had just received a blow.</p><p>As though John was real.</p><p>Ginny faltered, and he could see the concern, then the disappointment, as she came to the conclusion that she’d been wrong.</p><p>The façade had worked—feinting the threat of one blow to appear as the reality of another.</p><p>He was a right git.</p><p>#</p><p>February 6, 1999, 1:30 p.m.</p><p>As he walked her back to the gate, Ginny wouldn’t stop looking at him like he was a wounded bird. George glanced at her flatly. “Stop,” he said.</p><p>“It won’t last, you know,” Ginny said, staring at the Castle’s perch on the distant rocks.</p><p>“Supportive,” George said. The less he talked about this with her, the better.</p><p>Ginny shrugged. “Mark my words, George. Hermione Granger is meant to be with you,” she said calmly. “This John sod is just a passing Bludger.”</p><p>George scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” he said.  </p><p>Ginny watched the castle. “You know how I know?” she asked.</p><p>“Pray, tell,” George said, mustering as much sarcasm as he could.</p><p>But he did want to know. A bit.</p><p>“I’ve never heard of this bloke before today.” Ginny smirked at the horizon. “In classes, during meals—it’s not John she’s prattling on about,” she said.</p><p>“Oh?” George said, and his voice pitched up a bit.</p><p>Ginny’s smirk grew. “No,” she said. “John’s a momentary distraction.” Her eyes held an uncommon intensity. “I’d bet my Firebolt on it.”</p><p>George thrust his hands in his pockets. “You’d make a poor Chaser without a broom.”</p><p>The snow crunched under foot. George’s willpower crumbled with it, more with each step, until finally, the question emerged.</p><p>“So, Granger talks about me?”</p><p>Ginny glanced sidelong at him. “All the time. All last term and this term,” she muttered, then launched into a crisp, Queen’s English. “‘I’ll ask George about it—he’s done some work in this area for the shop. Oh, you know the other day, he said something quite funny, um about runic destabilization—which is quite clever seeing as—’” She dropped the impression and rolled her eyes. “She’s never gone on about anyone else like that.”</p><p>The sun glistened over the snow in such a way that it looked rather like clouds, as they marched through it.</p><p>“Never,” Ginny repeated, firmly.</p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>February 6, 1999, 2:00 p.m.</p><p>When he returned not thirty minutes later, he found a decided shift in tone from when he’d left. She seemed anxious. Tense. Impatient.</p><p>Exhausted.</p><p>Granger yanked her curls into a new plait as she muttered over a parchment. She’d given a slight head bob when he emerged from the floo, but she didn’t pause in her stream of talk. A quill flashed over the page, taking down her words as she spoke. “In yet another example of Wizengamot overreach, the—” She faltered and peered at an open text hovering overhead. “No—no—scratch that bit out.” The quill continued to write, dictating her command as though it was a part of the essay. Hermione glanced at it, then uttered a growl.</p><p>“Finite,” she snapped, and the quill dropped to the parchment. The book trembled and dropped, and George darted forward, but not in time to stop it from clipping her on the head.</p><p>Hermione gave a frustrated cry.</p><p>George swallowed. “Hermione,” he said quietly. “It’ll go smoother if you rest.”</p><p>She shook her head and held up a hand to quiet him, tracing the quill point over the last couple of lines as she scratched it out the muggle way. “This is important,” she said.</p><p>George toed off his shoes and approached her. “I never said it wasn’t,” he murmured. She sat in front of the sofa, hunched over the coffee table to with her free hand pressed to the spot the book had hit. “But you need to take break. Everyone does, from time to time.”</p><p>“Other people don’t have N.E.W.T. level courses, student teaching prep, and a continual stream of Mastery advisory rejections to sort through,” she continued, glancing up at him before returning to her scribbling.</p><p>George lowered himself to sit at her side. “A continual stream?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione’s face tightened. “Three,” she muttered. “But they were good options. At least, I thought they were.” The sharp, mid-day sun shone through the windows, starkly highlighting the peaked tinge of her skin. “I’ll send out another round of inquiries after I finish with next week’s lesson plans, after I finish this essay.” She sucked in a breath and began to write again, silently this time.</p><p>But her script was shaky, and her left hand flexed as she blinked over the parchment. She stopped. Pulled in another, deeper breath. Another. “Come on,” she muttered, and something stony entered her gaze.</p><p>Dark, hard, and brutal.</p><p>She took another breath.</p><p>He’d seen that look before. At Dumbledore’s funeral. At the final battle, in the Castle rubble. In the photos where she stood with Shacklebolt, Harry, and Ron. Like she was preparing, or something.</p><p>George watched, a sense of unease falling over him. “What are you doing?” he asked softly.</p><p>Hermione. “What I always do,” she said, and there was an edge in her tone.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>She was a thousand miles away. In a different time, maybe.</p><p>“How’d you think it happened, all these years?” she said. “Did you think we kept living because I was exceptional?” A harsh laugh spilled off her lips. “No, no, no-no-no-no. We didn’t make it through because of some sort of exceptional ability or—or dignitas, clearing the way.”</p><p>George didn’t speak.</p><p>Hermione’s grip tightened on the quill. “They call me the golden girl,” she said. “But gold is soft.”</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>“We made it there because of sheer—” Her quill point snapped. “—dumb luck, and dragging one foot in front of the other, even when dying felt like the kinder choice.” She flung the spent quill, and ink streaked through the air, splashing in droplets on the floorboards. The quill pinged against the bin. “But that’s not a pretty narrative, is it?” Hermione said, almost spitting the words. “It’s not shiny. Can’t print it in a paper.”</p><p>She gritted her teeth and flung her wand out. Excess magic snapped of the tip in a crack of white light, and a fresh, unbroken quill flung from her bag, into her hand.</p><p>“Here it is,” she said bitterly. “Up close. Here’s the secret. I’m not gifted or bright or genius.” She gritted her teeth. “I just don’t quit.” Her volume spiked, and her shoulders scrunched in. “I take a deep breath and be stronger, because if I don’t, who else will.”</p><p>It had kept her alive during the war.</p><p>But this wasn’t the war. This was an essay.</p><p>Her hands—her hands were shaking.</p><p>“I’m not gold, George,” she said, in a voice that clanged like iron. “I am unyielding.”</p><p>“Hermione—” he breathed. She shook her head and leaned forward, away from him.</p><p>She stared with fury at the parchment. “So, come on—this is, this is—a matter of will. I go until it’s sorted or until I can’t anymore.” She slammed the quill down, but the shake in her wrist made the line jog. Granger stared blankly at the ink, unmoving.</p><p>“Hermione,” George whispered. “Look at me, please.”</p><p>She broke into a laugh. “Of course.” But she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the tremor in her hands.</p><p>She sucked in a breath. “Blow, winds, and crack—” she snapped at the paper. “You—you cataracts and hurricanoes, spout—” She was talking faster now, stumbling over her words like she was reading something aloud, only her eyes were fixed on that tremor, glaring like it had struck her.</p><p>Her face contorted and she threw the fresh quill at the mantle. “Till—till—till you have drenched our steeples—”</p><p>The whole of her was shaking, now, and George was frozen. Unable to reach her, unable to look away.</p><p>As she spoke of storms, she became one.</p><p>“Go on, then, drown me!” she shouted, clenching her fists and turning to the ceiling. Her words clipped faster and faster together. “You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts—have at it!” A curl snapped and sparked, freeing itself from her plait. “And thou, all-shaking thunder, strike flat—” Her fist snapped across the coffee table, scattering papers as her voice spiked up. “—the thick rotundity of the world!” Hermione was hyperventilating. “You—you missed the first time! I’m still here! Still a mudblood!”</p><p>Hermione blinked at the ceiling. Again. Again. Then, she collapsed forward and sobbed on the coffee table.</p><p>This was not a situation for which he had a prepared answer. So, instead, he said the only thing that came to mind. “You’re not a m—” his throat closed. His hand flexed uselessly in place.</p><p>“This is all I know how to do—” she gasped. “All I know how. I’m—I’m not the brightest witch of our age.” He could barely make out her words with her face muffled in her arms. “I’m just a person, and this is all I know how to do.”</p><p>“How can I help?” he asked, quiet.</p><p>Hermione’s shoulders jerked up and down.</p><p>He laid a tentative hand there. Waiting.</p><p>She worked to catch her breath.</p><p>“I’m here,” George said. “Whatever you need.”</p><p>She lifted her face slightly from the cradle of her arms and looked at him with swollen, red eyes. “Be my fool.” Her voice was tired and flat.</p><p>“Done,” George said promptly. “What else?”</p><p>“George, no.” Hermione sighed, looking at him as though he’d said something daft. “The fool dies.”</p><p>He blinked. “What are you on about?”</p><p>Hermione pulled her frame upright. “Although, so does the king,” she said, quirking her brows and glancing back to her papers.</p><p>George tilted his head. “Wait. Are you asking me to be a fool or a king, here?”</p><p>Hermione stared at him a moment, rose, and padded into the other room. George waited, watching and listening to make sure she didn’t stumble.</p><p>She returned shortly after, dumping a paperback onto his lap before reclaiming her seat. “Lear,” she said.</p><p>“Ah,” George said. A muggle book. She flicked her wand, and the spin cracked, page opening—and there were a great deal of the words she’d said, just then. In neat, tidy little lines.</p><p>“Why on earth do you have this memorized?” he said, squinting at it.</p><p>Hermione snorted. “My Mum used to yell it in traffic.” A pause. “But, you’re not the king. I’m the king,” she said. “As evidenced by my—” She waved her arm in front of her in a deadened, showy gesture. “—unhinging.”</p><p>George hesitated. Hermione blinked at him. “I wouldn’t, um—” he said, seeking the words with care. “—wouldn’t call it ‘unhinging.’”</p><p>She seemed to find this funny and broke into a wry laugh.</p><p>“A bit hard to follow, yeah.” He cleared his throat and scooted closer. “But as someone who’s been properly unhinged, um—” George paused, then said very, very carefully. “Well, I guess what I mean to say is—It’s okay if you’re having a rough time right now.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t meet his eyes.</p><p>“I might not understand,” George said. “But I want you to know that it is safe, you know? For you to lie down right now?” He spoke gently and slowly, tilting his head in and searching her face. “The world will turn. You will rise. And you will carry on. Think of sleep like a really deep breath.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Okay.”</p><p>“This work is important,” George whispered, tapping the parchment. “And you’ll do it better after you’ve slept.” He didn’t push any further. He’d said what he needed to say, and if she didn’t agree or if he’d misunderstood, then she’d either tell him, or they’d chat it out later.</p><p>Hermione looked down, where his finger met her writing. “Okay. Yes.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He glanced at her in surprise. Was she actually going to—</p><p>“How are these my hands?” Hermione mumbled, already moving on to the next thing. “Do you ever think about how we’re anchored in our bodies?”</p><p>Dear Godric.</p><p>“Okay, Hermione,” he said. “I think, and I’m not just saying this to be contrary, you need to lie down.”</p><p>“I know,” she said. “I will.” A pause. “Is this the seventh wave?” Suddenly, she turned and stared at him with round eyes. “Have I frightened you?”</p><p>“Only in your commitment to suffering collapse,” he said flatly. “Now lie down.”</p><p>“Okay.” She drew in a shuddering breath, then slowly stretched along the floor beside him.</p><p>“No, I meant—” He stopped himself. She was lying down. George shoved to a stand, palms on his knees.</p><p>“Don’t go,” Hermione’s voice was small.</p><p>George rounded the coffee table and crouched. “I’m not,” he said. “Bed or couch, Darling?”</p><p>“Couch,” she mumbled. He nodded and gathered her up to his chest.</p><p>Hermione curled in close. “You’re always so warm,” she mumbled.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said, distracted as he settled her onto the sofa. She needed a blanket, at least. A pillow, too.</p><p>Where was that duvet she always had?</p><p>He loped towards her room and pushed the door open.</p><p>Parchment plastered every square inch of wall. Notes on the Goblin Wars, lesson plans, lists. As he drew the pillow and duvet from her bed, he spotted a notepad with a few addresses scrawled down—all located near London and bearing names George didn’t recognize. Professor Melville, Professor Jones, and Professor Bennett were all crossed out. Below that, the addresses grew further away. Switzerland. Poland. Germany. Canada. The—the States.</p><p>The Mastery advisors.</p><p>George tore his eyes away.</p><p>She’d talk to him about it when she was ready.</p><p>When he re-emerged from her room, Hermione was staring, unblinking at the ceiling.</p><p>“D’you want a Fainting Fancy or something?” he asked quietly.</p><p>She shook her head. “Can you read to me?” Granger whispered.</p><p>“Of course,” George said, tucking the pillow under her head and the blanket around her. “Would you prefer the dead king book or something a bit less ghastly?”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Sorry?”</p><p>She was well and truly gone, now. “Never mind, Love, I’ll find something,” he murmured, surveying the materials littering the table.</p><p>Where was it?</p><p>He’d left it here, a few weeks back, before the Travers run.</p><p>Sure enough, the dented paperback was on the mantle. He snapped, bringing it to his hand, then sat on the floor with his back to the couch.</p><p>Then, George flipped it open. A few new markings were made in the part he’d finished last time.</p><p>He glanced at her, then back at the margins.</p><p>She hadn’t written an answer to his complaint over her comparing him to Brooke. On that page, there was only a single, new mark. A golden, gleaming line under the words “<em>My John</em>,” when Meg staunchly defended the sap against her Aunt’s snide criticism.</p><p>He flipped to the place he’d left off, carefully watching for more notes, until he picked right up where he’d been, at the day of Meg’s wedding.</p><p>He found himself describing how the sisters had grown up in an apparent three-year gap, which was odd. That seemed like a lot of time to miss right in the middle of a story.</p><p>Then, the book started in on how pragmatic the lot of them were being about the wedding day, which wasn’t the direction he’d been expecting the book to go. Usually, weddings in books were stuffy or dramatic, but this was sensible in such a way that it felt real.</p><p>He’d gotten a bit carried off by it, and when Granger’s quiet voice interrupted him mid-sentence, he blinked in surprise.</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Can you repeat that part? Sorry, I didn’t hear all of it.”</p><p>George glanced over his right shoulder, drawn abruptly from the book. “Which bit?” he asked.</p><p>How in Helga’s green garden was she still awake?</p><p>“The—the part you just did,” she said. “Where they, um, kiss.” Her face was pink.</p><p>George cocked a brow. “Got a bit of a thing for Brooke, have you?”</p><p>Hermione tugged the duvet up to her nose and mumbled something inaudible.</p><p>George felt an odd, warm flutter in his chest, and he cleared his throat to start again. Only this time, he turned, pressing his side into the couch base, and faced her. He reached his right arm back, laying it over the curve of her waist.</p><p>When he read this time, he shot her few pointed looks. <em>“‘John, dear, here’s your hammer.’ And away went Meg to help ‘that man—’”</em> George snorted here<em>. “—in his highly improper employment. Mr. Brooke didn’t even say, ‘Thank you,’ but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door, with a look—” </em></p><p>As he read, his fool of a hand wandered along the slope of the back of her neck until his fingers were buried quite satisfyingly in her curls.</p><p>“I could get used to this,” Hermione mumbled, a happy glaze to the words.</p><p>Oh, oh please.</p><p>“I hope you do,” George said thickly, not trusting himself to look up from the book. He paused. Cleared his throat and summoned his bravery. “Is it easier than German?”</p><p>There was a deep rush of breath. “No,” she whispered. “But a great deal more wonderful.”</p><p>Her cheek was so, heartbreakingly soft under his thumb.</p><p>Slowly, slowly, they both entered into dreams.</p><p>But this time, George was awake.</p><p>#</p><p>February 11, 1999, 6:00 p.m.</p><p>The Diagon shop’s music blared loudly, and George watched as Fred dumped the location’s record book onto the counter. “I’ve looked through the first week of January already,” Fred said, shoving it towards him.</p><p>George snorted. “Right, Mate.” He took the book. He’d review the sales and inventory figures for the full month anyway. It was best to make sure that nothing had been skipped. Fred was brilliant, but he tended to miss things in writing. “I’ll review it, just in case.” He stepped towards the floo to return to the Hogsmeade branch, where a <em>“Mischief Managed: Come Back Later”</em> sign was waiting in the window. “See you.”</p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>George turned.</p><p>His brother was staring off into space, watching a man lift a toddler from the ground to show him the top two shelves of the Pygmy Puff equipment. But Fred wasn’t smiling.</p><p>“Fred, you alright?” George asked slowly, walking back to him.</p><p>Fred started, pulling his eyes from the pair in the aisle. “Yeah,” he said, coughing into his elbow. “Yeah, of course.”</p><p>George watched him.</p><p>Fred tapped his fingers rapidly on the countertop. “No,” he said, after only a moment. “I’m not, actually.”</p><p>George folded his arms and shifted to make room for Verity, who was beckoned a waiting customer over to the till.</p><p>This didn’t seem like a chat for shoppers to overhear.</p><p>Wordlessly, George tipped his head towards the floo. Fred followed him over.</p><p>He left George waiting in front of the hearth for a minute before he rubbed his hands down his face. “We had a surprise—or scare—I don’t really know what to call it.” Fred spoke quietly, under his breath.</p><p>George lifted his brows and glanced around.</p><p>Had they been robbed or something? The shop looked fine.</p><p>“False alarm, obviously,” Fred said wearily. He managed a small, tight smile and rocked back on his heels.</p><p>What was he on about?</p><p>“Bloody good thing, too,” Fred muttered, still watching the ground. “Angie’s not got the cup title yet, and it’s not the right timing, and—”</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh.</em></p><p>“Y’know,” Fred said, breathing unsteadily. “My whole life, if I’ve wanted something, I’ve just worked for it. Every day, until it happened. I put the hours in, and eventually, the Snackbox formulas came together. We sorted the Whizbang charms. We opened the shop, then re-opened it.” He frowned. “Except Angie, I suppose.”</p><p>Fred paused. “But even then, once we knew, I mean—I knew what to do. I was terrified, but I knew.” He scratched the back of his head. “Work to try to keep each other safe and happy, right?” Fred stared at the wall. “And I can’t work for this.”</p><p>“No, I reckon not,” George said.</p><p>Fred blinked up at George with bleary eyes. “I mean, it’s not the right time.” He sighed.</p><p>“Yeah,” George said.</p><p>“Can’t hurry that along,” Fred said with a flat-looking smile. “And—and I’m relieved, mostly. Because I don’t know what I’m doing. We’re definitely not ready yet.” He bugged his eyes out. “But I just, um—” He stuck his hands in his pockets and frowned at his shoes. “Wish I hadn’t started picturing them, is all.” Then, Fred jerked his head to the side and swore, loud enough to draw a frigid glare from the older woman waiting near the doors. George took Fred by the arm and drew him into the floo.</p><p>They stumbled into the empty Hogsmeade shop, and George dusted the soot from his sleeves, then Fred’s.</p><p>“How d’you do it?” Fred asked hoarsely.</p><p>George faltered. “What?”</p><p>“Wait for so long?” Fred said. “For someone that you know you’re meant to be with?”</p><p>George’s insides pinched together at the pained look in Fred’s gaze. “I don’t—” George started.</p><p>Fred waved him off and rolled his eyes. “I love Angie,” Fred said. “I’m—I’m so happy with her.” He emphasized this with a deep bob of his head. “And it’s not a ‘but,’ issue, or even an ‘and yet.’” He exhaled. “It’s like ‘and.’ I love her, <em>and</em> I can’t stop thinking about this little—” He bit off the end of the remark with a frustrated gesture, indicating something roughly the size of a Quaffle before flinging his hands down to his sides. “And she’s disappointed and confused about why she’s disappointed because we have this plan, you know? And—um—it’s good that it hasn’t gone off the rails.” Fred swallowed. “Right?”</p><p>“Yeah, but brains are weird,” George said.</p><p>Fred’s face contorted. “I mean, it’s rubbish, George. I sound daft.” He scratched his forehead. “How can you love someone you’ve never even met?” Fred traced a hand over the counter. “I don’t even know what they look like,” he said softly.</p><p>It hit George like a Bludger. The vision from the mirror. Faint, faceless concepts, for a far-off time, maybe. But still—still—</p><p>“I don’t think it’s rubbish,” George said suddenly. “Ideas are easy to love. Fair bit simpler to sugar-coat, too.”</p><p>Fred crouched, propped his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers, staring intently at the blank space above the floor. “I just—I can almost picture.” He stretched a hand out and flexed it. “Like, they’ve got—” He sounded winded, suddenly. “Angie’s—Angie’s eyes, and—and her hair, and her smile—not the fake one, but the one where she gets all scrunched up from laughing so hard.”</p><p>Fred was staring so intently that George did a double-take. But the spot was still empty.</p><p>George cleared his throat. “The one with the double chin?” he asked.</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred breathed. “That one.”</p><p>“She hates that one,” George said, snorting as he crossed to stand beside his brother.</p><p>“I don’t,” Fred breathed. It was like he’d been transfixed.</p><p>George swallowed. Fred glanced up, and something in his face shuttered.</p><p>Abruptly, Fred stood and spun, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, I think I’ve been working too many hours alone.” His rueful laugh bounced off the walls.</p><p>George faltered. “Are you needing me to come back to Diagon?” he asked.</p><p>Merlin.</p><p>The plan had been for him to set up the Hogsmeade shop. Hadn’t it? To be gone for a couple of months. He hadn’t been meant to run it entirely, indefinitely.</p><p>And now things were properly set up. The Hogsmeade stock was arranged. The shop had a steady stream of customers. He’d worked out the best opening hours, how to efficiently market to the people who frequented the area.</p><p>In all honesty, it was ready to be handed off to a new hire or management.</p><p>Why was he panicking?</p><p>He could always use the floo connection to visit Granger.</p><p>But it wouldn’t be the same. There’d be distance. There’d be one more hearth—one more stopping point, between them.</p><p>The thought made his heart sink.</p><p>“No,” Fred said mildly, still not turning. “I don’t think it’s ready for you to leave, yet.”</p><p>George stared at Fred’s back. “How do you mean?”</p><p>He knew. They both did.</p><p>Fred rubbed the back of his neck. “Probably needs a few more months.” He still didn’t turn, pretending to be absorbed in the Crush Blush display. “June, maybe? I dunno.”</p><p>George assessed Fred quietly, taking in the slant of his shoulders. The lines under his eyes. The weariness in his voice. They’d started the business to work together. That’d always been the bit Fred was most excited about. Not the pranks or the potions.</p><p>It was the high fives over cauldrons, working tills back-to-back, and spouting terrible puns that one set up and the other drove home. That was Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to Fred. To both of them, really.</p><p>And now, Fred had been working the Diagon shopfront without him, for half a year.</p><p>The bloke was lonely.</p><p>And George knew what that sacrifice was for.</p><p>Then, Fred turned. “What do you think, Mate? June?”</p><p>George huffed out a breath through his nose. “You’ve got it all sorted out, haven’t you?” he said.</p><p>Fred spun to the till and opened it. “Better than you’d think,” he muttered tightly. The tips of his brother’s ears were red.</p><p>“Freddie,” George said. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “If—if you need me at Diagon, then—”  </p><p>Fred glanced up at him with a cocked brow. “Do you fancy your business settled here?”</p><p>George swallowed and cleared his throat, jamming his hands in his apron pockets. “Um, I mean, it could be, but—um—”</p><p>Fred braced both hands on the counter. “George.” He shook his head, then smirked. “Come on.”</p><p>George’s mouth went dry.</p><p>The floo whooshed in the other room. “George?” Hermione’s voice called.</p><p>Fred folded his arms and watched him. George swallowed.</p><p>“George?” Hermione called again.</p><p>Fred tipped his head towards the flat, waiting.</p><p>“Out here,” George called. He grabbed a crate and moved to the sweets aisle. “Doing, um, doing some restocking.”</p><p>The flat door swung wide. “Oh.” Granger started. “Hi Fred.”</p><p>“Granger,” Fred said amiably. “Heard you’ve got yourself a boyfriend.”</p><p>George dropped the crate, and it echoed with a sharp crack on the shop floor. His heart banged wildly, like it might burst out of his throat and into his mouth.</p><p>“What?” Hermione’s voice had gone high and squeaky. “I—”</p><p>“Blame Ginny,” Fred said dryly. “She assumed Harry knew. Might’ve mentioned it in an owl, and I happened to see over his shoulder.” He winced. “And hear, when he started um—” He waved a hand. “Harrying.”</p><p>Hermione made a strange, choking sound.</p><p>George hurried from the aisle. Her face had gone crimson, and her hands were frantically tugging on her sleeve hems. “Fred—” he started. “Leave it.”</p><p>“Apologies, of course,” Fred said brightly. “I didn’t know there’d be anything juicy or I’d have gone about wheedling it from you myself.”</p><p>“He’s not my boyfriend,” Hermione snapped. “I’ve only seen him twice.”</p><p>“Right, right,” Fred said. “John Brooke.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Could’ve sworn I heard that name before,” Fred said.</p><p>George’s mind raced. Had he mentioned the book to Fred? He didn’t think so, but—</p><p>Hermione shrugged and lifted her chin. “Well, it’s a common name.”</p><p>Fred grinned wolfishly. “That it is.” He spun to George. “What’s he like? Do we like him?” There was a hard set to Fred’s gaze.</p><p>George glared. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, tense.</p><p>Fred nodded. “Sorry, assumed you would,” he said brightly. “Seeing as you and Granger here are practically attached at the hip.” His face drew together, and he turned, playing at a pensive stare. “Like an old married couple.” Then, he clapped. “Well, I should pick up the December books from the back room before I head out.” Fred darted past Granger and into the flat.</p><p>Hermione watched him go, then blinked at George.</p><p>“Did you—” she whispered. He shook his head, glancing toward the door, then held a finger to his lips. He wouldn’t put it past the git to have an Extendable Ear or something. He jerked his head towards the sweets aisle, and she followed.</p><p>“Mind helping me with some shelving?” he asked brightly.</p><p>“Not at all,” she said, the picture of grace. Hermione reached into the crate and withdrew some Fizzing Whizbees, then began to place the cannisters label-side out on the shelf.</p><p>Suddenly, the sound system crackled to life.</p><p>Fred must be meddling with it.</p><p>“How was school?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “I handed in the report,” she said. “Took me until Wednesday, but I finished it, and I only pulled one other all-nighter. So that’s done, at least.” She adjusted a package of Giggle Grams. “Thanks for your help, by the way. I was able to catch up on sleep and pull everything together on time.”</p><p>Her gaze flicked to his, and there was an almost-shy quality to the way it sort of lingered warmly, then skittered away.</p><p>“When’d you finally wake up?” he asked. He’d stayed until sundown on Saturday, then left a note on her table asking her to floo or owl if she needed anything. Her reply had been brief. A thank-you note, and a promise to get in touch when she finished the essay.</p><p>“On Sunday?” she asked. “Five.”</p><p>George’s brows lifted. “That’s a bit early,” he said. But she had fallen asleep in the afternoon.</p><p>“P.m.,” she added.</p><p>George laughed. “There it is,” he said. “Feeling more human, then?”</p><p>Hermione ducked her hand into the crate and pulled out another box. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry for being so much trouble.”</p><p>George shook his head and pointed at her, mouthing “Don’t start.” But aloud, he said. “It’s no problem.”</p><p>Hermione looked at him wryly. “Glad to hear it.”</p><p>George adjusted his grip on the crate and fixed her with a significant look. She rolled her eyes. Then, he said, “So you got plenty of sleep, then?”</p><p>Hermione quirked her brows. “Enough.”</p><p>Dear Merlin.</p><p>“I’ve got some things on my wall that I’ve got to get to, but I thought I’d stop by,” she said evenly, but the cheeky smile on her lips made his insides rocket. “Just to say thanks.”</p><p>“If you wait, I can walk you home,” George said in a light, mild tone, gripping the crate.</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but then the sound system switched abruptly from a routine announcement on potion safety to music.</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t stop now. I’ve travelled so far.”</em>
</p><p>Granger’s head tilted. George lowered the crate.</p><p>
  <em>“To change this lonely life.”</em>
</p><p>They stared at each other.</p><p>“Does he—?” she mouthed.</p><p>“No,” George mouthed back, just as emphatically.</p><p>“Then why?” she mouthed, gesturing at the speakers fixed overhead.</p><p>George huffed and leaned in to whisper. “My brother got it into his head a while ago that we’d, um—make a good couple.” He winced. “He’s just having a laugh, I think.”</p><p>She stepped back and looked at him with a line between her brows. “Fred thinks that?” she asked, aloud.</p><p>George forced a laugh. “Yeah, he’s a bit dim,” he said, in case Fred was listening. “Can you imagine? What a disaster that would be.”</p><p>Suddenly, the volume cranked higher.</p><p><em>“I want to know what love is,”</em> the speakers wailed.</p><p>George and Hermione froze.</p><p>The git.</p><p>
  <em>“I want you to show me—” </em>
</p><p>George bit his lips together and nodded rapidly. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna kill him.” His head snapped to the side, towards the flat door. “Fred!”</p><p>There was no reply.</p><p>“Be right back,” George muttered. He strode to the door, then pushed through it. Fred stood to the left, in front of the supply closet’s shelving, singing to a muggle song he had no business knowing. The door to the controls was wide open, and Fred pretended not to notice as he stormed in.</p><p>George slashed his wand, but Fred blocked the silencing spell. “What’s wrong with you?” George hissed. “What are you doing?”</p><p>Fred shrugged. “Helping things along,” he said.</p><p>George shook his head. “Stop,” he said. “You’ll only make it worse.”</p><p>“Will I?” Fred said.</p><p>“Yes,” George said, swiping his wand again. But again, another block. “This is far over the line. You’ll make her uncomfortable, even if you’re joking. She’s—she’s got a boyfriend, remember?” It was a desperate move. One that he regretted, the second it came out of his mouth and Fred’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>“Thought it wasn’t that serious,” Fred said.</p><p>George scratched his nose. “I dunno. I wasn’t there.” He huffed and flung a hand towards the stereo system. “Just turn it off, Mate.”</p><p>Fred nodded. Then he spun to the controls and cranked the volume higher.</p><p>George lifted his wand. Fred shifted back, taking a defensive stance.</p><p>“I’ll do it,” George said. He tensed his wand arm, and when Fred caste a shield, George feinted, twisting at the last second to smack his hand over the volume panel.</p><p>The music cut.</p><p>Fred looked at George. George looked at Fred.</p><p>“Funny story,” Fred drawled, folding his arms. “D’you know Harry went a bit overboard and contacted a fellow at MACUSA when he got that letter?”</p><p>“What?” George froze. “That’s—” He stammered. “That’s—that’s a massive invasion of privacy.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Fred said, wrinkling his brows and glancing at the ceiling. “Bit mad, that one.” He clicked his tongue, bringing his hand up and pointing at the dark, pine support beam overhead. “On a tangential note—” he shifted the finger to point at George as he spoke. “Can you believe this?”</p><p>George blinked. Fred shook his head and rubbed a hand along his stubble. “I just didn’t picture Hermione seeing a bloke in his forties, but—” He shrugged and dropped the hand, refolding his arms. “She is mature.”</p><p>George faltered.</p><p>Bloody Hell.</p><p>“Cause that’s how old the last John Brooke who graduated from Ilvermorny is,” Fred said with a blank face. “Forty-six.”</p><p>George coughed. “Um.” He stared at the wall, mind reeling.</p><p>“Three years younger than Dad,” Fred said.</p><p>They should’ve come up with a better story.</p><p>Where was the way out? There had to be something.</p><p>“Wow, that’s—” George trailed off.</p><p>“Yeah. Bit odd, innit?” Fred said, sounding far too bright and bouncy and nodding vigorously, as though he perhaps didn’t find this development odd at all.</p><p>George shrugged and scratched his neck. “Maybe he had a time turner accident? Do, um, do they have jumping forward time t—”</p><p>“Come off it,” Fred snapped. Then, he leaned into the mic and held the intercom button. “Granger, get back here. Now.”</p><p>The mic rigging didn’t have as many modifications. Fred’s voice sounded warped, and the signal cut due to the strong magical interference from the Castle, but the message was clear enough.</p><p>George scrubbed his hands down his face. “Fred, please just drop it—”</p><p>The door swung open.</p><p>“Is everything alright?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Fred circled Granger. “You tell me,” he said.</p><p>“I think it’s fine,” Hermione said, glancing from Fred to George.</p><p>Fred snorted. “Y’know, I was just telling Georgie here—”</p><p>“Fred,” George snapped. “Enough. It’s none of your business.”</p><p>“—Harry did a bit of digging, when he got that letter,” Fred continued, unheeding. Hermione stilled. “Some bloke in MACUSA—just to make sure you weren’t seeing some Death Eater in disguise.”</p><p>Then, she exhaled a long breath, something furious flickering over her expression as she glanced to the side. “Tell Harry I can check for myself, thanks,” Hermione snapped.</p><p>Fred lifted his hands. “I did,” he said. “But then this bloke owls back. Says, ‘Sorry for the late reply, but the last John Brooke we’ve got on record at Ilvermorny graduated in—’” Fred halted and waved a hand dismissively through the air, feigning casual disinterest. “Oh, but you’d know, wouldn’t you? How old John is?”</p><p>“They know he’s forty-six,” George cut in, before Granger could say anything else that would incriminate them.</p><p>Hermione balked, paling as she glanced at George. But then she recovered. “Who I see in my free time isn’t any of your—”</p><p>Fred stopped in front of Granger, then leaned in, ducking forward to brace his hands on his knees. Hermione stared back, and her eyes narrowed. “Do I look stupid to you?” he asked flatly.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “Do you want me to answer that?”</p><p>Fred cracked into a grin. “No.” He laughed a bit, and some of the tension evaporated.</p><p>George let out a breath. Okay. Here was an opportunity. “Leave her alone, Freddie,” he said. “If she wants to see—"</p><p>Fred rolled his eyes and broke from the staring contest, facing George with a put out expression. “Oh, come on. Seriously? Are you seriously sticking with that?” His voice was incredulous.</p><p>“No—George is right,” Hermione said, tone swotty. “This is none of your business.”</p><p>Fred turned back to face her. “Okay, Granger. You may have destroyed a horcrux,” Fred whispered. “You may’ve levelled a Death Eater army. You may’ve broken into Gringotts and escaped on dragon back, wrecking our shop roof in the process. You might be a third of the golden trio, and over half the reason Harry didn’t pack it in before his eighteenth—” Fred’s tone was wry. “But you will never—” He enunciated the word. “Be better at sneaking than me.”</p><p>“I could if I tried,” Hermione said crisply.</p><p>Fred reeled back. “Then you should probably start trying a bit harder, if you want to keep whatever you’ve got happening here a secret.” He gestured between George and Hermione.</p><p>“There’s nothing—” Hermione started, eyes never leaving Fred.</p><p>“Granger, I know,” Fred said quietly. “I’ve known the whole time.”</p><p>Bugger.</p><p>Fred yanked his hat off and shoved a hand through his hair. “And I’ve been running around like mad all week to ensure that nobody else does.” He pointed at the empty barstool beside George. “Please sit.”</p><p>“Does anyone else know?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George blinked. He’d expected her to make another denial. To maybe yell. Or—</p><p>“No,” Fred said. Then: “You’re welcome, by the way.”</p><p>Hermione exhaled in a rush and slumped.</p><p>“You could’ve been up front. You could’ve led with that,” George said, voice tense.</p><p>Fred pushed up his jacket sleeves with a smile. “Yeah, but after all the hours I’ve put into the thankless job of fixing this mess, I thought I deserved the pleasure of winding you up.”</p><p>George glanced at Granger, trying to read her.</p><p>Hermione blinked rapidly, then backed towards the stool slowly, easing onto it without a word. She wrapped her arms around her ribs. “What gave it away?” she asked quietly, then sighed.</p><p>Was she alright? Was this too much, too soon?</p><p>He caught her eyes. “You okay?” he mouthed.</p><p>She nodded a bit.</p><p>“Still right here,” Fred said dryly. “Still perfectly capable of reading lips.”</p><p>Hermione shot Fred an acidic look.</p><p>Fred smiled. “Anyways, as for what gave it away, there were a number of things.” He shrugged, turned a kitchen seat to face them, and dropped into it.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>Hermione sighed again. “Such as?”</p><p>Fred grinned and wiggled a bit, sitting more upright in his chair. “First, the night we went to see Luna—I mean, come on. When we came through the floo, George looked irrationally happy. So happy, in fact, that I worried he might actually lift off—” Fred snapped his fingers and flung his hand up in a pantomime of a Whizbang starting. “And blast clear through the ceiling.” He stared at them both with a flat face. “The budget won’t cover more than one roof repair per year, you know.”</p><p>George shoved the base of his palms against his eyes.</p><p>He should’ve known.</p><p>He had.</p><p>But he’d been in denial.</p><p>Fred continued. “Anyways, when I finished considering the property damage, I thought to myself, ‘Wow, either Filibuster’s kicked it and left us his factories, or Hermione’s finally gone and given him a proper snogging.’”</p><p>“Fred,” George snapped. “Be respectful.”</p><p>Hermione gaped at Fred.</p><p>Neither one responded to George.</p><p>“What Granger—you think I don’t know my own brother?” Fred flung a hand up. “And if that hadn’t clued me in—even if I hadn’t known immediately upon seeing him that something had happened—there were other hints as well.”</p><p>Fred pointed between them and continued. “Like the little game of footsie you both had going the other night. Bit obvious.” He waffled his head back and forth. “Or the disappearing and snogging each other in a darkened Hogwarts corridor. For ten minutes. All while I waited in the Hospital wing and made rubbish excuses to Harry and McGonagall—” He lifted a hand at Granger’s noise of protest. “I literally saw your footprints on the map. The image is burned into my retinas, unfortunately.”</p><p>“We were hugging,” George said tersely.</p><p>Fred blinked and glanced between them. “Hugging.”</p><p>“Yes, Fred,” Hermione said, her voice tired.</p><p>Fred lifted his brows. “Okay, well, that aside—you’ve not exactly been subtle.”</p><p>Hermione huffed. “Or, you’re just incredibly nosy.”</p><p>Fred shrugged. “I’m a Weasley,” he said, like that was explanation enough.</p><p>Hermione closed her eyes and pushed her fingertips to her temples.</p><p>“Would it kill you to show a little gratitude?” Fred asked. “Do you have any idea—the lengths I’ve gone through these past few days, on your behalf? Do you know how hard it is to fake out Harry Potter?” Fred’s eyes flashed.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “Yes, actually,” she said.</p><p>“I had to find an owl,” Fred said lightly. “From the States. An American breed, of course, because why would this sod send a British one? And the owls over there? They’re on different sleep schedules, y’know.”</p><p>He spoke rapidly. “I had to find one that wasn’t acclimated to our time zone, so it’d look properly exhausted when it showed up at Harry’s place.” He laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out, popping the knuckles. “Then, I had to listen to loads of wireless, so I’d get the phrasing in the letter right. Because they talk differently, and the first few tries I tried, it came out far too casual for a MACUSA auror.” He breathed out a laugh. “Which is to say, less formal than how Percy chats, and more formal than how I do.” Fred sucked in a breath and braced his palms on his temples. “And don’t even get me started on the paper—”</p><p>“Paper?” George asked. Had the papers gotten word somehow?</p><p>“I had to duplicate this sod’s stationery, which wasn’t easy, mind,” Fred said and bobbed his head. “Had to crack like—” He tossed a hand up, frowning. “—three protective charms to be able to copy the departmental seal. Yeah. Apparently, Americans are paranoid about people impersonating them.” He quirked his brows. “Anyway, so I’m pretending to be this bloke, all so I can send this note that says, ‘Oh, my bad. I missed someone. There is a John Brooke. He’s twenty-two, has a spotless record, and is incredibly boring.’” Fred pointed at Hermione. “Cause I couldn’t make him sound illogical, but he also couldn’t come out seeming better than Georgie.” He stared her down. “I broke laws, Granger. Big ones.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you say something,” Hermione asked, sounding dazed.</p><p>Fred leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. “Because if George wasn’t telling me, there was bloody good reason why he hadn’t.”</p><p>George’s throat closed. “Mate—”</p><p>“I knew it was important that it stay a secret,” Fred finished, not looking at George.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I asked him not to,” she whispered. “It was—it was me.”</p><p>“That’s your business,” Fred said. “I’m not here for details or because I’m cross. You’re both grown ups. You can do what you want.” He extended his hands, waving them in a circle. “Whatever you’re doing here—okay.” He blinked. “I mean, obviously, I think if you wanted to keep a secret successfully, you should’ve asked for my help.”</p><p>He looked at the both of them for a moment before continuing in a more serious, even tone. “But that’s your choice. I’m here to tell you that if you want to keep this quiet, you’ve got to be more careful. Because, like, I have a day job.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ve heard of it. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. It funds the extravagant lifestyle to which George has grown accustomed.” He gestured at the second-hand furniture and grinned.</p><p>Good Merlin, Fred was in rare form tonight.</p><p>Hermione snorted, and George sighed heavily. At least she didn’t sound anxious.</p><p>“Now, you have three options,” Fred said, ticking the items off on his fingers. His tone shifted to a deeper, more even pitch, and the smile slipped from his face. “You can wipe my mind of the last week, and George here will tell me it was a potions mishap when I wake up.” He paused and gave them a sharp look. “And if we go that route, you two had better shape up your sneaking, because I’d rather not make a habit of being Obliviated—”</p><p>Hermione blinked and glanced at George. George’s mouth opened, but Fred was still talking.</p><p>“Second option—I keep my memories, you keep your secret, and when needed, I give you hand with it,” Fred said. “You tell no one. I tell no one.” He paused. “Except Angie. Who currently doesn’t know, but it’s only a matter of time, if I do. But you should know, she’s safe. She won’t tell anyone. The Johnson family is notoriously better at minding their own.” Fred raised a third finger. “Or, finally, you could just put out an announcement in <em>The Prophet</em>. Call it a day.”</p><p>“That’s not an option,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.</p><p>Fred smirked. “It’s what I would do,” he said.</p><p>“Yes, well, you and George are different people,” Hermione said.</p><p>A slow smile spread on Fred’s face. “Right you are, Granger.” He clapped his hands together. “So, what’ll it be?”</p><p>Hermione glanced at George. “Um—”</p><p>Fred glanced at his bare wrist. “I’m going to go pretend to use the loo,” he said. “Ten minutes enough?”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“Brilliant,” Fred said dryly. Then, he started upright and strode into the bathroom. The door snapped shut.</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>As the sound of Fred’s departure echoed over the floorboards, the tension running a line of fire through his spine vanished.</p><p>And it all sunk in.</p><p>Fred knew. Hermione knew. And it was already getting more complicated.</p><p>Then, he buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “I tried to—”</p><p>“It’s okay, George,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Is—is this even something you’re still interested in, after that?” he asked, finally confronting the gnawing pinch in his stomach.</p><p>“Of course!” Hermione whispered. “Merlin, George, were you worried about that this whole time?”</p><p>George scrubbed at his face and shrugged. Hermione’s chair squeaked. Suddenly, her hands closed on his wrists. She pulled them away with a gentle tug, and George blinked as she laid a kiss on his cheek.</p><p>“It’s okay,” she whispered. Granger laced their fingers together on the left side, then the right.</p><p>Holding hands. Two at once, even.</p><p>The sparks flitted up to his shoulders.</p><p>He stared, then blinked up at her, questioning.</p><p>“George? What is it?” Hermione whispered.</p><p>George blinked back down at their intertwined hands. “It’s just—I know this is a lot.” His thumb stroked over her knuckles. “I know it’s important to you, that we keep other people out of it for now.”</p><p>“We’re not obliviating Fred, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Hermione said with a sigh. “That’s ridiculous. Noble of him to offer, but completely misguided.”</p><p>“Then, um, what would you like to do?” George asked thickly, not trusting himself to raise his gaze.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>Then, Hermione said, “What do you want, George?”</p><p>
  <em>You. Forever and ever.</em>
</p><p>George breathed out a short burst of air.</p><p>He watched her hands, contemplating the writing callous on the knuckle of her right, middle finger. “I know, um, this is complicated. There’s baggage.” He shrugged, trying to work around the tightness in his throat. “I know there are loads of messy bits.” He frowned and inclined his head slightly to the side.</p><p>Finally, he looked up at her. “But, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to give this a shot,” he said.</p><p>“Like—” Hermione faltered.</p><p>“Like, take you on a date,” George said quietly, searching her face as he pulled her hands to his chest. “Like, a carry-your-books, walk-you-home, kiss-you-at-the-door-proper go.”</p><p>Granger’s expression went soft, and her brown eyes were warm as she looked at him. “I don’t think you can kiss me at the door,” she said after a pause. She bit her lips together. “I live across the street from a newspaper office.”</p><p>“Hm,” George mused, watching her mouth. “How about the kitchen?”</p><p>“Okay,” she breathed, finally.</p><p>“To which part?” George asked, blinked up at her eyes.</p><p>Hermione beamed, and a small smile slipped free. “All of it.” She swallowed, suddenly, and stared at him with a strange, unnervingly raw look. “Even the messy bits.”</p><p>Sweet Merlin.</p><p>And George, who’d planned on having a fancy strategy for the next time he kissed her, quite forgot about his grand designs.</p><p>See, he’d gone a bit silly at the feeling of her palms sparking on his apron’s chest pocket, and when she said, “Even the messy bits,” well. There was no coming back from that. Not for him.</p><p>He held one hand over both of hers, like he might keep them there forever, then used the other to draw her head down.</p><p>She smelled like coffee.</p><p>But she tasted like Chamomile.</p><p>Noses, eyelashes, glow. Boots twisting on the barstool’s foot rail. The air seemed to thin around him,</p><p>He took in a lungful and knit his brows together, completely and totally in over his head. Then, he pulled back just far enough to breathe over the corner of her mouth: “Merlin, forget carrying your books. I’ll build you a library.”</p><p>Hermione let out a shaky exhale through her nose. Then, she swayed into him, off-balanced and jostling the barstool as she kissed him again.</p><p>He’d done it. Yes. Triumph. Elation. And maybe, maybe a touch of smugness, but—</p><p>Hermione’s fingers burrowed into his hair.</p><p>George went lightheaded.</p><p>Faint.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Aconite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Breathe. Hold tight.</p><p>A c o n i t e</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, all!</p><p>Thank you so much for your patience this week, especially as I continue to work to balance writing with productivity goals and  sleeping. &lt;3 I want to include here that the next update will likely be on May 10, as I am hoping to be able to receive a certain type of "hug potion" of sorts, and I am budgeting time for recovery from that, just in case. That being said, if things don't go according to plan, I will keep you all updated in this note, as per usual! &lt;3 Thank you so, so much for being positive and understanding with all of this. </p><p>&lt;3 &lt;3 Thank you also for reading, commenting, and/or offering kudos/encouragement last week!! &lt;3 I hope you all had a lovely week. </p><p>My sincere apologies for any typos or mistakes I missed while editing! &lt;3</p><p>I'm pretty tired right now, so I'm going to keep this note short for now, and I'll be responding to comments after I sleep. &lt;3 I hope that's okay!!</p><p>As always, I do not own the rights to these characters or to this story world.</p><p>Playlist:<br/>"Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling"/"Constellations" by The Oh Helloes (First couple paragraphs, really/May 14, 9:05 a.m.)<br/>"Always" by John Legend/"I do" by Aloe Blacc and LeAnn Rimes (First bit/May 14, 9:05 a.m. --When Arthur says "Molly")<br/>"Comforting You" by WYS (Generally)<br/>"Hold On" by Kainbeats/"Asleep on the Train" by Tom Rosenthal (May 14, 9:15 a.m. --when you see Harry)<br/>"When It Feels Like This" by Maisie Peters (May 14, 7:45 p.m. --at the mention of the conversation being painful &amp; May 15, late, after they're done brewing and go inside.)<br/>"One More Light" by Linkin Park (May 15, 8:00 a.m.)<br/>"Jukebox Hero" (May 16, 7:30 p.m. --you'll know)<br/>"Wolves Among Sheep" and "Unleash the Drakar" by Saunder Jurriaans &amp; Danny Bensi (May 16, 7:30, p.m. after Ginny yells).</p><p>Grab your snack (Maybe a blueberry scone this week?), your drink (I had cold brew with almond milk, this go around), and your coziest blanket. Let's dive in. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Chapter Forty-One: “Aconite”</h2><p>
  <em>Hermione</em>
</p><p>May 14, 2003, 9:05 a.m.</p><p>There were an assortment sounds that Hermione knew, above all else, she would never forget.</p><p>The steel clang of lighthouse railing, catching on her Mary Jane heel. The crackle of the record needle and her Mum’s soft laugh. The chime of the bell when Minerva McGonagall approached her parents’ townhouse. The low, throaty chuckle of the Sorting Hat proclaiming “<em>Gryffindor!</em>” after she’d argued with it for almost four minutes. The booming, wonderful music of George Weasley’s laughter in the common room as Fred went on and on about the Filibuster empire’s numbered days. The crackle of Ron’s voice on the telephone, saying, <em>“Listen, I know you don’t care for Quidditch, but Dad’s got these tickets, and the whole family wants you to come along.”</em> The terrible screeching of the Hogwarts band, grinding to a halt as Harry screamed a clipped, broken voice— “<em>I couldn’t leave him! Not there!</em>” The stilted titter of Umbridge’s hem-hem in the middle of Dumbledore’s welcoming speech. The roar of fire, consuming the Burrow. The whistle of spellfire and storm on thestral back. The percussive weave of fiddle and drum and her own breath spilling in an uneven giggle as George Weasley spun her around Bill and Fleur’s wedding reception and a slight, yet confusing curiosity built in her chest. The endless, echoing silence outside the tent when Ron had walked off and not come back. Bellatrix’s screech. The golden pop of time as Fred Weasley opened his eyes. The brutal crack of ice. George’s low, amused tone saying <em>“Surely, you must’ve known,”</em> and “<em>Let’s do this proper—</em>” and also “<em>even then</em>” and “<em>I am in love you</em>” mixed with a million other small sounds he made every day. The snorts, the sighs, the loping cadence of those brown, leather boots on all manner of flooring—the music of George which she had been steadfastly learning in the same manner that a child learns to walk.</p><p>Slowly, haltingly, until one learns to run.</p><p>Some of the sounds hadn’t seemed significant at the time. She hadn’t realized their pivotal nature until later, in reflecting. Others—she knew, right away, as they rocked her like thunderclap.</p><p>The twang of Victoire’s hand on fiddle string, Hermione knew, would be one of these noises. One of the ones she would never forget.</p><p>Hermione stepped into the bedroom, glazed over with shock as the tremors of the note rocked through her. Victoire’s little shoulders rose and fell a single time as she blinked down at the fiddle determinedly. George was halfway between the doorway and his niece, reaching over the clutter for her, and Hermione was mid-stride, shortly behind him.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley’s eyes opened.</p><p>Hermione was the only one who saw, at first, when it happened. The two sets of brown eyes locked. Molly drew in a fast breath.</p><p>George spun. “Mum?” he whispered.</p><p>“Fabian?” she asked, voice more rasp and air than substance. She blinked, and a confused look came over her. “No—George—” George, whose hands had snapped back towards his chest in a startled lurch at her first word, stared back at his mother, frozen.</p><p>Silence. Stunned and thick.</p><p>Then a singular, choked cry as Arthur Weasley careened around the corner: “<em>Molly</em>—” He slammed into the door frame. “Oh—oh—” The elder Weasley’s voice had gone hoarse and wobbly and yet the most awake Hermione had heard it in ages. “Oh, Molly—” He tripped over the open trunk and sent its lid crashing and cracking down over the lower half, but Arthur didn’t seem to notice.</p><p>In his haste to make it around the bed, he missed the corner, driving the iron nob on the right side of the foot of the frame into his hip. The structure jolted, and Mrs. Weasley swayed with the impact.  Arthur swerved to a stop, breathing hard and sticking the heel of his hand into the crook of his hip with a clipped yelp.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley’s look of confusion had given way to one of concern. “Arthur, my word,” she rasped.  </p><p>Arthur’s face screwed up into lines, and he bobbed his head and blinked a few times at the floor, bent nearly in half. But then he pitched upright and stared at Molly, seeming to drink in the sight of her.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “You’ve hurt yourself, haven’t you? Honestly, Arthur.” It was admirable, how imposing Mrs. Weasley’s scolding tone was, despite the weakness in her voice.</p><p>Arthur blinked. Then he hurried, off-kilter, around the foot of the bed, to take a seat on the edge of the mattress at her side. “I—I’m here, Dearest,” he said between breaths, as though she wasn’t in the middle of a lecture. “Every-everything’s fine.”</p><p>Molly appeared a bit unnerved, shifting back to assess him, then the others in the room. All the while, Arthur studied her. His hands ghosted over her face, over the faint marks that were yet fading, over the brown, knit cap—never once landing, as though she might break into pieces with the slightest brush. “How are you feeling? There any pain? I can get the—”</p><p>“What? How am <em>I</em> feeling?” Mrs. Weasley asked, sounding thoroughly confused and a bit impatient. “Arthur, did you hit your head?”</p><p>He sputtered, blinked hard, and shook his head.</p><p>“Don’t—don’t get shirty with me, Miss,” Mr. Weasley said, in a poor impression of sternness. “You—” He swallowed and lifted a trembling hand. Then, he brushed a few whisps of Molly’s hair back, taking care not to touch her skin as he drew the strands from the front of the cap towards the back, near her ear. “—You are not allowed to scold me about getting hurt anymore.”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley frowned and glanced sideways at his hand. “You’ll break your neck, otherwise; I know it,” she said.</p><p>“Oh, will I?” Arthur said with a light nod, in an unconvincingly hoarse, casual tone.</p><p>Molly’s eyes worked over him with an exasperated warmth. “Do you know how many things I move out of your absentminded path, every day?”</p><p>Mr. Weasley broke down.</p><p>His left hand dropped to brace on the covers, near Molly’s opposite hip, and his right covered his face as an exhausted wheeze tore from his throat. “I’m sure I don’t.”</p><p>Molly’s concern melted into alarm. “Arthur, Dear—” she said, reaching both arms up. The effort seemed to tax her. A momentary bewilderment flickered through her eyes, but she managed to get them around him with a nettled, “Come here, then.”</p><p>Arthur attempted to pull back, stuttering some sort of protest about her state. However, he hadn’t been expecting the pull, and Mrs. Weasley conquered him quite efficiently.</p><p>Hermione winced, but Mrs. Weasley didn’t seem to be in any discomfort as Arthur’s form touched to hers. The burns must’ve been healed enough, then.</p><p>That was something, at least.</p><p>Bill brushed past Hermione and George and picked up Victoire, who watched the fiddle with an entranced attention, fist in her mouth. Then, he turned and regarded his parents with a tense, furrowed expression.</p><p>“Heaven’s sake, Arty,” Mrs. Weasley said, looking more and more unnerved behind the ridge of Mr. Weasley’s shoulders, where her arms clutched, blue, flowered sleeves falling around her wrists. She turned her face towards his ear. “Arthur?”</p><p>Quietly, Hermione began to help George with gathering up the belongings all over the floor.</p><p>Mr. Weasley’s bent elbow shook with the rest of him, and his voice came out thick and muffled from the cotton of the bed clothes and Mrs. Weasley’s nightgown collar.</p><p>“Sorry—sorry—it’s—I’m alright.” He shifted back, breaking from Mrs. Weasley’s hold. “Really.” Arthur spoke in a strained, faint voice as he tried to catch his breath, and Hermione didn’t need to see his face to know that it was probably a mess.</p><p>She glanced at George, but he seemed less inclined to back from the room yet. So instead, Hermione turned partially away, casting a folding charm at a tangle of jumpers on the floor. Bill slipped through the threshold and handed Victoire off, into the throng of Weasleys waiting in the kitchen, just outside the door.</p><p>Molly snorted up at Arthur. “Don’t make me laugh. Clearly, you’re—” She started, and her face went, if possible, even paler.</p><p>“Oh, oh—the ice.” Her hand shot up, wavering, and she caught Mr. Weasley’s, her fingers clutching his. “The ice, it—” Her eyes went round with horror.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Arthur cut in, furrowing his brow in a manner that seemed to almost mirror Bill’s concentrated stares. “They’re all fine.”</p><p>“But the—the children—” Molly said. “Have you checked the clock?”</p><p>George coughed and propped the trunk lid up. “Still kicking, Mum,” he said, then dropped a stack of jumpers in. “And the clock’s fine.”</p><p>Arthur nodded, not looking back at George. “See? All’s well, Darling.” He pulled at the covers around her in a hurried manner. “Everything’s fine.”</p><p>Hermione dropped her gaze to the flooring. That wasn’t quite true, but they were all alive, and that was something. Arthur likely didn’t want to overwhelm Molly with everything all at once.</p><p>Or perhaps, after two wars, Molly and Arthur had a different threshold for “well” and “fine.” Where “fine” truly did mean “we’re all still kicking.” Because she could understand that. There was something to be said for it.</p><p>“You’re the one we’ve been worried about,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, but his voice stayed rough. “Now you be honest with me. How’re you feeling? Do you need a potion?”</p><p>Molly peered at him quietly. “How bad was it, Arty?”</p><p>There was a tense pause.</p><p>Arthur’s shoulders gave a little shrug, and he continued to mess about pointlessly with the quilt. “Anything sting? Your face? Arms?”</p><p>Molly blinked down at herself. “Nothing smarts, but I think I’m a bit tired.”</p><p>Arthur cleared his throat again and shook his hands out. “Right, well that’s a simple fix.”</p><p>“Arthur, that’s hardly necessary,” Molly said, as he reached and took her face in his palms. “You hardly look—”</p><p>“Shut up, will you?” Arthur murmured, but the words were affectionate. “Good Merlin. Bad as Bill.”</p><p>George’s cough didn’t quite cover the sound of his laughter.</p><p>“See?” Arthur mumbled in a distracted tone as he searched the places where his hands touched her face. “Even the children know. Can’t fight it, Mollywobbles. You’re to be spoiled rotten.” A spark snapped off his fingers as he lifted his left hand, then repositioned it along her right wrist.</p><p>Hermione tried not to gawk. She’d never witnessed someone else sharing that sort of connection, due to its rarity. While they’d spoken a bit about it, it was wholly different to see it in action.</p><p>Was this a more effective way? Was there something to the positioning of Arthur’s hands? Did shaking them out help, sort of like the wand motions catapulted a charm or—or was this merely a quirk?</p><p>She had so many questions.</p><p>“George—Fred—no, George,” Mrs. Weasley said, blinking hard and glancing around Arthur’s shoulder as sparks of a deep, ocean blue flickered in her brown irises. “Come—come over here and wallop your father before he half-murders himself.”</p><p>George, who’d been taking articles from Hermione and storing them into the trunk, paused. Then looked up at his parents. “‘Fraid you’re on your own, Mum,” he drawled. “I don’t fancy getting knocked flat again.” George’s voice was warm and amused, and he snapped the trunk shut, then lifted the fiddle case on top of it.</p><p>Molly’s brows drew together, and she opened her mouth to reply, but a new voice cut through the room.</p><p>“Out of my way,” Percy snapped. “Let me through.”</p><p>Molly’s head swiveled to the threshold. “Is that Percy?” Molly asked, voice going high. “Percy’s here?”</p><p>The man in question appeared in the doorway, fighting his way between Bill and Ron. His sleeveless, crimson jumper was half untucked over his oxford, and he held a teacup on a saucer in two hands. As he hurried past Hermione, the faint sting of Aconite mixed with peppermint filled her nostrils.</p><p>“Oh, Percy!” Mrs. Weasley cried.</p><p>Then Percy, who’d hardly cracked a single smile in the last week and a half, knelt on his mother’s other side, beaming. “Hi Mummy,” he breathed softly, the corners of his eyes bunching up in smile. He rested the saucer on the bedside table and took her hand. “I made you tea.”</p><p>It was so far outside Percy’s regular countenance that Hermione stepped back in surprise. Arthur shot a grateful glance at his third son before carrying on.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley, however, uttered a clipped, little sound in the back of her throat, then burst into tears.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” Molly barely managed in a shaken voice. “It’s not a holiday?”</p><p>Percy stirred a small spoon in the cup with his free hand. “Yes, it is,” he said. “It is now.” His rusty mess of curls fell over his brow. “I believe the muggles call it a ‘Mother’s Day.’”</p><p>Hermione snorted. He was about a month and a half late on that one, but he scored points for trying.</p><p> A soft laugh echoed from the doorway. Bill was grinning broadly there, as was Ron. As Hermione glanced over, Fred poked his head through, got a general idea, then rolled his eyes at George and mouthed “Is that Percy?” in an over-dramatic imitation of Mrs. Weasley. Bill smacked the back of Fred’s head with a light swat.</p><p>George smirked. Hermione’s mouth opened in protest, but George winked and held his finger to his lips.</p><p>“Tell me you didn’t come all this way for me,” Molly said roughly, making clumsy, desperate moves to wipe her eyes around Arthur’s in-the-way arms.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother, of course we did,” Percy said in an unconcerned, crisp voice. He clinked the spoon on the edge of the cup, then dropped it in and extended the set to her, handle out.</p><p>“We?” Molly asked, ignoring the tea.</p><p>“We,” Percy said, gently.</p><p>Suddenly, Mr. Weasley swayed a bit.</p><p>Molly started, glancing at Arthur, and her free hand crept up to cover Mr. Weasley’s on her arm.</p><p>“Only a bit more,” Arthur said, sounding winded. “Not yet. I—I can tell.” He reached up, trying to remove her hand.</p><p>Molly shot Arthur a watery, spark-laden glare and said in a wobbly tone. “That’s plenty,” she said. “You’ve hardly got enough to be sharing right now.”</p><p>Arthur huffed and caught her hand. “I’ll manage, just—”</p><p>Mrs. Weasley pulled her wrist free and patted the spot beside her on the bed. “No,” she said, more firmly this time. “You’ll end up on the floor. I won’t have it.”</p><p>Arthur frowned. “Molly, so help me—”</p><p>“As I was saying, we’re all here,” Percy said simply, smoothing over the outburst with a practiced grace. “Even Charles.”</p><p>Molly twisted back and forth, turning from Percy to the door, then started crying anew. Arthur’s look softened, and he shifted to sit next to her, propped on the pillows against the headboard. “It’s alright,” he said, drawing an arm around her shoulders. “Why don’t you have some tea.” He nodded at Percy.</p><p>Percy lifted the cup again, and this time, she took it. “We’ve all been staying close, really,” Percy said in a soothing tone.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley exhaled, calming a bit. “Have you?”</p><p>Percy nodded. “Well, Harry’s at work, but I expect he’ll be back soon.”</p><p>Mr. Weasley crossed his legs at the ankle near the foot of the bed, then dropped his free hand onto his jumper and turned to watch his wife with an expression of great satisfaction.</p><p>“And everyone’s safe?” Mrs. Weasley repeated. Percy nodded again.</p><p>“As bunnies in a burrow, Mum.” Charlie’s voice echoed from the threshold, where he peeked between Ron and Bill. He sounded a bit odd. Quieter than usual, but the warm look he gave his Mum was genuine.</p><p>A tender sort of stillness came over the room.</p><p>Then Molly sobbed.</p><p>#</p><p>May 14, 2003, 9:15 a.m.</p><p>Hermione cleared out of the room to allow the other Weasleys time to visit with Molly. They could finish tidying the space after everyone had gotten their chance to have a chat. George followed her. “I find it a bit odd,” she mused. “Your dad played all those songs, and nothing, but Victoire—” she trailed off, staring towards the kitchen area.</p><p>George dropped into the sofa’s corner seat and propped his feet on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t have guessed it, but it does make sense,” he murmured. “Mum and that fiddle have a special connection, from the way Bill and Charlie tell it.” He draped one elbow along the couch’s back, then rested the other one on the couch’s rounded side support.</p><p>Hermione took the spot beside him. George glanced at her with appreciation before easing the curve of his arm around her. He gave a little, contented sigh and tucked his nose against her neck. “Mm.”</p><p>Sparks fluttered over her skin.</p><p>But Hermione’s mind was still caught on the fiddle string. On the sound.</p><p>“So, your—your Mum plays, then?” she asked.</p><p>It just seemed odd. She’d never once seen Mrs. Weasley touch a fiddle. Or mention one, for that matter.</p><p>George adjusted with her question, sitting more upright. His free hand rubbed at his jaw, then dropped over the edge of the couch. “Not anymore,” he said quietly.</p><p>“Why not?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George answered slowly, sorting the words with care. “You know how you get sick, sometimes? When you wake up and you’ve been sleeping on your back?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione blinked. “What?” she paused. “No?” Her mind whirred.</p><p>“Oh.” George swore quietly. “Um, see—”</p><p>Did she? She usually tried to sleep on her side or even stomach, as that’s how she felt most comfortable. Hadn’t it always been that way? She stared at the hearth, trying to remember.</p><p>“Well, it’s not every time, but—” George was stuttering through an explanation, but she wasn’t catching a word of it.</p><p>It came to her suddenly.</p><p>“It’s because of Bellatrix, isn’t it?” she said.</p><p>George paused. “Yes,” he said quietly.</p><p>“Hm,” Hermione said.</p><p>The tip of her nose began to ache.</p><p>But she nodded, striving for a clinical, rational response. “That makes sense, I suppose.” She forced the words out, despite the way her throat was closing up.</p><p>George’s arm squeezed her a bit. “Anyways, it’s um—it’s a bit like that.”</p><p>There was a faint crack of distant lightning or apparition, and the Weasley clock ticked, a lone, silver spoon on “<em>Travelling</em>.”</p><p>“There are some things that hurt too much, I reckon,” George said. “No matter how long it’s been.”</p><p>His other arm looped around her, and his voice was a soft and gentle rumble in his chest as he gathered her closer to himself. “Fragile humans.” His voice took on a wry twinge as he nudged her a bit and set his tone to mimic a certain elf’s.</p><p>A chime, from the mantle.</p><p>Hermione clung tight to George and stared at the Weasley clock. At all the hands, pointing at “<em>Home</em>.”</p><p>#</p><p>There was a rogue squeak, then the pounding of rain filtered in through the kitchen, followed by the distant cry of a chicken. A cold clang of the door swinging shut.</p><p>And then, a highly irritable tone, snapping. “Where’s Mione?”</p><p>Harry.</p><p>He sounded rattled, repeating, “Where is she?”</p><p>There was a low muttering.</p><p>Hermione lurched upright on the couch. Harry’s shoulders slumped as he caught sight of her. He yanked a dark, grey cloak from his shoulders and threw it over a kitchen chair with a wet slap. Ron ducked close, speaking quietly.</p><p>Harry turned towards the bedroom for a moment, nodded, but then strode—right for her, black, all-terrain boots a squeaking mess of water on the floor. Harry didn’t seem to notice that he was sopping or that his lips had an odd, purple caste, or that he’d forgotten to caste an Impervius on his glasses, because of course he’d forgotten such a simple spell, really—</p><p>He pulled Hermione right off that sofa, from the dry warmth of the crook of George’s arm and promptly soaked the front of her jumper in rain.</p><p>He was shivering, under his auror robes.</p><p>“It’s okay, Harry,” Hermione said, blinking at the tightness of his embrace. “I’m fine.”</p><p>Harry clutched her a bit tighter.</p><p>“S’alright, Mate,” George’s low whisper echoed from the couch.</p><p>Suddenly, Harry let go. He stepped around Hermione and yanked George from his seat in an impressive maneuver, given George’s height and build. Harry threw his arms around his brother-in-law and gripped him just as tightly.</p><p>George bugged his eyes out at Hermione over Harry’s shoulder before clapping him roughly on the back. Harry stepped back, looking furtively between the two of them, then reached for Hermione again.</p><p>Merlin, Harry was shaking. Maybe it wasn’t the cold. Maybe it was—</p><p>George’s flannel weave had a dark stain—the wet from the storm, marking his chest and shoulders.</p><p>Harry pulled back, took Hermione’s face in his clammy hands, and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “You’re brilliant,” he said. “Absolutely, bloody brilliant.”</p><p>And then he hugged her again.</p><p>They’d never been shy with hugs in the past—not since she’d run through the Great Hall all those years ago and thrown her arms around him after he’d solved the clue on the scrap of parchment.</p><p>But this was a bit excessive, even for Harry.</p><p>“Watched it all through—” he choked.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>What he’d seen in the memories—it must have shaken him.</p><p>“Merlin, Mione,” Harry whispered. “The trees, I mean—That’s some of the best Occlumency I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>Occlumency?</p><p>She didn’t know how to Occlude.</p><p>George balked. “You—you could see it? In the memory?”</p><p>Harry pulled away from Hermione and nodded. “Yeah. There was something in that Boggart Venom that brought it out of her head. It was real to her, so the, um—” He wrinkled his brow and circled his hand, sorting the explanation. “—the memory picked it up and made it real in the Pensieve.”</p><p>Harry regarded George. “You were there, y’know.”</p><p>George winced. “Yeah, I’m sure I was.”</p><p>Harry’s brow formed an even deeper line. “Not like that. Well, yes, like that, but that’s not the bit I was referring to.”</p><p>George blinked.</p><p>Ron ducked around the corner. “Harry, she’s asking for you,” he said. A pause. “And her grandbabies, so, you might want to collect Teddy and the lot from upstairs, or I suspect she’ll riot.”</p><p>Harry nodded.</p><p>As if on cue, Percy swept through the kitchen to the back door, leaving in the direction of the garden without a word. Ron frowned and started after him.</p><p>Harry gave his hair a shake, flinging excess water, then bounded for the staircase. “I’ve got notes from the meeting with Kings,” he said. “We’ll chat later, Mione?”</p><p>“Okay,” she said.</p><p>Then, in a manner only fitting for the boy with a lightning scar, Harry thundered up the stairs, calling “Mrs. Potter, I’m home!” in a cheeky voice.</p><p>The soft murmur of a drying charm filled her ears. Hermione turned to George. “Thanks,” she said.</p><p>George studied her for a moment, then worked his hands into his denim pockets. “He’s right that you’re brilliant,” he said. “When I told you to think of the trees, I mean—” He seemed to lose himself for a moment, and his brows quirked up as he stared off at the rug. “It was a desperate, last chance move.” He looked a bit dazed. “And yet you sorted it out—like it was nothing.”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “It seemed, well—” She struggled, searching for the words. “I didn’t—I still don’t know, exactly what happened.” A shriek of laughter boomed from upstairs, and Hermione glanced at the ceiling and smiled. “It was sort of like muscle memory, really. I thought of the pine trees and running into them felt natural.”</p><p>George made a small, acknowledging sound, holding his bicep in one hand and bracing the other against his mouth as he stared into space. The skin over his fingers still looked raw. Red. Angry.</p><p>“So, it was Occluding, then?” Hermione asked quietly, frowning at his hand.</p><p>They really needed to sort more Dittany.</p><p>George nodded slightly. “I taught you how, years ago.”</p><p>It made sense.</p><p>“That sort’s not the same, as—” He paused and dropped his hand and looked down at it ruefully. “Well, you don’t need to be afraid, unless you start running into the trees to avoid yourself, if that makes sense?”</p><p>It was kind of him, she realized, to clarify this. But, somehow she’d already known. It hadn’t felt like that had been the case.</p><p>George added the next part so quietly, she almost didn’t catch it. “D’you know what he meant? About, um, my being there?”</p><p>Hermione’s face prickled and heated, but George’s look was somewhat soft, and she found herself faintly explaining. “I wanted to think of something happy—amusing, so I imagined you in the trees with me.”</p><p>A slow smile spread over George’s face. “Yeah?” He stepped closer. “What was I doing that you found so particularly amusing?”</p><p>Hermione bit back a smile and tipped her chin up. “Flirting with me,” she whispered.</p><p>George faked a gasp and brought his brows together. “Scandalous,” he murmured.</p><p>
  <em>Thrum—thrum—thrum.</em>
</p><p>The thought occurred to her, foolish and fanciful—casting a Carpe Retractum and pulling him in.</p><p>Before she could outright dismiss it, a stampede of little feet rained on the staircase, and the moment was gone. Lost to the children, to Victoire’s excited shouts, to Ginny’s firm reassurances as Teddy fussed over said shouts, and Angelo’s impatient babbling as the three toddlers were led through the living room, past the kitchen, and into the sickroom.</p><p>Hermione and George brought up the caboose of the small parade. The kitchen was so packed, it almost reminded her of the wedding just before the war.</p><p>By the time they got through the doorway, Mrs. Weasley had settled more upright in her bed. Percy hadn’t moved, but Arthur had already fallen fast asleep, curled around Molly’s side and completely lost to the world.</p><p>Good.</p><p>“Dad’s been snoring for five minutes,” Fred muttered, elbowing Harry, who stood inside, motioning for Teddy to come through the crowd. “One Sickle says I can land a Bertie Botts bean in his mouth without Mum noticing.”</p><p>Harry snorted. Fred grinned, then proceeded through the threshold to make room for Ginny and Angelina.</p><p>“We’ve got them just here, Mum,” Harry said. “C’mon, then.” He motioned for Teddy and the others again.</p><p>The adults grouped in the kitchen scooted back. Teddy’s messy hair was in the shape of Harry’s—wild and every which way—but it was bright copper, today. He seemed a bit shy, though. Ginny crouched, whispering in his ear, and Teddy clutched her hand, inching behind her. Angelo waited, bolstered on Angie’s hip.</p><p>But Victoire—</p><p>Victoire thrashed free from the crowd and bolted through those gathered until she tumbled onto the thick carpeting with a turbulent cry: “Mémé!”</p><p>“Victoire,” Mrs. Weasley called, extending her hands. “I’m so sorry I missed your birthday.”</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath, covering her mouth with her hand as she turned to the others. Fleur shook her head slightly.</p><p>In that moment, Victoire, the lone blonde in a room of crimson, copper, and brunette, thrust a little, striped, wool-covered foot against the floor and launched, as though winged, around the corner and onto the bed, where she began to prattle in a rapid mix of French and Veela.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley nodded, not breaking eye contact with Victoire as she reached around Arthur for her wand on the nightstand. She murmured a quick spell, tapping the point to Victoire’s mouth, and with a bright shimmer, English poured out.</p><p>“—the string, it plays for me. For me!”  The chirping voice was misaligned with the movement of Victoire’s mouth, but the message—that was right at home with the brightness in Victoire’s eyes. “Mimi, did you know?”</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>She’d never heard Victoire sound so articulate. Usually, Victoire opted to voice frustration in screeches and clipped, odd sounds, rather than—</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Victoire had been talking. All this time, hadn’t she? And—and Hermione hadn’t recognized it as language. It had only been clear to her when it sounded lovely, and not—not—inconvenient. Her heart sank as she watched the babbling little girl.</p><p>She’d been a rubbish aunt.</p><p>And she’d forgotten Victoire’s birthday? How could she? No one had thought to mention it, but she should’ve thought to ask. Hermione turned. “Her birthday?” she whispered.</p><p>George’s face was grim. “I made her a blueberry biscuit,” he murmured. “But they wanted to wait to do cake until Mum was awake.”</p><p>Fleur nudged past and approached the bed. “Sing a song they know, my pet,” she whispered, resting a hand on Victoire’s tangled hair. “You can do this.”</p><p>Annoyance flashed over Victoire’s face.</p><p>“That’s quite alright,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I don’t mind holding the spell.”</p><p>Fleur sighed. “That’s very kind of you, but she must learn. Not everyone will be so understanding.” She knelt. A slight whistle lilted from her pursed lips.</p><p>Victoire’s face contorted, and she stretched her hand towards the black case on the trunk. “Want.” A haunted look came over Mrs. Weasley before her expression blanked.</p><p>“That is for Mémé,” Fleur whispered. “But we shall—”</p><p>“Victoire, Darling, let’s give the others a turn,” Bill proclaimed, cutting across the floor with a strained expression. He scooped Victoire from the bedding with one arm and hurried away.</p><p>Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth, and it looked as though she might protest for a moment. But then her eyes rested on the black case, and it clamped shut. “We’ll—we’ll have to do some sort of family party,” she said, quietly, glancing at Fleur.  </p><p>Fleur nodded. “Of course. But do not feel bad on her account. We have celebrated amongst the three of us, at the cottage, before everything.” She pressed her hand on Molly’s and spoke in a whisper.</p><p>The lines on Molly’s face had grown deep and long, and Hermione could tell that she barely heard Fleur’s hasty assurance.</p><p>But then, Angelina brought AJ forward, and Fleur stepped away. Angelo was preoccupied, watching the fussing Victoire get pulled from the room with a frown.</p><p>“Show Mimi,” Angie coaxed, a look of intense focus on her face. “Just what we worked on.”</p><p>Angelo blinked, then swung back to Angelina. She nodded and mouthed “One.”</p><p>AJ cocked his head, and the assessing stare he gave his Mum echoed the same, competitive look that Angelina held.</p><p>Fred snorted, edging between Hermione and George. “Watch this,” he said, smug.</p><p>“One,” Angelina mouthed again.</p><p>Then, AJ opened his mouth with a wide, comical grin. “One-two-three-four-five—” he said rapidly.</p><p>Molly blinked and gasped in a delighted sort of way.</p><p>Fred preened and elbowed George. “Two Galleons. Cough it up, Mate,” he muttered.</p><p>“—six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven!” Angelo finished.</p><p>“I don’t think so,” George murmured back in a cheeky tone.</p><p>What?</p><p>Hermione’s mouth opened in shock, and she turned to George, who was preoccupied with taunting Fred. “Deal was to twenty,” he said.</p><p>“Deal was to over ten,” Fred continued in a whisper as Molly lavished praise on AJ. “That’s a new record, and you know it. Now stop being a prat and give it over.”</p><p>George sighed wryly, then shifted as he dug his hand into his pocket.</p><p>Hermione gawked. “You’re betting on Angelo’s developmental milestones?” she hissed.</p><p>His ring caught on the snug fabric, but he withdrew a flash of gold. “No,” George said. “Not just AJ’s.” He narrowed his eyes at Fred as he gave up the money. “I dunno, Mate, that sounded rather memorized. You’re gaming the system.”</p><p>Fred quirked his brows. “And you think Teddy’s wasn’t, at that age?” He snagged the coins from George. “Doesn’t change the fact that my son’s the best of the lot.” He folded his arms.</p><p>Hermione snatched the coins from Fred’s hand with a quick summoning spell.</p><p>“Oi!” Fred whispered.</p><p>She ignored him and thrust them into her pocket. “This is going into a fund for the three of them,” she muttered under her breath.</p><p>Fred made to take them back, but Hermione rolled her eyes and started in on the both of them. She raised a finger, glaring back and forth as she hissed. “And if I see you two pitting them against each other again, I’ll—”</p><p>The sound of someone’s throat being cleared pulled her from the threat. “What’ve my boys done now?” Mrs. Weasley asked tiredly.</p><p>Hermione blinked and dropped her hand. “Nothing.” She could feel George shaking with quiet laughter behind her. She eased back, applying pressure from her instep onto his foot.</p><p>Fred frowned at her and adopted a wounded expression. “It’s just Hermione’s taken back Angelo’s treat money,” Fred said. “Seems she doesn’t think he deserves it because he wasn’t counting properly enough.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed in disbelief. “That is not—” She emphasized the last word, eyes flashing. “—what happened.”</p><p>George stooped down and murmured near her ear. “We give ‘em each a Galleon or two when they’ve done something like this,” he said. “You’ve just confiscated poor, little Angelo’s ice cream money.” He sounded far too amused.</p><p>Her face went hot.</p><p>Well, how was she supposed to know?</p><p>She had assumed that they were up to something more nefarious, of course. But they should’ve corrected her. Not that that mattered, with AJ, Angie, and Mrs. Weasley blinking at her.</p><p>She coughed. “I—I just thought—”</p><p>“This oughta be good,” Fred murmured with a wicked grin.</p><p>She lifted her chin. “That—that he should receive it directly,” she said, starting towards AJ. “Well done, Angelo.” She spoke in a formal but warm tone as she distributed the coins, mimicking a few professors who’d given her a word of encouragement.</p><p>Angelo frowned and began to stick them in his mouth before Angie plucked them away and tucked them out of sight.</p><p>She probably looked daft. Like she didn’t know that two-year-olds were too young to understand Galleons. Fred was nearly choking on his laughter, now—covering his red, freckled face with the fitted, green striped oxford sleeve.</p><p>She sighed, and her ears went even hotter.</p><p>Angelina gave her a commiserating smile as Hermione backed towards the door to allow AJ to continue his conversation.</p><p>Ginny crouched there, whispering with Teddy. The boy hid behind her and beside a kneeling, still damp Harry. Teddy clutched a worn, plush rabbit in his hands.</p><p>George’s.</p><p>Well, George’s, then Ron’s, and now Teddy’s. Miss Hopperton.</p><p>“It’s only Grandma,” Ginny said. “And she really wants to see you.” She watched Teddy, but didn’t pull him along, letting him choose whether he’d like to enter.</p><p>“Why’s she got a hat on, Mummy?” Teddy murmured, leaning closer to Ginny.</p><p>Ginny stroked Teddy’s red hair. “Don’t you wear hats, sometimes?”</p><p>Teddy frowned, then looked over his shoulder. “Victoire’s crying,” he whispered.</p><p>Hermione glanced towards the kitchen. She didn’t hear anything, but perhaps Bill had caste a silencing spell with a boundary outside the bedroom.</p><p>“We’ll go help cheer her up soon,” Ginny said. “But I think Grandma would like it if we cheered her up too. Is that okay with you?</p><p>Teddy’s mouth twisted. “Maybe,” he said. The little wrinkle between his brows deepened. “Is she going to die?”</p><p>“No,” Ginny said, then faltered. “Why do you ask that?”</p><p>Teddy frowned. “Daddy was crying about it,” he muttered, studying the room like a puzzle.</p><p>Harry paled. Ginny glanced at him, and Harry shook his head slightly.</p><p>“I dunno,” Harry mouthed, looking alarmed.</p><p>Ginny nodded. “Are you sure, Lovey?” she said. “Sounds like it might’ve been a bad dream.”</p><p>Teddy sighed. “Maybe.”</p><p>Then, Teddy pushed past his parents and crossed to Angelina’s side. “Mimi,” he said, quite formally, cutting into Angelo’s third repetition of the counting routine. “AJ. Auntie Angie.” He gave them each a proper nod.</p><p>Then, he folded his arms atop the edge of the quilt and rested his chin on top, though he had to lean onto his tiptoes to do so. His stuffed rabbit was crammed between his elbow and cheek.</p><p>“Mummy, down!” Angelo shouted, beaming and twisting towards Teddy. Angie set him on the floor, and he mimicked Teddy’s pose. Due to his lack of height, however, AJ ended up slanting his forehead against the covers.</p><p>“Hello, Darling,” Molly said. “I missed you!”</p><p>Teddy frowned. “Why are you wearing that hat?”</p><p>Molly’s hand crept up to it. “I’m not certain,” she said. “I think your grandpa picked it out.”</p><p>Angelina backed away to give the group a bit more room, stepping around Teddy and crossing to Fred.</p><p>AJ tugged on Teddy’s sleeve. Pointed.</p><p>Teddy sighed, but then his hair lit up in the deep blue of Mrs. Weasley’s flannel nightgown. AJ hopped up and down.</p><p>Pointed again.</p><p>Harry watched Teddy and Angelo chat to Mrs. Weasley as Teddy’s hair shifted through a variety of colors with each addition point from AJ. He folded his arms, then dropped them. Almost anyone else in the world might think that he was fine.</p><p>Ginny glanced from Harry to Hermione, then back at Harry.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>They both knew better.</p><p>His face was entirely too blank and devoid of emotion.</p><p>Hermione tilted her chin down. “Harry,” she said lowly.</p><p>“I didn’t say that about Molly,” Harry replied, as though he’d been awaiting her comment. “Not in front of him, anyways.”</p><p>Next to the window, Ginny’s mouth thinned.</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione said again.</p><p>“He’s real fussy, around full moon. Gets these nightmares, sometimes,” Harry continued in a dark whisper. “But they’re usually nonsense.”</p><p>The unspoken addendum was there: This time, Teddy’s nightmare hadn’t been nonsense. Had perhaps been a bit too close to the truth.</p><p>“Is there the slightest chance he might’ve overheard something?” Hermione asked quietly.</p><p>Harry shook his head. “I know my silencing charms,” he muttered. Not no. Not “maybe.” So, Harry had been worrying over it.</p><p>Hermione turned.</p><p>Harry tilted his head, but kept his face turned towards the group at Molly’s bedside. “Come on, Hermione,” he murmured. “You’re not the only one who gets bad dreams.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed and stretched her hand out. The back of her fingers brushed Harry’s, and she took his hand in hers—rain-soaked and shaken and terribly, terribly mortal, despite what the papers said.</p><p>“We’ll fix it,” she said, giving him a little squeeze.</p><p>Harry’s eyes hadn’t left Teddy. “Yeah?”</p><p>“We’ll light a fire,” Hermione said, gripping a bit tighter before letting go.</p><p>Ginny nodded.</p><p>#</p><p>May 14, 2003, 2:00 p.m.</p><p>The generator hummed softly, and Hermione bent over the papers and notes. Ron flanked her left, and Harry was poised at the table head, knuckles folded over parchment.</p><p>The court date for DMLE vs. The Task Force to determine who had jurisdiction over Albert Greengrass was scheduled tentatively for next week.</p><p>But with this Wizengamot, Hermione wasn’t holding her breath. Neither side had a strong case. The Task Force hadn’t the legislative precedent, and the DMLE hadn’t the Wizengamot’s favor. The best she could hope for was a ruling that would provide both teams access to the suspect, who was currently being held in the Westminster Magical Corrections Center, miles and miles below the muggle houses of Parliament.</p><p>That was only the start of the issues.</p><p>Shacklebolt’s mansion was still in ruins. The two spots in Diagon had yet to budge. Harry’s office had lost another promising auror to Vane’s task force—a seasoned veteran named Herbert Holmes, and the loss seemed to have shaken Harry and Ron, and further drawn from the limited pool of individuals Harry had stretched over the Wizarding World. Additionally, two floors of Mungo’s were out of commission from the most recent attack. All severe spell damage and poisonings were being redirected to the Hogsmeade and Godric’s Hollow branches until the offices could be reconstructed.</p><p>The building had been evacuated shortly after the start of her appointment slot on the pretense of “potential quarantine.” Unsurprisingly, the memo had been traced to Healer Marcus’s office, but that was where the paper trail ended. Files containing hiring information and any potential clues as to Nurse Sam had been removed by the Task Force.</p><p>Luckily, there had been no deaths, but there would be, if something wasn’t sorted. The branch locations weren’t equipped for the sudden influx of patients.</p><p>And the papers. The papers were blaming all of it on Harry.</p><p>Hermione leaned closer to the map. “Wandlebury,” she muttered. The location spouted off before Lockhart escaped through the floo was, apparently, rather close to Cambridge.</p><p>If they were lucky, Marcus might be close by.</p><p>Or he could be in Antarctica.</p><p>But they had to start somewhere.</p><p>“There’s been no movement so far,” Ron muttered. “But we’ll know the second someone comes through the floo.”</p><p>“And what if they don’t?” Hermione said.</p><p>Ron scratched his beard. “We’ll see the lead through,” he said. “It’s our best shot at locating your friend.”</p><p>Percy hadn’t stopped pacing the length of the string wall. “They’re not going to advertise any activity,” he called.</p><p>Ron stuck another mark on the map in orange ink, signifying another active floo. This one was nearer to the University, beside one of the canals in town. “You think?” he said. “Harry, we’ll have to retool the whole strategy.”</p><p>Percy sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned further from Ron.</p><p>“See, we’d been hoping they’d approach us, wands surrendered, and confess to everything,” Ron said in a bored tone, tracing a route from the network of waterways around the University to the structure closest to Wandlebury Country Park, where a large, orange dot stood.</p><p>“You’re both going to give me a headache,” Harry said.</p><p>Percy ignored Harry, opting instead to shove up the worn sleeves of his lumpy jumper. The “<em>P</em>” on the front was stretched out of shape by time and gravity and perhaps a few mending charms, and the article fit a bit awkwardly.</p><p>“He’s got a point, though,” George said, glancing up from his workstation with a tense expression. “It’s a big area. Rather feels like there are loads of places for them to get lost in. And that’s assuming they’re there. They could have jumped to a second location right after, or a third, or—”</p><p>“Tell you what, Mr. Mione,” Ron said in a distracted tone, nudging Hermione to the side as he began to mark out additional surveillance routes. “You keep brewing nosebleeds, and I’ll do what I’m good at, too.”</p><p>George’s face blanked, and then his head tilted as he stared at Ron. “Mr. Mione,” he said in a faltering tone, as though he’d misheard.</p><p>Ron didn’t look up from the maps. “You heard me.”</p><p>George’s mouth quirked up at the corner.</p><p>The first smile she’d seen from him since he marched in, partway through the meeting with snow in hair, of all things, and a grim, grey look on his face.</p><p>He’d been to see Emmeline and McGonagall, but they hadn’t had time to chat about it, yet.</p><p>A set of cracks emanated from the fields outside, and in sync, Ron, Harry, and Hermione unsheathed wands from holsters.</p><p>“Good grief,” Bill muttered, glancing up from a text labelled “<em>Iterative Protection and You</em>.” “My wards aren’t that rubbish.”</p><p>“Fidelius isn’t up yet,” Harry said in a terse reply before flicking his wand to his broomstick in the corner. He mounted it and hovered up, into the air to glance through the high, thin strip of windows over the wall of notes. “S’only Fred, Lee, and Verity.”</p><p>He spun and dropped back down. “Um, Bill—” Harry’s face turned pink. “If you wouldn’t mind, that’s an antique.”</p><p>Bill raised his brows. Harry looked at the desk under Bill’s creased, black combat boots.</p><p>“Oh,” Bill said. He swung his legs down. “Sorry about that, Potter.”</p><p>A snort echoed from the second table that butted against the one the trio were stationed at. “Bill, Sir,” George mimicked, laying it on extra thick in a posh, formal tone. “If you wouldn’t mind—” He snorted again, then levied his knife blade over a portion of Aconite, cutting it into even pieces between flashes of silver.</p><p>Harry rolled his eyes tossed a bit of wadded up parchment at George’s head.</p><p>A row of four caldrons gurgled in front of George. The closest three held some sort of formula for Snackbox sweets and the last was another batch of Wolfsbane.</p><p>George seemed intent on stocking Percy’s stores as much as he could while his brother was home.</p><p>Charlie had been helping him brew, until the third time he mixed up the directions, and George sent him inside with an odd look.</p><p>Even still, George had managed to make quite a dent in the massive shop backlog. The wall behind him held towers of stacked, charm-stabilized, cherry red boxes—fold-out drawers extended and waiting for the next sweet.</p><p>It’d been hard to focus on the meeting.</p><p>Every time she looked up, it seemed, George was sporting a bloody nose or a flushed, feverish face. She’d start a bit each time, before remembering and suppressing the urge to hurry over.</p><p>He wasn’t doing it to be annoying; he had to test each batch before charming the sweets from the moulds and into the packaging. But that didn’t make it any less harrowing to see him looking ghastly. After the second time that she’d instinctively started to step towards him in worry, he’d begun to try to hide his face behind his still-reddened hand when it was a mess. But she still caught glimpses.</p><p>Thankfully, Fred had already finished restocking the Fainting Fancies and the Puking Pastilles. Even with the cracked open door, the smell from the latter would’ve been horrid.</p><p>As it was, the downpour seemed to take the bitterest part of the Aconite away, leaving a sharp, stinging scent that sort of reminded her of the ointment her dad used when he had a head cold.</p><p>She’d called to George about brewing more liquid Dittany as he set up and portioned out water, but he’d shook his head and murmured something about waiting on the “properly-sourced Moonstone powder.” She’d been too confused as to why he’d need that for a Dittany blend and too torn between Harry’s notes from the meeting with Kingsley to sort out what he was on about.</p><p>Or why he would need more than Dittany for a Dittany potion.</p><p>A stabilizer, perhaps.</p><p>Maybe a bit of something to boost the Dittany’s healing properties.</p><p>But Moonstone? She was positive there hadn’t been anything that complex in the potions they’d used in the war.</p><p>“Mione?” Ron asked. Hermione turned from the distraction.</p><p>“Sorry,” she murmured. “So, how many aurors are assigned to this?”</p><p>“Four, but—”  </p><p>Fred, Lee, and Verity stepped into the shed, and Harry went quiet, then shifted in front of the parchment-covered table.</p><p>Hermione shot him an incredulous look, but Harry didn’t move—even went so far to cast a soft “Illegibilus” on the paperwork bearing the trial information and the mission plans. Hermione huffed.</p><p>“They don’t have clearance,” Ron murmured. “Less they know, the safer they are.” Then, he crossed to assist the group in packing up the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products. Presumably, to help get them out of the way before they saw something they shouldn’t.</p><p>She was starting to question that logic.</p><p>“Got the last of the trick wands sent over this morning,” Lee was saying as he layered the Snackboxes into the larger, brown cardboard carriers using a simple “Pack” charm. “Half to the kids at the Diggory estate, quarter to Hogwarts, and a quarter to the Social and Family Services Office.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” Harry said.</p><p>Hermione smiled at the mention. The office was newer and comprised of a small handful of witches and wizards housed under the umbrella of the DMLE. But they were funded from a separate Ministry branch—the office of the Minister. They handled everything from domestic dueling gone wrong to rehoming war orphans and the children of convicted Death Eaters. Some of the tasks that had once been allocated to Hogwarts were now sorted there, and they worked closely with the Muggle Liaison Office come each August and September.</p><p>She’d always intended to visit, but things had gotten in the way.</p><p>“How will they use the trick wands?” Hermione asked, curiosity spiking.</p><p>“While they work with the kids,” Lee added. “But they don’t have much storage, so they took a smaller amount.”</p><p>Hermione frowned. “That’s a shame,” she said. “If anyone needs space—”</p><p>A loud snort echoed from the line of boxes. Harry stared at her wryly.</p><p>“What?” Hermione asked.</p><p>Harry glanced at George, who was grinning as he poured more potion into the moulds.</p><p>“You have opinions, then?” Harry asked. “About how the office should be run?”</p><p>What sort of a question was that?</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Obviously,” she said. “They’re doing something important, Harry.”</p><p>Harry raised his hands. “Never said they weren’t. Their stamp’s on Teddy’s official adoption parchments, after all.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Hermione continued. “And it’s not just that. I mean, really, what they’re doing has been too long neglected in Wizarding culture. The state of the Ministry before the war was ghastly. I mean, honestly, having the Auror Office and the Improper Use of Magic Office handle everything made no sense.”</p><p>Harry nodded, but his gaze sparkled with some inside joke.</p><p>She narrowed her eyes at him and started forward, finger extended. “You’re the Interim Head of the DMLE, Harry, you have the power to give them the resources they need. We both know they’re fighting an uphill battle there, every step of the way.”</p><p>The Wizarding World had always seemed opposed to interventions into the personal sphere. Arthur’s job at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office had been openly jeered, after all, due to the reigns it attempted to place on Wizarding experimentation.</p><p>Harry raised his brows.</p><p>“Really, you do—no don’t look at me like that, I don’t care about red tape—” She stepped around Ron, who was helping Lee levitate two boxes towards the doors. “—or the bloody Wizengamot, you can help. They deserve more office space, and whatever else they need.”</p><p>Harry nodded, trying and failing to look serious. “You’re telling me how to run the office, now?”</p><p>Hermione yanked a stack of parchment from the table and smacked him in the arm. “You listen to me—” Harry broke into laughter, as did George. Hermione froze.</p><p>“It’s your job,” Hermione said. “You have the opportunity to make a difference!”</p><p>“Can you believe this?” Harry said, gesturing at Hermione. “The nerve.”</p><p>George shrugged, but his shoulders were shaking with quiet mirth.</p><p>“Harry!” Hermione snapped.</p><p>Percy sighed. “They’re laughing at your expense, Hermione,” he said, turning from the wall, where he’d been adding a new piece of twine.</p><p>“Thanks Percy, I gathered,” she said.</p><p>Harry removed his round spectacles and swiped a bit of moisture from his eyes with the pad of his thumb. “Oh, Merlin.” But then he burst out laughing again and hopped onto the table, sitting atop the mess of parchments.</p><p>Bill glanced sidelong at him as he hoisted two boxes, caste an Impervious, and then headed into the rain with Lee and Verity.</p><p>“They’re laughing because Kingsley and Harry asked you to head that office,” Percy added.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>“Publicly, too! At the press conference announcing its founding.” Harry wheezed. “We were so sure you’d say yes.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “Why didn’t I?”</p><p>Harry shrugged. “You wanted to do more.”</p><p>George cleared his throat. “You wanted to be able to float between offices and organizations, and to work with magical beings not represented in the legislature,” he clarified with a warm smile. “And there was your Mastery, but that was a bit flexible.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Harry said, waving a hand towards George. “That. But, um, all we saw in front of the press was you, looking over at George, then saying—” His voice pitched into a casual, unbothered lilt. “‘No, but thanks.’”</p><p>Hermione glanced at George, who winked as he worked the ladle through the Wolfsbane. “He’s right,” he said, grinning. “You said it just like that.”</p><p>Hermione opened her mouth. Surely not.</p><p>“You’re winding me up,” she said faintly. That didn’t sound like her.</p><p>But then she turned, and Harry was beaming at her. “There was no ‘I’ll consider it,’ or even ‘I’m excited to see where the office goes, and eager to offer assistance in an advisory role.’” He snickered. “Just flat, outright, glorious ‘Aw, nah, Mate.’”</p><p>George sighed and placed a hand flat on his chest. “Glorious is a fitting word.”</p><p>Hermione sputtered. “You’re joking. I sound completely tactless,” she said, squeaking. “I must’ve been ill.”</p><p>George quirked his brows and cocked his head as he caste a stasis on the fourth caldron. “Sick of the Ministry, maybe. Sick of letting life pull you around.” He fixed her with a lopsided smile. “Sick of sticking to a prescribed route. You grabbed that podium and hijacked the press conference, and it was—” He dropped off, grinning and shaking his head.</p><p>“Shacklebolt about had a heart attack, from the way I’ve heard it,” Ron muttered as he sealed up the last box.</p><p>“It looked more like he’d been Confunded, but he worked out alright,” Fred said.</p><p>“You did help through advisory, by the way,” George chimed in as Fred and Harry started fresh round of laughter. “Don’t feel bad. Harry’s wheedled plenty of free labor out of you.” Hermione blinked up from where she’d been pinching the bridge of her nose.</p><p>“Papers had field day over it, though,” Fred said, gathering the final box from Ron. “Thanks.” He reached down and offered a hand up.</p><p>Ron blinked, but then took it.</p><p>Fred spun, grinning, and continued. “One of my favorite headlines of yours. ‘<em>Coup or S.P.E.W.: Hermione Jean Granger Turns Minister Down in Shocking Reveal</em>,’” he said. “And that’s saying something. There are quite a few gems out there.” He propped the box higher on his chest. “Like ‘<em>Golden Girl Duels Distinguished Professor</em>,’ or—”</p><p>Harry snapped his fingers. “<em>Prefect Tames Prankster</em>,” he called.</p><p>George’s face flattened. “Okay, that was—”</p><p>“<em>George Weasley’s Secret Love Child</em>,” Fred shouted. Hermione spun to George and gawked. He shook his head hurriedly.</p><p><em>“Granger Danger!”</em> Harry practically crowed.</p><p><em>“Golden Girl Bags Weasley Boy. Again.”</em> Fred said.</p><p>The shed went silent as Ron dropped a Skiving Snackbox carton.</p><p>Hermione winced. George faltered, glancing between her and Ron.</p><p>“Making her sound like a bloody collector,” Ron muttered, scratching the back of his head. He let out a tired sigh. But then he glanced at Fred, rolled his eyes, and snorted.</p><p>Fred broke into laughter and launched back into the game with renewed gusto. “<em>Amortentia or Just that Good? Spellbound Weasley Trips into Traffic After Parting Snog</em>.”</p><p>George rubbed his hands down his face. “That’s not a real one, you git,” he said.</p><p>Fred set the box down, folded his arms, and began to list rapidly. “Yeah?” He jerked his chin up. “What about ‘<em>One Third of Golden Trio forms One-Half of Newest Power Couple,</em>’ ‘<em>Golden Girl Sets Her Cap for a Different Weasley,</em>’ or ‘<em>Secret Love and M</em>—”</p><p>“Merlin, do they write about anything other than my love life?” Hermione cried.</p><p>Fred winced. “Not as often as they should, but you have gathered such offerings as, ‘<em>I’ll Make It Your Problem: Gilded Girl Unleashes on Wizengamot</em>,’ ‘<em>Granger Suggests Head of Committee on Experimental Charms Illiterate,</em>’ ‘<em>Have At It: Golden Girl Invites Death Eaters to Embarrass Themselves—’</em>”</p><p>“Had a healthy row after that one,” George cut in dryly.</p><p>Fred continued, unhindered. “—and my personal favorite of all time. ‘<em>Monster Unmasked: Hermione Weasley-Granger’s Quest to Single-Handedly Tear Our World Apart.’</em>” He grinned.</p><p>“They printed that one internationally,” Ron said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Only they called you a ‘Nachtkrapp,’ and children cried.”</p><p>Hermione folded her arms. “And what is a Nachtkrapp?” she snipped.</p><p>“An evil crow that kidnaps children unlucky enough to see it by sticking them into a bag,” Percy said mildly. “In some accounts, it hunts at night and tears them limb from limb.”</p><p>Hermione’s mouth dropped open, and she made a short squeaking sound.</p><p>Honestly, of all the—</p><p>Ron broke into a grin. “D’you still have that beaded bag, Mione?”</p><p>Laughter blossomed, refracting off of corrugated metal as Hermione lifted her chin and strode to the table to lift Harry’s Illegibilus.</p><p>#</p><p>May 14, 2003, 7:45 p.m.</p><p>“Depending on which forms they submitted when taking him, we could argue on a technicality,” Hermione said, bringing up the familiar argument amongst the paperwork.</p><p>Percy made a note and added it to the string network. “That’s more likely to grant results than a direct challenge to Vane’s overreach.”</p><p>“Are we planning to let the git accelerate everything until he’s got the Ministry in his palm?” George’s tired voice echoed from under the red, gleaming steel of a hovering train.</p><p>The half-assembled engine was fixed in the air on a set of rigging. It almost looked like a bit of industrial shelving, but the shelf surface had been removed. The metal scaffolding reached her shoulder as she stood, but the locomotive’s underside was at her mid-thigh.</p><p>The train’s front poked out over one end, the back over the other, with bars keeping the whole of it from drifting up or down. But most of the lifting work was being managed by a set of levitation and hover charms that George was fueling from a couple of runes. The flat stones rested near his shoulder, glowing purple as the flow from his wand powered them. It must’ve been heavy to need a continual charge, but George didn’t seem too strained as he fitted the train mechanisms together under the steel shell.</p><p>Percy tripped over the open toolbox, then let out a sharp hiss. “Do you have to tinker here? This is a space for the defense efforts,” he said.</p><p>“Sorry,” George said flatly, but he didn’t quite sound sorry. Percy made a short growl, then muttered something about tea. The doors clanged as he strode out.</p><p>Harry and Ron had already gone to the house for food, and Bill was presumably at his proper job, so it was only George and Hermione in the shed at present.</p><p>Hermione glanced out the window at the dark, grey sky, then laid her stack of notes on the table. “Every fight we lose, especially in the Wizengamot, offers him more power than before,” she said. “We’ve got to pick the right battles.”</p><p>George emitted a faint grumble. Hermione rose and paced to him. His face wasn’t visible under the train, even from a position right above him.</p><p>So, taking care not to dislodge any of the parts littering the ground around him, she lowered herself to the floor and crab-walked under the engine. Then, she laid back, at his side and between his torso and the rigging’s left legs. George didn’t comment until they were shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>“Don’t distract me,” he murmured, black-streaked fingers submerged in engine guts overhead. A bandage wrapped his right palm—and the skin peeking out was red and raw, still. “Or you’ll make Bill’s crushing curse look tame.”</p><p>“Who said anything about distracting?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George snorted. “You did, when you meandered over here looking for trouble,” he muttered. He snagged a bit of tubing from his other side and began to fit it into place. “And for the record, I’d rather fight them head on.”</p><p>“Because that’s gone well, historically,” Hermione said.</p><p>George quirked his brows and gave a wry huff through his nose. “We managed them when we had the right numbers,” he said. “Had things gone differently, had the others been with us from the start, Lockhart and that lot wouldn’t have stood a chance.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “A lot of things might be different, had things gone differently,” she said.</p><p>George didn’t seem to have a clever retort for this.</p><p>There was a stretched silence, filled with the click of his wrench against the bolts fastening the tubing in.</p><p>“You smell good,” he murmured.</p><p>Hermione smiled. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Not a compliment, Swot,” he said dryly. “You’re being distracting after I expressly asked you not to.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “Apologies,” she said. “I’ll try to dial it down.”</p><p>George lowered the wrench, then double checked the piping’s stability. “That’s all I ask.”</p><p>She nudged her trainer against his boot. George sighed and propped up on an elbow, then leaned over her.</p><p>Her face prickled, from neck to forehead.</p><p>George lifted a brow and pressed his tongue to his teeth, emitting a soft “tch.”</p><p>But then he only reached over her shoulder and withdrew what looked like a hollow, steel box before flopping onto his back again. He didn’t even put the piece in. He laid it on the ground beside his opposite elbow.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “You did that on purpose,” she whispered.</p><p>George studied the train engine. “Sue me,” he said. Hermione grinned. But then, George added, “Maybe you’ll win on a technicality.”</p><p>“Now who’s the insufferable Gryffindor,” Hermione said.</p><p>“Still you, Darling,” George said, wedging his wand into the large, empty space, then lifting the case. He slotted it in with a grunt. “I’m quite sufferable, I’m told.” His bandaged hand slipped on the edge. He huffed and gave it another jolt, but it was still slightly ajar. George dropped his hands to his chest and peered at the part like it had affronted him.</p><p>He was tense.</p><p>“How was Hogwarts?” Hermione asked.</p><p>He didn’t answer for a minute or two. It wasn’t that he was ignoring her. She could see him, sorting through everything in his head as he worked. His jaw tightened, and his hands lifted, moving to adjust the parts around the case.</p><p>Finally, he said, “Bad.”</p><p>“Oh?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George nodded. The next breath he took was a bit shorter, shifting his chest up and down in a shudder. “You know what it’s like to look at a kid and tell them that you should’ve noticed their dad wasn’t himself ages ago? That there had been signs, but you were too self-absorbed to notice?”</p><p>The bitterness and regret in his tone hit, shoving through her chest, pushing her down into the cold floor until she couldn’t breathe.</p><p>He blamed himself.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>George shrugged, then kept tinkering. “There’s nothing I can do.” The next part came out sharp. Gutting. “Nothing truly helpful, anyways.”</p><p>He said it like he wasn’t actively building something designed to bring happiness.</p><p>Hermione glanced over. “You didn’t know,” she whispered.</p><p>George shook his head. “I should’ve.” He looked a bit like Harry, then, after the Triwizard tournament.</p><p>“A lot of things might be different, had things gone differently,” Hermione repeated, slowly. “We’re doing our best, and we’re not giving up on Healer Marcus. We’ll stake out that floo. Follow the lead. Win the case. Get information from Albert Greengrass—from Muriel. We’re not giving up.”</p><p>George didn’t reply.</p><p>Back then, calming Harry had been a matter of redirection, until he was ready.</p><p>So, Hermione sucked in a breath and waited for an opening. An idea.</p><p>It came, finally, after over five minutes of waiting as George tinkered around the stubborn, metal case.</p><p>“What is that, anyways?” Hermione asked, finally.</p><p>“Charmbox,” he said. “Functions like a proper firebox but works on magical fuel.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “That’s very clever.”</p><p>George rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What’s the one rule I’ve given you for under-locomotive time?”</p><p>Hermione glanced over. “Don’t be distracting?”</p><p>George jogged the heel of his hand against the Charmbox, and the piece snapped up, into place. “Very good. Five points to Gryffindor.”</p><p>She peeked at him. “So, I’m not allowed to talk to you at all?” she asked.</p><p>“No, you’re not allowed to flirt with me,” George said. “There’s a difference.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed. “I was hardly flirting.”</p><p>George frowned and nodded. “Of course,” he said.</p><p>Hermione inched closer, until her forearm brushed his side.</p><p>George propped up again, back on his elbow. “I know your moves, Granger,” he said, shooting her a dry look. “And charming though they are, this is over twenty stone, easily. It will not feel pleasant should it fall.”</p><p>He lifted a brow and waited, as though offering her a chance to reply. His expression was irritatingly smug.</p><p>Prat.</p><p>Rational logic fled, and Hermione quite purposefully dropped her gaze to his mouth.</p><p>Let it linger there.</p><p>Suddenly, the train jolted.</p><p>George balked and twisted away, throwing his wand up and muttering another charm to stabilize it.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” George muttered, and his face was crimson.</p><p>Hermione smiled.</p><p>“Have you come over for a reason, or only to take the mickey,” George said.</p><p>Hermione cleared her throat. “Oh, um—” she didn’t want to say it, but she had to. “It’s getting dark.”</p><p>George nodded. “Do you have the phone?”</p><p>She nodded back.  “Yes,” she said. “I think—” She paused. “I think I need to tell my parents to move.” She’d been avoiding admitting it, but with every passing day, the team around their house became more of a burden.</p><p>George heaved a sigh. “Yeah.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “They’ll be upset.”</p><p>George’s hands lowered from the engine, and he looked at her, turning his head against the floor until his chin nearly brushed his shoulder. “Do you want me to come with?”</p><p>Hermione rubbed her forehead. “Not this time, I think,” she said. The conversation would be painful.</p><p>George nodded.</p><p>And he looked so tired.</p><p>And frankly, she didn’t want them associating it with George.</p><p>He was—he was everything beautiful about the Wizarding World, and she knew he’d worked hard to establish a relationship with them. She could tell by the way he bantered back and forth with her Dad, how he knew just the right stories and jokes to bring up with her Mum.</p><p>“You were right, though,” Hermione whispered. “I did come over here for a reason.”</p><p>“What’s that?” George asked.</p><p>Hermione shrugged a bit. “How do you feel about a goodnight kiss?”</p><p>George shifted his wand and slowly lifted the train from the rigging, then lowered it. The contraption creaked as it settled to the ground above their heads.</p><p>Then, he propped up on his elbow for the third time. But this go around, he slipped his hand over her ear and drew her face up, until he pushed a comforting kiss that pulsed warmly to her forehead.</p><p>Hermione traced a finger over his freckles, making a small constellation on his cheek, and some of the tension seemed to slip from his frame.</p><p>Over their heads, the cherry red engine was half-built, but she could still make out the gleaming, golden stamp on the side of the waiting crate.</p><p>
  <em>Onward.</em>
</p><p>#</p><p>May 14, 2003, 11:00 p.m.</p><p>The click of the front door chimed, and soft laughter echoed from the stairwell.</p><p>Finally.</p><p>Hermione shifted to check her clock, then groaned. Her parents hadn’t been home when she arrived—evidently, they’d been at some office dinner, judging by the note on the countertop.</p><p>As though the world weren’t falling to pieces.</p><p>Her breath was tight in her chest. The whispers lilted up the staircase and down the hall, until the master bedroom door creaked, then swung shut.</p><p>Jane Granger’s laugh sang through the walls before it cut out into a muted giggle.</p><p>This wasn’t the sort of thing she could spring on them right before midnight.</p><p>They deserved one more night of normalcy, before she exploded their lives.</p><p>Again.</p><p>Tomorrow, then.</p><p>She watched the fan blades turn in a slow circle overhead.</p><p>Obliviate. Obliviate. Obliviate.</p><p>The words spun circles in her mind, clanging, and the cold fingers of anxious dread crept up her spine. They’d been safe during the war. But, in a way, they’d also ceased to be.</p><p>It’d been like scooping dolls from a house, when she’d done it. Their minds were putty, and she’d reached in. Removed what was necessary, then dumped them somewhere new. Out of the way.</p><p>Like she was Lockhart, or something.</p><p>Hermione flipped open the phone, then clicked to the messages box. There was nothing new.</p><p>The urge to call him hit.</p><p>With it came a sudden lurch of homesickness.</p><p>But it wasn’t for her bed here. Or for her dormitory at Hogwarts. Or even for her room at the Burrow with Ginny.</p><p>No. It was for the flat over the shop. For the evenings in front of their fire there. For the breakfasts, the cups of tea, and the quietude and privacy they’d had—just the two of them. For their adjacent, uncomplicated bedrooms. Where maybe, they could try sleeping side by side every once in a while, if they felt ready for it, rather than being forced into it by necessity.</p><p>Because that was her choice, at present. Share a bed again (and bring George into the catastrophe that was sure to occur the following morning), or have him one floo trip and a draining apparition away.</p><p>Hermione stared at the glowing screen.</p><p>It’d only been what—three? Four times, counting the pushed together frames at the Burrow? It was a bit off-putting, how used to his presence she’d become.</p><p>But she wasn’t about to rush into something just because she appreciated having him an arm’s reach away. Having her own room at the flat—it’d given her a place to retreat, when things became too confusing or overwhelming. Without that, she wasn’t certain how well she’d cope.</p><p>Sharing a room permanently would be a big step. But, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wanted to have him under the same roof again.</p><p>It wasn’t fair that she’d finally found home and normalcy despite everything, only to have it snatched away.</p><p>And right now, she missed him. Simple as that.</p><p>She hit dial.</p><p>It rang two and a half times, and then there was a bleary, “Alright, Granger?”</p><p>“Yes,” she whispered.</p><p>George paused. “How did—how did it go with your parents?” She could picture him, almost. At the Burrow, bracing his hand on his brow as he held the phone in the other.</p><p>Hermione sighed. “I didn’t get a chance to discuss it.”</p><p>“Oh,” George said. The faint rumble of storm sang through the speaker.</p><p>It was raining on both of them, despite the miles.</p><p>George carried on. “Because I talked with, um, with Harry about some potential safehouses for them.”</p><p>“That might be a good next step,” Hermione murmured, absent-mindedly reaching over the middle line of the bed.</p><p>He wasn’t there. But he had been. She blinked.</p><p>“Or we could put a Fidelius on their place,” George said. Slowly, Hermione shifted to his side of the bed and rolled onto her stomach.</p><p>Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Fields. Parchment. All lingering, like kind ghosts in the sheets, and she pulled them in as George’s voice eased from the phone.</p><p>“Bill might be able to key it to let them in and out, despite their lack of magic. But Harry’d have to do some Obliviation on their street to keep the neighbors from noticing the sudden disappearance.”</p><p>“I don’t know if they’d agree to that,” Hermione said. She drew the pillow he’d used to her chest. For that matter, she didn’t know if she’d agree with it. The more she thought about it, the more horrifying Obliviation seemed.</p><p>George hummed. “Yeah. Best we can do is remind them of their options.”</p><p>It was a good point. In a situation so lacking control, choices would likely soften the blow of change.</p><p>“George—”</p><p>She meant to say something about planning to broach the subject the next morning, but the thought of eggs and tea and the little, round table in the kitchen sucked the breath from her lungs.</p><p>And what came out instead was a confession of sorts.</p><p>“I miss the flat,” she whispered.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“It’s still there,” George said quietly.</p><p>Hermione exhaled a short burst from her nose, rolled onto her back, and tugged the blankets higher. “Yes, but I miss living there with you,” she said. The pillow wasn’t nearly as good. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t heavy like the weight of George’s arm.</p><p>It didn’t seem to sing a song her magic knew.</p><p>There was a rustling sound through the speaker. “Yeah.”</p><p>“I wish we could go home,” she said. “I—I wish you could take me home.”</p><p>The dark outline of the ceiling fan blurred.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, tears were pricking at her eyes.</p><p>Another rush of static as George let out a long breath. “Me too, Love.”</p><p>Hermione clutched the pillow tighter, cradling the phone to her face. She tried to make a casual humming sound, to dismiss the painful thing she’d said, but it just gave away her tears all the more.</p><p>“We don’t own the lot,” George said, and she could hear the strain in the words even through the receiver’s metallic filter. “We can’t put a Fidelius on it.”</p><p>Hermione blinked hard. “I know,” she whispered.</p><p>Another pause.</p><p>Hermione stared at her childhood desk, where he’d sat and read. “I just—I miss things being the way they were,” she said. “Like—that one night, when we fell asleep on the couch, and you had your glasses on still.”</p><p>The line was quiet, so she kept talking.</p><p>“It took a while to sort, but I miss it, somehow. No—” She stopped and shook her head. “Not somehow. Obviously. I miss it, obviously.” Her throat constricted. “I miss being able to chat with you without countless interruptions,” she said. “I miss our little breakfast table, and our cups of tea, and our—”</p><p>“Late night slipper chases?” George cut in with a soft, wry tone.</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione said, and it came out with a small sob. “Nothing’s been the same since the Ball, and I know it’s ridiculous to be upset about it at a time like this, but—” She squeezed her eyes shut as her voice went wobbly.</p><p>“There’s nothing ridiculous about grieving the loss of mundanity,” George said. “Especially if you’ve got one as beautiful as ours.”</p><p>She swallowed.</p><p>Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. They waited. Waited for the other to be the first to say it, well and truly: They were going to war again.</p><p>Neither one could.</p><p>The night storm raged on.</p><p>“George,” Hermione whispered. “Tell me something happy.”</p><p>There was a moment of quiet.</p><p>“Why are ghosts such bad liars?” George said finally, in a muted whisper.</p><p>Hermione cradled the phone close. “I don’t know. Why, Georgie?”</p><p>“You can see straight through ‘em,” he said.</p><p>She snorted.</p><p>“Don’t give me pity laughs,” George quipped. “I can tell when you’re faking.”</p><p>“Was not.”</p><p>“Was too.”</p><p>The conversation drifted in ridiculousness, then just the sound of him, quiet but <em>there</em> over the line.</p><p>Hermione let her breath filter in and out in the night. The sharpness didn’t recede, and she didn’t understand the point of it all. But she didn’t carry it alone.</p><p>#</p><p>May 15, 2003, 8:00 a.m.</p><p>Jane Granger, in dim lighting, could’ve been her twin. Yes, her mum had more lines around her eyes and mouth. A distinguished way of moving that Hermione had yet to master, even still. But, dentistry coworkers, primary school teachers, and clerks at the market had said so, all growing up.</p><p>And little Hermione had lifted her chin, looked at her mother, and smiled. Matching curls in plaits, matching ribbons, matching argyle jumpers and matching warm, brown eyes. When her mum took a book down from the wall of shelving, so did Hermione. When her mum put a record on and spun about the room, so did Hermione.</p><p>When her mum picked her up and hugged her so close that she could smell nothing but Lavender and the faint scent of spearmint, Hermione played copycat, and hugged her back just the same.</p><p>She’d been too short to be her mum’s twin all those years.</p><p>It wasn’t until the time just before the war that the compliment had become true. And by then, she was so torn from the muggle world that when she’d pointed her wand at her mum, and—and seen the woman’s gaze lock with hers in a glass photo frame’s reflection over the mantle, she’d been stunned to see her own face looking back at her. She’d almost lost the will to do it.</p><p>She’d had to close her eyes.</p><p>Now, she had to do it again, blinking to clear the tears away as Jane Granger inched back, placing the couch between them, using it like a shield as she said, “You promised.”</p><p>Hermione’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not—”</p><p>“You promised,” Mrs. Granger said again, and the ring of panic made Hermione’s insides turn to pain.</p><p>“She’s not said anything about wiping our memories,” her dad said, but even then, he looked uneasy as he offered the reminder.</p><p>Her mum shook her head. “She said we had to move.”</p><p>Hermione hadn’t removed her wand from its hidden holster. She had a feeling that if she so much as lifted a pinky, Mum would run from the house.</p><p>“I’m not going to do that again,” Hermione said. “Not unless you want me to.”</p><p>Jane Granger was afraid of her.</p><p>Oh, Merlin, they both were.</p><p>“But—you—you can’t stay,” she whispered hoarsely. “They know. Where you live. It’s not safe. Not unless you use strong protective charms, and—”</p><p>Mrs. Granger was already shaking her head fiercely. “No—no, absolutely not.”</p><p>Hermione’s throat closed.</p><p>“I refuse,” Mrs. Granger said. “I don’t—I don’t trust it. Any moment, and it can—” She bit off the end of her sentence and spun to face the wall. But then she spun again, as though she were afraid to put her back to Hermione.</p><p>“I’m trying to protect you,” Hermione whispered.</p><p>“I don’t want that!” Jane snapped. She yanked her blazer on, as though she was still planning on heading into the practice, but her left arm got caught in the sleeve, and she gave a frustrated cry.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. “Yes, you do. You don’t understand, Mum—”</p><p>Jane went rigid. When her gaze met Hermione’s, it was cold with fury. “I do. Better than you think,” she said. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand.”</p><p>Thomas rubbed his hands down his face. “Jane—”</p><p>Jane shook her head and yanked the blazer sleeve into place.</p><p>“Mum,” Hermione said. “Please, listen to me.”</p><p>Jane worked her jaw. Thomas watched her with a pained expression. Jane whirled and spat the words. “No. You have no idea what it’s like.”</p><p>Hermione snapped in two.</p><p>“I do!” Hermione shouted. “I do!”</p><p>Her parents went still.</p><p>“I haven’t been sick, Mum!” Hermione cried, flinging her hands up. “I’ve been—I’ve been missing five years of my life.”</p><p>Jane tripped back a step.</p><p>Hermione’s voice crawled higher. “I don’t remember a single thing from the last five years,” she yelled. “Not the end of the last battle. Not finding you in Australia. Not—not falling in love with my own husband—” She swung her hand towards the windows, gasping. “I’ve been drowning, since January, fighting these extremists who won’t stop. They reached into me. Obliviated me. Broke me.”</p><p>Her face contorted. “I woke up in the hospital, not knowing my own last name,” she said. Some of the most important years of my life, and they may never come back.”</p><p>Jane’s expression had gone blank, mouth slightly open, but her eyes—her eyes were working over Hermione with a startling rapidity, as though she were trying to track every single detail.</p><p>“So, yes. It’s a bit different, but not wholly unaware of the horrible thing I did to you,” Hermione said, staring back at her. “I’m not daft. I know how magic can hurt, and not just like this.”</p><p>“But you’ve got to listen to me.” She yanked up her sleeve. “There is so, so much worse. I pray that you never experience a Cruciatus.” The inside of her forearm tilted up, into view. “There are worse ways to lose one’s mind, I assure you. If they find you, they’ll do this—and worse.”</p><p>Her Mum choked.</p><p>Her Dad had gone stark white, staring at the marks on her arm.</p><p>She’d—she’d gone too far.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “I know I should’ve given you a choice. In a fair world, you would’ve had a choice,” she said. “I’m—I’m trying to give you a choice now.”</p><p>Jane looked stricken.</p><p>The grandfather clock ticked out a steady rhythm.</p><p>“Why do you insist on being part of a world that hates you?” Jane whispered.</p><p>Hermione blinked. Her dad wouldn’t meet her eyes, still staring, aghast at the word on her arm, and her mum—her eyes look was raw. Terrified. Hurt.</p><p>Hermione thought of the Weasley clock, of the little sliver that bore the word “<em>Dentist.</em>”</p><p>The clock was never wrong.</p><p>“I’m meant to make it better,” Hermione said tiredly, with a small shrug. “It’s where I’ve got to fit.”</p><p>Jane’s expression didn’t change at Hermione’s words, but her posture did. The will seemed to flake from her. Her shoulders caved, and her bag slipped, hitting the floor with a thud. Then, she turned and trudged up the stairs, blazer still buttoned and the strap on her heels still unfastened.</p><p>Hermione closed her eyes.</p><p>“Sparrow,” Mr. Granger said. “I think, if you mean what you say, about giving us choices—”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“—you need to give us some time to make them,” he finished. “Your mother, especially, she’ll need time and space to process—”</p><p>Hermione ground her palms into her eyes. “I’m not leaving the two of you unguarded,” she said.</p><p>Thomas rounded the sofa and walked to the bookshelf, where he removed thick, wooden box from under a stack of cookbooks. He lifted the lid, removed a few sheets of blank papers, and—and then began searching through the contents beneath.</p><p>The rustle of paper echoed, but she couldn’t see what was inside.</p><p>Thomas pulled one from the top, then another from a bit further down—flashes of colorful, shimmery pages before they disappeared behind the cover of his back. He was silent as he flipped through them. Finally, he turned, tucking the papers into his back pocket and crossed to her.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said. “We cannot help being muggle, just as you cannot help being magic.”</p><p>Hermione frowned.</p><p>He tilted his head. “I don’t doubt your intentions.” He eased a hand into his back pocket and withdrew two magazines, pressing them towards her.</p><p>Hermione blinked at the boxy text on the cover. <em>The Quibbler</em>.</p><p>“How do you have this?” she asked. She hadn’t thrown them in the bin.</p><p>“Most of them are from, well—There’s a bird who brings them by, sometimes, when I’m in the garden,” he said. “From that Arthur fellow. Bit of a secret between Dads, I suppose. I send him notes on kitchen appliances and dentistry equipment, and he sends me this sort of thing. Only when there’s something about you, mind.” He scratched his neck. “Didn’t see anything about your—your accident” He stumbled over the word. “But, um—I do try to keep up on your accomplishments.”</p><p>He tapped the cover. “Look.”</p><p>She glanced down.</p><p>Beneath the large text of the magazine’s title, her own face stared back at her. She stood, shoulders back and wand in hand, staring down the camera. George watched the lens from behind her with a serious expression. He was turned slightly to the side with his arms folded. They looked stern. Formal. Wearing crisp, black muggle suits. Her hair had been tamed and clipped into a polished bun of smooth, glossy curls.</p><p>Her, but confident. Her, but certain. Her, but—the other her.</p><p>Hermione blinked, checking the date. <em>December 2002.</em></p><p><em>“Closer Than Ever:”</em> The headline read. <em>“Unpacking Gablehaven Agency’s Advocacy Goals with the Weasley-Grangers.”</em></p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath. “Dad,” she choked. “I don’t remember.”</p><p>Thomas nudged the second issue. “And yet, you’ve not lost your way.” He settled his hands on her shoulders.</p><p>Hermione hesitantly shuffled the parchments.</p><p>The second was folded open down its middle seam. The date was a few days past, and he’d left it open to a story titled <em>“United at Godric’s Hollow.”</em></p><p>On the left-hand side, a short column of text was aligned beside an image of George holding the door open for a group of goblins in Godric’s Hollow, then Hermione stepping before the reporters and opening her mouth. The pull quote was larger than the headline. <em>“There wasn’t a goblin attack at the Remembrance Ball. Magnus Vane is a …liar, using acts of cowardice motivated by blood supremacy to grapple for power.”</em></p><p>Just below, a glossy photo spanned the parchment’s bottom half. Hermione walked in line with George, Luna, Fleur, and Victoire, blue suit coats snapping in the wind. George held an umbrella, rain dripping in his eyes as he gazed over the distance to his left and adjusted the button on his suit jacket. Hermione walked on his right and—and she was watching George. Looking at his shoulders, the rain stains, then his face. Just before the photo looped, Hermione’s eyes crinkled, and she shifted closer.</p><p>She looked comfortable. Not quite graceful, but at home. She—she moved like her mum. When had that happened? How could she, when she so often felt so awkward and—</p><p>“Nicked that one off one of that Parvati auror down the street yesterday,” he said quietly. “She always says hello when I take my walks. Nice girl.” He cleared his throat. “Obviously, you have good reasons to stay involved in the magical world. Your Mum might not be at peace with it, yet, but she’ll get there.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed.</p><p>His hands squeezed her shoulders a bit. “I wish this responsibility you carry had been managed long before your birth, and I know your mother feels the same.” He sighed. “She resents it, I think, that the nasty ones have made you choose between your worlds. As though your muggle has to be burned away for you to belong with the magic.” Thomas paused, and a raw look entered his eyes as he stared at her. “I do too, actually.”</p><p>Suddenly, he pulled her in, rumpling the papers between them. “You fit here first,” Thomas said in a desperate, wheezing voice. “You always fit here.”</p><p>Hermione clung to his shoulders.</p><p>“Your Mother and I—we’ve always known that you fit with us, muggles though we are. But, we’ve had a bit more difficulty sorting out how we fit with the magic.” He pulled back and searched her face. “Do you understand?”</p><p>Hermione rubbed her palm over her cheek, clearing away the wet. “What are you saying?”</p><p>“We’ve got some thinking to do,” Thomas said. “Decisions to make. We don’t know that Australia’s right, this time around. We don’t want to abandon you, but, we also don’t want to be a burden on you. And it’s all a bit hard to process when the little person you taught to floss and tie their trainers is staring at you like you’re completely helpless.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. “What—um—what if I just stay in my room and don’t make a sound?” she asked.</p><p>Her dad raised his brows. “No. We’ve got emergency plans laid, one of those portalkeys in the kitchen, and I know for a fact that those bits of magic around the house will light an alarm, should someone come around who isn’t supposed to be here.”</p><p>Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “But, I’m a good fighter, and I can—”</p><p>Mr. Granger shook his head. “We put you on a train at the age of eleven,” he said. “And we kept putting you on that train because that’s what you wanted. We’d like that same respect, now.”</p><p>It was a good sentiment, but they hadn’t understood the danger then, and she wasn’t certain they quite understood it now.</p><p>She fought with him on it.</p><p>For three hours, following him around the house, bringing it up, over and over. Trying new angles. New arguments. Providing examples.</p><p>Thomas listened, but he didn’t cave.</p><p>They needed time, he maintained.</p><p>She’d always thought she inherited her stubborn streak from her Mum.</p><p>She was wrong.</p><p>#</p><p>May 15, 2003, 11:25 a.m.</p><p>When Hermione stumbled through the floo, she emerged into a chorus of heated voices drifting through the cracked-ajar back door.</p><p>“Perfect,” she muttered.</p><p>Arthur Weasley stood, stirring a cuppa next to the kitchen, listening to the argument with a faintly amused expression. “Hello, Dear,” he said. Then he turned towards the door. “George, she’s here!” he called.</p><p>Hermione glanced at the door, then at Arthur, who wore fresh, brown jumper and tweed trousers. He didn’t look like death warmed over. It was a welcome change.</p><p>George stomped his feet on the back step. He had an oversized slicker on, despite the lack of rain, and it was pelted in dried mud droplets.</p><p>“Your mother’s having a kip, but she’ll wake just to throttle you if you track that muck in the house,” Mr. Weasley said mildly.</p><p>George bugged his eyes out at Hermione, then began to toe his boots off. “Floo-ed just in time for the fighting, I see.” He stepped through the threshold. “Lucky you.” George swooped in, pecked her cheek, then proceeded to the kettle. “Tea, my love?”</p><p>“Yes, thanks,” Hermione said.</p><p>“And there’s an owl for you, on the table,” Mr. Weasley added, nodding at the small, paper-wrapped box in the middle.</p><p>“Brilliant,” George said lightly. “That’ll be the moonstone, hopefully.”</p><p>Arthur bobbed his head, still stirring his drink with that same, unassuming air that he carried with him.</p><p>It was quite calming, really.</p><p>“You sent those <em>Quibblers</em> to my Father,” she said. George turned from the stove with a confused look.</p><p>Arthur’s stirring didn’t falter. “Told you, did he?” he asked.</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>Arthur took a short drink, then lowered the mug. “Yes,” he said. “We’ve kept in correspondence since you lot were in school, really. Asked them if they’d like me to send along anything of that sort—”</p><p>“Of what sort?” George asked, and he sounded tense.</p><p>Arthur frowned at him. “Not the rotten stuff.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Heaven knows, most of the time, your mother and I hardly knew what was happening ourselves.” He quirked his brows, then returned to a regular volume. “No, just little things about Hogwarts achievements and the like. Explanations about house cups, class standings, O.W.L. results.” He shrugged. “They said yes.”</p><p>Hermione’s face flushed. She’d talked about it, explaining when they asked, but she wasn’t one to wax poetic about her own marks.</p><p>Mr. Weasley tapped the spoon on the mug’s edge, then sent it to the sink.  “A year or so back, your dad asked if I might start sending them again, but just to him.” He frowned and set his mug on the counter. “He asked me to keep it to myself. Said things were still a bit sore, and he wanted to wait until your Mum had come around to talk to you about it.” His brow furrowed.</p><p>Arthur pulled his wand out and caste a scrubbing charm on the dishes in the sink. “Anyways, I only sent the ones that were positive and didn’t have anything worrisome—” He faltered when he glanced up and saw her face. “Have I overstepped?”</p><p>Hermione blinked at George, who watched her with a concerned expression.</p><p>All this time, she’d thought that her magical and muggle lives must be kept separate.</p><p>Her father had said that they weren’t sure how they fit into it all.</p><p>And here was Mr. Weasley, carving out a spot for them. He had been, for years. From that first trip together in Diagon Alley, when he eagerly shook their hands and started a fistfight when Lucius Malfoy called into question their right to be there.</p><p>“No,” Hermione said. “Not at all.”</p><p>Arthur relaxed and gave a small smile before returning to his tea. “Good,” he said. “It was the least we could, what with them sharing you with us.” He took a long draught. “Though we do share George with them in return, I suppose. But that’s rather more like a vacation.”</p><p>George laughed and pushed at Arthur’s shoulder. Mr. Weasley stumbled a bit, but then righted himself, eyes twinkling.</p><p>She turned to George, blinking rapidly.</p><p>George’s look softened, and his hand dropped from Mr. Weasley’s arm. “Oi,” he said. “Think you’re about to get mauled.”</p><p>Arthur paused. “Pardon?”</p><p>“Dad,” Hermione said carefully. “Um—”</p><p>He managed not to spill his tea when she threw her arms around him.</p><p>#</p><p>Outside, the scene was far less convivial.</p><p>Percy and Harry snipped back and forth as Fleur tried to get them to stop. Bill leaned against the shed with an unreadable expression.</p><p>“There are sensitive documents, Harry,” Percy hissed. He strode over the mud, moving in a wired, sharp fashion. “They shouldn’t be—”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve been doing this for five years, Mate. I know how to keep things out of reach,” Harry snapped in return.</p><p>Percy hands clenched, then unclenched. “It’s not—that’s beside—”</p><p>“Was he bothering you?” Harry shouted. “He just wants to sit close by. I know it’s not the same, but he’s having a rough time, too!” He flung his hand towards the fields, where the stark outline of several figures on broom back zipped around.</p><p>“What if we caste a Muffliato?” Fleur cut in, shooting both men a sharp look. “Then, Percy will be able to read and—”</p><p>“That’s beside the point,” Percy barked.</p><p>Fleur raised her brows and folded her arms. Her look was clear. She was giving Percy a chance to walk back his outburst.</p><p>But Percy didn’t seem to pick up on that.</p><p>He spun, clenching and unclenching his fists. “He shouldn’t—it’s not—”</p><p>“You and Teddy are both members of this family,” Harry said lowly.</p><p>Percy’s face contorted and turned skyward. “Obviously.”</p><p>“Then—” Harry started.</p><p>Percy huffed and spun towards the shed. “Forget it. I’ll work in my room.”</p><p>Hermione frowned, watching as Percy strode through the corrugated metal door. It slammed shut with a clang.</p><p>Moments later, he emerged with his worn briefcase and goblet, and didn’t so much as look at Harry, Fleur, or George, for that matter, as he hurried past. Ron emerged after him, frowning.</p><p>Percy paused at Hermione, opened his mouth, but then glanced back towards Harry. He closed it, sucked in a breath, and disappeared with a sharp crack of apparition.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “What was that about?”</p><p>Fleur stared at the teetering structure behind her, where a dark shape now moved in the window over the main floor. “Percy is being disagreeable,” she said. “He does not wish to work around the children.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together.</p><p>Percy had always been fussy about noise and distractions when they were at Hogwarts, and especially the summer when he’d started working for the Ministry. But this response seemed a bit extreme, even for him.</p><p>George exhaled roughly. “He doesn’t mean to insult Teddy, Mate,” he said, glancing from Percy’s bedroom window to Harry.</p><p>“Right,” Harry said, terse. He flicked his wand, and a stag burst forth. “We’ve settled it, for now. You can bring them back.” The Patronus galloped towards the fields, where the figures on the brooms swooped back and forth, low to the ground.</p><p>The tense silence was broken up by the arrival of a small, brown owl who flitted over Fleur and distributed a thin envelop. No one spoke as Fleur sliced it open with a whispered Diffindo.</p><p>While she read, Angelina, Ginny, and Fred coasted into the garden. Angie had AJ in a carrier, sort of wearing him like a backpack. Ginny lifted Teddy from his spot in front of her on their shared broom, lowering him to the ground.</p><p>“She wishes to arrange a time to have tea with me,” Fleur said with a tired sigh.</p><p>“Couldn’t just give you a clear answer?” Ron muttered.</p><p>Fred scoffed, glancing at the missive. “It’s Muriel. If she thinks it’s important, she’ll hold it over our heads out of spite.”</p><p>Hermione frowned. She’d gathered that the woman didn’t like her still from the singular, brief interaction they’d had in February, but was the relationship so strained for the rest of the family? “She did shelter you during the war, didn’t she?”</p><p>Bill snorted. “She’d have lost access to her late husband’s inheritance if she turned any of the Weasley children out. She married into the Prewett family tree. The house is hers, but the funds she’s so attached to are Uncle Marvin’s.”</p><p>George’s face twisted. “Every few years, she does the same bit,” he muttered. “Pretends to turn over a new leaf, then pulls at Mum, trying to make her feel guilty about the few remaining Prewetts, as though it’s somehow Mum’s fault. Then she uses that as leverage to worm her way back into the family’s circle.”</p><p>Bill’s look darkened.</p><p>“She’ll play nice for anywhere between several minutes to several months, maybe, until she starts trying to use her will to exact control over us,” Fred muttered, but then he added, brightly: “I’ve been written out three times.”</p><p>“It usually breaks down when she inevitably insults Arthur or you or Fred,” Angelina said, glancing at Hermione. “She picks on George, too, but she really detests the three of you most.”</p><p>“Why?” Hermione scoffed. “Skinny ankles?”</p><p>Ginny found this quite funny and burst into laughter.</p><p>“No,” George said. “It’s more so—” He paused, then waved a bandaged palm over the whole of her general direction. “—everything,” he finished with a warm look.</p><p>#</p><p>May 15, 2003, 5:00 p.m.</p><p>The Burrow filled, and terse conversation fluttered back and forth as the subject of secret keeper was discussed. Again.</p><p>Apparently, the Fidelius charm put a bit of a strain on a person, and without a clear agreement on who ought to perform the role for the Burrow, half of them were waiting to see who would perform the role before determining who would manage it at their respective, smaller dwellings. That way, no one person had to carry the responsibility more than once.</p><p>Although Bill continued to insist that he could manage for both Shell Cottage and the Burrow.</p><p>Hermione bit her tongue. Others were already arguing with Bill on it, and she doubted echoing their opinions would make a difference at present.</p><p>Percy hadn’t come downstairs. Not even when the volume grew loud.</p><p>Odd.</p><p>At that point, she and George had quietly collected the children and ushered them along the mucky garden path, into the shed. There, she’d set a Muffliato as Teddy attempted to appease a crying Victoire by offering up Miss Hopperton to borrow.</p><p>She’d pulled George into the far corner of the spell boundary and given him a brief review of her conversation with her parents. She didn’t go into intricate detail. It hurt too much, just thinking about how she’d lost control.</p><p>After all that time keeping the danger tucked away, she’d almost flaunted it. Lost in a moment of anxiety and—and anger.</p><p>And showing them the scar—Merlin. That’d been completely unnecessary.</p><p>So, she didn’t linger over the details, and kept her gaze steady on the three toddlers, who were absorbed in the flickering, blue otter George had caste into the corner to occupy them.</p><p>But George’s eyes had widened all the same when she summarized her confession. He’d taken a moment to study her, before she’d insisted she just wanted to focus on sorting out the plan moving forward.</p><p>Because the ground was moving under her, and she couldn’t find her balance.</p><p>There was too much.</p><p>George, mercifully, had seemed to understand that she couldn’t afford to dwell on it, and he’d proposed a next step. They’d stay at the Burrow, until Jane and Thomas reached a decision, then they’d work from there.</p><p>Then, he’d pressed a kiss to the top of her head, taken down the silencing charm, and gone to the tables to brew.</p><p>Hermione had volunteered to clean the Burrow’s main floor. The muggle way. She’d hoped the exertion would drive the worry from her mind.</p><p>It hadn’t. At least, not well enough.</p><p>Upon finishing the ground floor, Hermione had sat down for a small break. She’d fully intended to proceed to the first landing after a few minutes.</p><p>Instead, she woke up several hours later, with a knit blanket thrown half-hazardly over her.</p><p>The spoons pointed all over the clock—some on <em>“Work”</em> and <em>“Travel,”</em> and some on <em>“Home.” </em>George’s was still on “<em>Home</em>.” Hermione headed outside. The clouds still hadn’t receded. If anything, they seemed to be broiling more. Growing darker.</p><p>But when she opened the door to the shed, she couldn’t help but smile at the scene that greeted her.</p><p>George stood before four, active caldrons in an apron and oxford shirt. Angie’s grey carrier was strapped to his back, holding Angelo, and Victoire lay on her side in the middle of the floor, asleep.</p><p>Teddy, meanwhile, sat on the far side of George, swinging his feet and drawing on a clear, glass-like barrier George had placed between the caldrons and the five-year-old on the table.</p><p>The turntable in the corner spun, but the volume wasn’t very loud. George checked a pile of wrinkled notes, pushed his copper, wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and dumped a handful of crushed Aconite into the pewter.</p><p>“Where’s that from?” Teddy asked, swinging his feet.</p><p>George raised his brows. “The woods.”</p><p>“More Wolfsbane?” Hermione asked.</p><p>George shook his head. “Dittany, actually,” he said. “We’re making some for the whole family, aren’t we, Teddy?”</p><p>Teddy nodded and applied a bright, golden line to the glass.</p><p>Hermione frowned. “Whyever are you putting something like Aconite in a Dittany Potion?”</p><p>George paused. “Well, it’s a Dittany blend,” he said, as though this explained it. “One of them, anyway.”</p><p>Hermione blinked and strode towards the stack of parchment.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>That was her handwriting.</p><p>“Your idea, actually,” George said. “Must’ve been—oh—years ago.” He gathered up a scoop of chopped, mottled, brown wood and tossed it in.</p><p>“What about that?” Teddy asked again.</p><p>George smiled. “Wiggentree Bark.” Then he turned back to Hermione. “Rather sure I told you about it? You know? The—the Chamomile tasting one?”</p><p>Hermione’s brow wrinkled. “Sorry?”</p><p>George frowned. “Thought I had.” He shrugged. “Well, we had Fred and I’s Dittany paste for bruises and scrapes, and the essence for deeper cuts, but—” His voice quieted, and he leaned in, presumably so that Teddy couldn’t pick it up. “—um, once the damage reaches muscle or bone, plain, liquified Dittany can only do so much, y’know?”</p><p>She nodded, grimacing. She remembered the way Ron had struggled to recuperate, after he’d splinched.</p><p>“You’d, um—” He was a bit distracted, chatting as he worked. “You’d just done a Potions project, and you wanted to apply the concepts to see if you could—” He paused, checking the notes over her shoulder. “Make something more widely helpful.” He slashed his wand, and four ladles lifted, beginning to stir in even, counter-clockwise motions.</p><p>He glanced at her with a warm smile through the caldron steam. “We worked on it together,” he said. “You used to call them Hug Potions.” He breathed out a laugh. “Now, the lot of us usually just call it Dittany or something similar, since that’s still the primary ingredient.”</p><p>Hermione peered over the parchments, frowning. The top several sheets help clearly scripted instructions, but under that was a thick portion of scribbling. Arithmancy notes, half-finished sentences—the sort of writing she did when she was thinking faster than she could keep up with.</p><p>Judging by this page, she’d planned the original potion for some sort of specialized curse damage. A good bit of it made no sense, however.</p><p>She flipped through the parchment stack, back to the clearer set of instructions. She was still reading through it when George began to add two ladles of water to each caldron, and because she knew what came next, she handed over the container of Powdered Root of Asphodel.</p><p>Then the Star Grass—two handfuls.</p><p>Then, there was the waiting for it to turn green, during which they ground up the Valerian. After adding that bit, they did eight clockwise stirs per caldron, then added three Honeywater drops, and Teddy asked questions each step of the way.</p><p>“Did you know this is for making people better, Auntie Mione?” Teddy said, coloring in a large, blue caldron on the glass.</p><p>She smiled and nodded.</p><p> Hermione had fully taken over two of the four brews by the time George murmured, “We’ll only charge one, I think—” and withdrew a vial from his robes, uncorking it with his bandaged hand.</p><p>Deep, shimmering purple.</p><p>Hermione’s world tipped. Suddenly, the shed seemed bathed in glow—purple—everything—everything was purple and—and—light, and warm, and—</p><p>“George—” she breathed, shaking her head. “What is that?”</p><p>George started. “Don’t look directly at it, Love,” he said. “It’s um—it’s a magic infusion. Stabilized with Moonstone powder, but it’ll send you on a trip if you’re not careful.” He tipped half the vial into the caldron, then hurriedly recorked it. “It charges it, makes it stronger. A bit of experimental Potions work, really.”</p><p>Some of the spinning faded.</p><p>“Oh,” she said.</p><p>“Better?” he asked.</p><p>She nodded. “I think so, yes.”</p><p>George breathed out a laugh and stuck the vial on the potions rack, then tossed a rag over it. “Bit overwhelming, innit?”</p><p>Hermione nodded again. George turned to lower the heat on the first caldron.</p><p>“Uncle George?” Teddy asked. “Can you put my drawings up there, now?”</p><p>“Is the masterpiece done, Sir Dragon?” George asked. Teddy nodded. George began to caste a replication charm, mirroring Teddy’s artwork onto the corrugated metal ceiling, bit by bit.</p><p>Hermione stepped back, shaking her head again to attempt to clear it as the two chattered.</p><p>That had been odd, but she was fine, now.</p><p>She was—truly. Right?</p><p>But her heart was still hammering.</p><p>The urge hit her—to look. To learn. To—to get closer, again. A magical infusion.</p><p>George’s magic?</p><p>She glanced over on instinct.</p><p>No. Not now. Later, maybe. She could ask her questions later, when they weren’t preoccupied with four caldrons and three children.</p><p>The slight tug towards the vial didn’t fade, however. Not until George packed it up in the potions kit and latched it shut.</p><p>#</p><p>George was lively and animated all through the brewing. Answering Teddy’s questions, spinning around to keep Angelo occupied on his back, and singing loudly and off-key, when Victoire woke. Around the time George had finished with brewing, the others had returned, collecting the toddlers one by one.</p><p>But George still didn’t quit.</p><p>Not until all of the potion was bottled and sorted into batches for each household.</p><p>Then, he gathered up a single vial in his hand, whispered an exhausted “Nox,” and trudged from the shed to the house, up the stairs, over the landings, until he reached the door with familiar, ridiculous “<em>Gred and Forge: Keep Out</em>” sign.</p><p>Here, he paused. “You alright with sharing it again, or should I crash in Charlie’s room?” he asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Hermione said. George nodded and shoved through the door. Hermione pulled it closed behind herself.</p><p>It was only then, that she saw how tired he was. With the metallic click, the last of his reserves seemed to drain to nothing. The vestiges of the perpetual entertainer fell away, and there was only George—tired and falling face first onto the creaky bed on Fred’s side of the room without bothering to kick his mud-crusted boots off first.</p><p>Hermione blinked.</p><p>He hadn’t even used the Dittany.</p><p>Without making a fuss, Hermione paced over pulled the vial from his hand and tucked it in her pocket, then knelt.</p><p>She started on the left boot first.</p><p>“I can,” George said, muffled against the quilt. It fell with a loud thud.</p><p>“Mhm,” Hermione said, starting on the right.</p><p>It thunked on the wood, and she pushed to a stand.</p><p>Alright. What next?</p><p>The hand. The hand was important.</p><p>She reached for his shoulder, pushing him to turn on his back.</p><p>He twisted the rest of the way with a grimace, and his right hand spilled off the bed. “Let me decompose, please,” he said.</p><p>Hermione snorted. “Sit still,” she said.</p><p>George didn’t open his eyes. “Why.”</p><p>Hermione took his wrist and began to unwrap the gauze he’d stuck in place.</p><p>George grimaced when it touched the air. “Careful.”</p><p>It didn’t appear much better from the night of the Mungo’s attack. While the blisters were still gone,  the whole of it looked like he’d grabbed a hot pan off the stove only minutes before. The skin had been rubbed rawer, if anything, by the flimsy protective measure he’d taken.</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, uncorked the vial, and dumped it over his palm.</p><p>George exhaled. Then did it again. And again.</p><p>“Merlin,” he muttered.</p><p>Before her eyes, the surface on his palm and fingers cleared, the color fading to normal. George was taking in large gulps of air, like he’d run a marathon.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Hermione asked.</p><p>He opened his mouth to reply, but faltered.</p><p>She waited for him to catch his breath.</p><p>Finally: “I’ll, um, I’ll make it,” he murmured. “Little lightheaded, is all.”</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “George,” she said. “Has it—has it been hurting you, this whole time?”</p><p>George shrugged. “It stung a bit, but I didn’t realize how much until it stopped.” He sighed. “I’ll be fine, now.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together. “Look at me, please,” she said.</p><p>George dragged his eyes opened, and despite the exhaustion there, he gave her a little smile. “Thanks, by the way.”</p><p>“Right,” Hermione cleared her throat, and shook out her hands.</p><p>George snorted. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Does it help, when you, um—” She repeated the motion.</p><p>George regarded her for a moment with a puzzled expression. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>Hermione shrugged. “Well, your father sort of did something like that yesterday, with your mum, and I wasn’t sure if—” she faltered at George’s amused expression.</p><p>He gave her a sleepy grin. “Oh, I’m sorely tempted to say yes,” he said.</p><p>Hermione dropped her hands.</p><p>“But, Dad’s just a fidgety weirdo, really,” George said.</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes, pressed her hand on his forehead, and sent over a slow pulse of magic. He blinked a few times, and his brows rose a bit, in a tired, slightly confused sort of manner. So, she sent another. Then a third, and that’s when George’s head lolled. His eyes unfocused and then rolled back, and a tranquil sort of calm slipped over him.</p><p>She waited there, hand on his forehead until she was well and truly certain that he’d fallen asleep.</p><p>Then, she whispered with a snort, “Sounds like someone else I know,” padded across the moonlit room, and climbed into the opposite bed.</p><p>#</p><p>May 16, 2003, 7:30 p.m.</p><p>Everyone had been on edge all day. Yet another debate over secret keeper had broken out over breakfast, the never-ending rain had returned, and Teddy had refused to go down for a kip at eleven, which lead to Angelo and Victoire being fussy as well.</p><p>But all of this was nothing compared to the iron weight dangling over their heads as seconds spun to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to the passing of a day.</p><p>Ginny and Angelina were running storm drills in the fields—practicing for ghastly playing conditions, apparently. Angelina had suggested it after the third time she caught Ginny watching the windows, as though nightfall might creep upon them without warning.</p><p>The rest of them were waiting.</p><p>Bill sat poised on the kitchen table, regarding his open pocket watch on his knee as he turned his wand over and over in his hands. Fred paced, glancing at the armchair every few moments.</p><p>George had been staring, rigid, at the same blueprint for over an hour without making a mark.</p><p>Hermione read at his side, reviewing the DMLE vs. Department of Mysteries case file.</p><p>Percy sat in the wingback, glaring at his copy of <em>A Study of Magical Mathematics: Finding Order in the Unexpected</em>.</p><p>“Is that a good examination of Arithmantic Theory?” Hermione ventured.</p><p>Percy’s nostrils flared. “No.”</p><p>Shortly after the nap debacle, Fleur had agreed to take Victoire, Teddy, and Angelo to Shell Cottage a bit earlier than planned. But when she’d tugged the three toddlers towards the hearth for departure, Teddy had refused to let go of Harry.</p><p>The situation deteriorated, until Teddy broke down crying every time Harry stepped out of sight.</p><p>Eventually, Harry had resigned to having Teddy in the shed while he and Ron read over paperwork.</p><p>That had been hours ago.</p><p>“There shouldn’t be reason for concern, Perce,” Bill said, finally. “I’ve seen you take it, every day.”</p><p>The living room went even more strained.</p><p>Percy swallowed, closed the book, and then threw it. With a guttural shout.</p><p>At Bill’s head.</p><p>Bill stopped it with a flick of his wand. “Alright, then,” he said mildly.</p><p>Percy’s eyes were still clear and blue, but everything about him seemed to be stretched to the point of snapping. He gripped the chair arms with wiry, tight hands. His cheekbones looked more pointed, now. He’d been growing more and more gaunt over the course of the last week. The shadows under his eyes creeping darker and darker as the smell of Aconite grew sharper and stronger on his person, building. It surrounded him always, like a mist of pain. Ever-present. Unavoidable.</p><p>Now, with nightfall less than an hour away, he’d become half-ghost. Pale, wasting, and very, very angry.</p><p>Bill seemed unphased.</p><p>Fred glanced between them uneasily.</p><p>The bedroom door creaked. “Percy?” Arthur called. “Your mother wants a few minutes with you.”</p><p>Percy closed his eyes. He took a few short breaths, staring off into space before he finally lunged to his feet and strode rapidly past all of them and into the bedroom.</p><p>Arthur waited for the door to close.</p><p>Then his casual demeanor vanished. “Stop watching him like he’s a Quidditch match,” he whispered. “Go on. Spread out. Find something to do. There’s no need for all of you to be in here at once.”</p><p>Fred paused. “But, Dad—”</p><p>Arthur shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do to stop it, alright? It’ll take him, and he’ll have a hard enough time without all of you gawking.”</p><p>“But what if he needs help,” George said, slapping the blueprints on the coffee table.</p><p>Arthur rubbed his hands down his face. “Then help, George. But you don’t need to follow him from room to room to do that.”</p><p>Hermione bit her lips together, collected her file, and headed for the shed as the rest started in on a new argument. She didn’t hear George’s light steps behind her, with the rain. Didn’t notice until an umbrella opened over her head, and a sudden brush of warmth flickered across her arm.</p><p>He gave her a half-smile, then nodded to the shed. “I reckon, um—” He shouted over the downpour, but his expression was hesitant and pensive. “I can make him a full English tomorrow or something. He might appreciate that more.”</p><p>Hermione nodded. “A wonderful idea,” she called back. Her curl stuck to her cheek.  </p><p>“Maybe scones,” George added, nodding more firmly now.</p><p>Hermione’s wellies stuck in the mud.</p><p>Rain pounded their umbrella, and the shed door slipped in her hand.</p><p>But when she opened the door, light and warmth spilled out. The turntable was cranked high, and a familiar song played over the cacophony of the storm.</p><p>Teddy sat atop Harry’s office desk.</p><p>Laughing.</p><p>And in the middle of the floor, paperwork forgotten, Harry Potter was shredding on an air guitar like a ridiculous third year after a Quidditch match. “<em>He heard one guitar, just blew him away!”</em> Harry shouted. <em>“He saw stars in his eyes, and the very next day—”</em></p><p>Ron skated across the floor in a set of charmed socks. <em>“Bought a beat up six string, in a secondhand store. Didn’t know how to play it, but he knew for sure—” </em></p><p>“Helga’s Garden,” George muttered, grinning as he took in the scene and leaned the umbrella inside the doorway.</p><p> <em>“That one guitar, felt good in his hands.” </em>Ron punched the air and dodged around Harry. <em>“Didn’t take long, to understand.”</em></p><p>Harry hopped on one foot, turning and moving his hand in the decidedly wrong direction on the neck of the invisible guitar.</p><p>Hermione breathed out a laugh as Ron leapt, pointing skyward, then landed, shimmying into a turn on his socks. <em>“So he started rockin’—”</em></p><p>Harry turned in tandem, mimicking Ron, and then—</p><p>They spotted her and George in the doorway. Ron’s ears colored violently.</p><p>Rather than freezing, Harry shouted, “Auntie Mione, come on then!” Hermione laughed, but strode over and took his outstretched hand.</p><p>Harry gave her a quick spin, and Ron faltered, then kept at it—turning to face Teddy instead, and re-engaging his routine with a spurt of air drumming, albeit a touch more subdued.</p><p>“<em>He’s a juke box hero—</em>”</p><p>Ron slashed his wand, and a blue terrier leapt and bound around Teddy, nipping at his face as Teddy tipped his head back and screeched with laughter.</p><p>Harry whirled Hermione around, and tripped back, laughing, until she collided with a solid chest.</p><p>George grinned down at her and quirked his brows.</p><p>Suddenly, her hand was in his.</p><p>Wet from rain.</p><p>Warm from magic.</p><p>He spun her, and the world dissolved to light.</p><p>
  <em>“He’s a juke box hero—” </em>
</p><p>He caught her with a hand on the waist, swooped in, and left a searing kiss on her cheek that somehow made her more dizzy than the spinning before bounding over to Teddy.</p><p>George tossed him up, into the air, and when Teddy landed, he ducked out of reach, laughing as he lunged after Ron’s terrier. It devolved into a game of chase the Patronus from there, with the lot of them spinning and yelling and dancing, far, far above the noise of the storm.</p><p>It wasn’t until the song faded, and Hermione hopped onto the desk that a voice from the side drew her attention.</p><p>“We’re all going to get expelled.”</p><p>Hermione started, gasping.</p><p>A glimmering, blue flicker of Remus Lupin blinked at her, expression wry.</p><p>Hermione shrieked and tumbled backwards.</p><p>There was a scramble of aqua sparks behind Remus, and images of James, Sirius, and Pettigrew faded in an out, but Lupin’s was the only one in focus.</p><p>Harry, who had jumped at her shriek, hurried over. He was still a bit breathless from all the laughter as he helped her off the floor. “Forgot you didn’t know,” he said. “It’s just a charm. I’ve tinkered with it, to let Teddy spend a bit of time with Remus, every now and again.”</p><p>He shut the drawer, and the figure fizzed and faded.</p><p>Then, he opened it again, and four apparitions spilled out, tripping and fighting.</p><p>“I hardly think this will work in the way you intend, James,” Remus said tiredly, and Harry’s wand shifted form into some sort of focusing charm, bringing the former professor to the forefront and fading the others.</p><p>Harry lowered the wand and shot Hermione a self-satisfied grin. “He was right,” he said. “I have hacked it a bit.”</p><p>Hermione gawked, striding back and forth across the room. The Lupin figure didn’t seem to recognize her or follow her movement with its eyes.</p><p>“Can it hear me?” she asked.</p><p>There was a buzzing. Harry winced. “That’s usually my dad’s line to answer, but yeah. It can.”</p><p>Hermione walked towards Remus, extended a hand, and pushed it through the light.</p><p>Remus tilted his head. “I assure you, there’s no need to scramble us.”</p><p>Harry snorted.</p><p>“That’s remarkable,” Hermione whispered, staring.</p><p>Harry nodded. “You found it—the desk. You and George.” He nodded at George, who was watching Teddy run with an amused smile.</p><p>Hermione started and turned to Harry.</p><p>He smiled. “It’s like a voicemail or a portrait, sort of,” he said. “A reminder that they were here.”</p><p>Teddy was still dashing after the Patronus. He tumbled, picked himself up, and kept after it with a shout.</p><p>The shed door creaked. The group spun.</p><p>Percy stood in there. “It’s almost—” He stilled as Teddy ran right into his shins.</p><p>Percy blinked down, and a horrified look came over him.</p><p>Teddy, still rocked by laughter, sucked in a breath. But then he stopped.</p><p>“Mum said you should work in the house this evening, Harry,” Percy snapped. His hands clenched at his sides.</p><p>“Um—” Harry reeled. “Yes, sorry. Uh, Teddy, c’mon—”</p><p>But Teddy was blinking up at Percy. At the sharp tinge of Aconite. At the rigid tension in Percy’s frame.</p><p>It happened in slow motion, almost.</p><p>Teddy jumped, suddenly, like he’d heard a loud noise, and his copper hair strobed, going a muted brown. Angry, red scars flickered and solidified onto his face. He blinked at Percy again with a blank, dazed expression.</p><p>Teddy stared at Percy.</p><p>Percy stared at Teddy.</p><p>An expression of utter loathing opened up over Percy’s features.</p><p>Teddy shrank back.</p><p>Then, the older of the two reeled away and strode from the room without a word.</p><p>Hermione bolted after him.</p><p>Through the green, corrugated steel door, which slammed heavily behind them, down the muddy garden path, into the torrent of rain.</p><p>Lightning slammed through the sky overhead.</p><p>“Percy!” Hermione shouted. Percy rounded to the front porch without replying.</p><p>The ragged grass was slick under her wellies as she raced to catch up.</p><p>A clap of thunder cut through the sky.</p><p>Percy jittered like a spark on a fuse, and the clunk of Hermione’s mud-sopped boot on the porch was the match, hitting the base.  </p><p>“I hate children!” he snapped, pacing beneath the overhang’s shelter. “They’re loud, and tactless, and—and—”</p><p>Harry cracked into view, black hair stuck to his face, plastered to the lightning scar with rain. “Oi—” he shouted. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”</p><p>Percy grimaced at the downpour and tossed his glasses onto the old rocking chair. “I don’t care,” he seethed, sounding quite put out.</p><p>Harry’s face lit with a fury that Hermione had only seen cross it a few times. “He thinks he’s done something wrong,” he spat. “You go back in there, and you apologize to my son.”</p><p>Percy’s shoulders lifted and fell rapidly, and he scoffed. “No, thanks,” he said.</p><p>Harry cracked across the porch, apparating in time with the flash of lightning and snagged Percy’s elbow. “You don’t have a choice.”</p><p>Storm light crashed over the pair as Percy whirled, and an otherworldly snarl tore from his lips. “Make me,” he growled.</p><p>A shiver of fear tore up her spine.</p><p>Harry stepped back.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Percy snapped.</p><p>Hermione glanced skyward, but she couldn’t make out any sign of the moon, yet.</p><p>Harry stiffened and raised his wand. “Don’t play Monster with me, Mate,” he said. “All I want is a simple apology. He deserves as much.”</p><p>“Are you mad?” Percy hissed, voice choking on the question. “Have you gone round the bend, Harry? We’re less than an hour from full moon—”</p><p>“Which you’re properly dosed for,” Harry cut in, voice cutting and rapid through the thunder. “And you’re forgetting my son’s father was a werewolf, and your attitude about it matters.”</p><p>“Harry—” Hermione started.</p><p>Percy flung his hand upwards. “Oh, don’t lecture me,” he barked. “I can hear, did you know? When someone’s heartrate quickens? I can smell when they’re afraid!” Percy shook his head with a bitter smile.</p><p>Hermione stilled.</p><p>His breath heaved, and he advanced forward. “Talk like this—It’s all in good faith, isn’t it—” Percy’s voice rose. “—until an accident happens. Until someone slips. Or falls. Or snaps.” His shouts built; blunt teeth bared. “And then what am I?”</p><p>Harry shook his head. “You don’t accidentally bite someone, Percy,” he shouted. “Not on Wolfsbane.”</p><p>Splashing footsteps, calls, echoed from the side yard.</p><p>Percy roared in cold laughter. “I might not plan to, but it only takes the one mistake,” he cried, then jabbed his index finger. “One missed dose, or one taken too early or late.” His eyes flashed. “It’s happened before.”</p><p>The wind howled. “And you can’t take it back, is the thing,” Percy shouted, rust-colored hair sopping water over his eyes. “Not even if you hurt someone you love. It will have always—” He roared, face contorting. “—always happened.” Blue sparks cracked from Percy’s arms, and Harry flung up a Protego, instinctively.</p><p>The clash of the spell illuminated the yard between strobes of lightning.</p><p>Hermione was frozen, watching it all unfold.</p><p>“The only thing between me and a monster, Harry, is Aconite!” Percy yelled.</p><p>Harry’s shield spell flickered off.</p><p>“And even then,” Percy said, voice dropping to a hoarse rasp as he paced over the wood planks. “I’m still—” He gestured over his form and laughed again.</p><p>Then, he leaned in, “Get your kid, and get out of my face. I don’t care if I’m not good for your optics. Teddy can read a book about a friendly dog, instead.”</p><p>A hand caught her around the waist, and Hermione was pulled back, off the porch. To the side, Ron was yanking Harry away.</p><p>“Everyone cool off,” George’s voice was even through the thunder, just above her ear. “Percy needs space.”</p><p>Percy blinked. Then, he dropped, sitting on the porch edge, feet in the mud.</p><p>Harry yanked from Ron. “I’ve got it, thanks,” he snapped. Ron huffed as they paced back towards the shed, where the double doors were propped open, and light poured out, into the haze of tempest. They’d all need more than a few drying charms.</p><p>George’s arm hadn’t left her side, but he was watching Percy’s hunched form over his shoulder.</p><p>Until a terrified shriek rent the air, from inside the Burrow: “Teddy, no!”</p><p>Ginny.</p><p>Hermione went cold, and George stiffened at her side.</p><p> Harry apparated instantly, in a crack.</p><p>Terrified shouts crashed through yard.</p><p>Another crack, in the shed, this time.</p><p>“Teddy?” Harry shouted.</p><p>Hermione bolted to a run.</p><p>“Teddy?” Harry repeated again, even more frantic this time.</p><p>Harry appeared through the double doors, spinning, then disappeared back inside them.</p><p>She dashed around the corner.</p><p>But Teddy wasn’t there.</p><p>Harry flung himself from one side of the room to the other, tripping over the table’s edge, shouting Teddy’s name. Over and over.</p><p>Ron reappeared, heaving. “He—he’s not in the house,” he said. “I’ll check the yards.” Then, he dashed away.</p><p>George, meanwhile, was tearing through the little remaining shelving, yanking aside the empty portrait frame, flinging the crates back as Hermione rushed around the desk, just in case Harry had missed—</p><p>There was no Teddy, underneath. Just the opened drawer.</p><p>Just a frazzled, teenage Remus, floating over the open room like a ghost.</p><p>“I hardly think this will work in the way you intend, James,” Lupin said tiredly.</p><p>Harry choked, casting detection charms in between shouts.</p><p>Footsteps pounded through the threshold. Percy stood, frantic, twisting about. “No—” he said. “No, he was—he was just here.”</p><p>“He’s not,” Harry gasped, flinging another detection charm out.</p><p>Percy staggered back, into the wall.</p><p>Ron hurtled around the corner. “Not—” he wheezed. “—not in the yard.”</p><p>George leapt, sprinting through the shed, towards the house.</p><p>Harry’s detection charm cracked and died.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Nothing came back.</p><p>Harry blinked, tripping back. Tried again, closer to the doors. The red flare of magic surged then faded to nothing.</p><p>No one.</p><p>Hermione whirled to the charm. “Did you see? Where he went? Did someone—”</p><p>Lupin froze. The projection stuttered. Then: “I hardly think this will work in the way you intend, James.”</p><p>No.</p><p>Harry’s face twisted at the response. “Come on! I know you’re smart enough!” he shouted, then swore. “Please—he’s your son! <em>Your</em> <em>son</em>! Answer me!”</p><p>The sparks buzzed. Lupin looked to the side, as though listening to something.</p><p>But then he opened his mouth, and said, “Does it really matter? We could be long dead by the time this is found.”</p><p>A guttural cry tore from Harry’s throat.</p><p>Hermione’s switch flicked.</p><p>The sound and thunder dulled.</p><p>She knew three things, and they were as follows:</p><p>Teddy wasn’t in the shed.</p><p>Teddy wasn’t in the house.</p><p>There was only the wide open, double doors.</p><p>The vast night.</p><p>And Harry, looking lost.</p><p>Hermione reached up and slammed the drawer shut. Lupin’s sparks faded. “No, Harry,” she said. “He’s yours.”</p><p>Harry blinked. But then he nodded.</p><p>Apparition cracks rang in the yard.</p><p>“He can’t have gone far. Did we feel any ping in the wards?” Hermione said, pacing.</p><p>Harry shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t think so—”</p><p>Bill darted in, scars red on his white face. “No,” he spat, twisting to look around, as though he might spot something the rest of them had missed.</p><p>Ginny darted into the threshold, then froze. “It says he’s lost,” she gasped. “The clock. It said he was travelling, but now he’s lost.”</p><p>Harry yanked at his hair.</p><p>Bill stopped. “Where’s your broom, Harry?” he asked.</p><p>The group turned.</p><p>There, in the corner, where it should have been—emptiness.</p><p>Harry swore and took off for the broom shed, Ginny close behind.</p><p>George re-appeared, breathing hard, and then Fred and Angie, then Charlie, and then the shed was packed, full of chaos and shouting. Angelina carved her hand through the air, a flash of gold on her wrist, and a Firebolt model cracked out into her fist.</p><p>Percy backed, further and further into the wall.</p><p>Wheezing.</p><p>Harry—Harry had gone into the woods.</p><p>The following minutes were a rush of Ginny apparating back and forth, shouting hurried directions, thrown broomsticks, and Bill, frantically re-checking the ward integrity.</p><p>“Harry’s flown out already. Angie and I will—” Ginny’s roar boomed.</p><p>Hermione blinked. Hard.</p><p>She couldn’t fly. Not in this weather. Couldn’t. But someone had thrust a broom in her hand.</p><p>And Teddy needed every last one of them.</p><p>She exhaled and stared hard at the handle.</p><p>Okay. Okay.</p><p>Just beneath the interlocking, leather straps, the smooth, dark wood bore a golden stamp: <em>“Thunderbolt Mach II.”</em></p><p>Oh, Merlin.</p><p>Amidst the rush of panic, something light brushed, then looped around her shoulders—a heavy cloak, fastening. George’s winded shout: “I’ll take Granger; we’ll go east.”</p><p>And then she was being shunted, out into the pounding storm as Weasleys threw legs over brooms and the sky beat down.</p><p>Pressing them to the fretboard.</p><p>George’s cloak snapped in the storm, and he reached a hand out to her, eyes lit with desperation. Hermione took it. In a smooth motion, he pulled her from the melting ground and onto the broom in front of him.</p><p>Her wellies slipped off.</p><p>Open air under her feet.</p><p>Seven brooms rose in a line, Ginny at the head, tangled, red braid tearing from her hood like fire.</p><p>She flung her hand towards the trees, with a shout.</p><p>George’s arms looped around her. “You call and watch; I’ll fly,” he said, close to her ear. Hermione nodded.</p><p>He leaned forward.</p><p>Seven brooms, carving into the dark.</p><p>The Weasleys took off.</p><p>The force of the speed wrenched the air from her lungs.</p><p>On the furthest side, Bill and Charlie looped far west, disappearing into the thicket.</p><p>Out front, Ginny and Angelina’s brooms shrieked in the night. Barely visible in the lead, Ginny’s streak of crimson hurtled around tree trunks.</p><p>Fred darted closer on their immediate right, keeping pace with George. She could faintly make out the sound of his roar—“Teddy!”</p><p>Hermione twisted, searching the ground as it flung by, casting the Homenum Revelio at regular intervals. “Teddy!” she screamed. Then laced her voice with a Sonorus when she couldn’t hear herself over the thunder. Again. “Teddy!” She turned.</p><p>A ways behind them, over her left shoulder, Percy’s grimace was lit by lightning flash. He leaned hard on his broom, gasping, but his grip was less sure. He twisted the handle, hard, narrowly avoiding a tall outcropping of brush that branched out from an oak tree. But he righted himself.</p><p>Kept going. The spiral of gold from her wand spattered over dense, green foliage.</p><p>No direction, yet.</p><p>“Teddy!” Hermione cried.</p><p>Her hands shook on the broom stick, slipping with rain.</p><p>“Hold tight,” George yelled, and they swerved, carving under a branch. Hermione leaned back, grimacing. But George was sturdy, focused behind her.</p><p>She wouldn’t fall.</p><p>Hermione sucked in a breath of rain-laced wind. “Teddy!”</p><p>Please—please—</p><p>A sharp yelp echoed, over her left shoulder. Hermione twisted.</p><p>Percy’s broom shuddered.</p><p>“Percy?” she called.</p><p>He lurched, and the handle tipped down.</p><p>“George,” Hermione choked.</p><p>George yanked hard to the left, veering around and circling back.</p><p>Percy let out a strangled cry.</p><p>They tore through the trees.</p><p>Hurtling. Closer. Closer.</p><p>“Percy!” Hermione shouted.</p><p>“No—” Percy’s cry was panicked.</p><p>He wrenched his head back.</p><p>And the whites of his eyes went dark.</p><p>#</p><p>Percy fell from the broom, plummeting twenty feet.</p><p>By the time he hit the ground, he’d become something else entirely.</p><p>Percy writhed, growing—shouting—horrid, agonizing sounds.</p><p>It was—was just like the time with Lupin, third year. Only Percy’s howls were cut through with thunder and short, clipped whimpers.</p><p>Her stomach wrenched.</p><p>Percy stilled.</p><p>George hovered overhead, hold tightening around Hermione’s waist. “He alright?” he shouted, gasping.</p><p>Grey, mottled fur wrapped a gaunt frame. His arms and legs had grown, the bones inhumanly long. Joints spindly.</p><p>His hands, that normally held books, propped up spectacles, and tapped on the rim of teacups—they dug, deep into the earth.</p><p>Percy let loose a feral howl, then he turned his head up.</p><p>Their eyes met.</p><p>This was different from the time with Remus, now.</p><p>The werewolf’s head cocked to the side.</p><p>Hermione cupped her hands over her mouth. “Percy, can you hear me?”</p><p>The werewolf’s eyes narrowed, and a short, almost sarcastic burst of air huffed from his nose.</p><p>It was Percy.</p><p>Relief flooded her.</p><p>“Alright, let’s keep heading east!” Hermione shouted, gesturing overhead. “You cover the ground, and we’ll fly, yes?”</p><p>Fred zipped into view. “Oi!” he shouted. “What’s the—” His voice hiked as he saw his brother on the ground. “Dear Godric.”</p><p>Percy started back a bit—his clawed hands and feet lifting and settling in a nervous dance.</p><p>Lightning strobed.</p><p>Fred shook the panic from his face and swooped down. “You good, Mate?” he asked, gripping his broom handle.</p><p>Percy’s head reeled back in a frustrated jerk.</p><p>George swooped down. “Could you smell him, d’you think? Like you said earlier?” he asked, shouting over the chaos.</p><p>Percy stilled, and his pointed ears swiveled. The huff of his breath was far closer now, unfurling through the gap between him and the two brooms until it brushed, just short of their eye level. He pushed his hands from the ground and stood on his back legs, towering over them.</p><p>His snout lifted, and he dragged in the wind. Turning. Turning.</p><p>Please, please—</p><p>Suddenly, Percy stopped. His back feet kicked up mud, and he leapt, stretching into the distance on all fours—unfolded over the landscape like lighting.</p><p>Two brooms fell in line behind him. Wind stinging, rain pelting. George’s arms held her flush to his chest as they chased after Percy.</p><p>Percy didn’t balk at the flooded, furious stream bank, nor the sound of howls echoing in the distance. He only surged on, clearing the water gap like it was a crack in the pavement.</p><p>They found the Harry’s Firebolt, fractured and mangled, wrecked against a tree trunk. George let out a pained cry, arms tightening around her, but Percy kept going.</p><p>Deeper.</p><p>Hermione’s ribs ached, heart pounding, the vision of the smashed twig work spinning through her head.</p><p>He was so small.</p><p>Had there been blood? She hadn’t seen. Hadn’t been enough time to check.</p><p>Was he hurt?</p><p>Was he alive?</p><p>Please—please, Teddy—be alive.</p><p>Be alright.</p><p>At some point, she’d started to cry. Her fingers were frozen stiff on the broom handle’s leather, interlocking straps, and the hood of her cloak had long ago torn back from her face in the gale. The firm boundary of George’s embrace was the only thing that kept her seated.</p><p>And still, Percy flew, outstripping the brooms in the twisted terrain as George and Fred balked, braked, swerved, and dove to keep up. They weren’t moving in a direct line, anymore.</p><p>Hermione’s voice went hoarse and empty as Teddy’s name ripped her vocal cords ragged.</p><p>At once, Percy stopped.</p><p>Wheeled to the side and darted in, then shrank back.</p><p>There, huddled in a tangle of soft, rain-shredded flowers, was a head of storm-matted, lavender curls.</p><p>“Teddy!” George’s cry tore through the trees.</p><p>The Thunderbolt swerved and dove, and suddenly the ground was solid under her socks. George dropped from the broom and hurtled towards the slight form that stirred in the underbrush.</p><p>Hermione’s socks slipped and stuck in the muck as she ran after them.</p><p>A little, pink fist stretched out of the foliage, and the accompanying, faltering, wobbly voice could’ve been a clap of thunder, the way it rocked through her: “Uncle George,” Teddy sobbed. “I—I found it.”</p><p>“Edward Lupin—” George gasped, crouching over him and working his wand in the rapid pattern of a diagnostic spell. “Are you hurt? Are you alright? What—”</p><p>Fred’s roared Patronus took off in a flurry of wings and sparks. “We’ve got him!”</p><p>George was breaking down now, crying, hands shaking as he gathered Teddy up to his chest. “—What—what in Helga’s Garden were you thinking?”</p><p>Teddy’s answer was a faint unfurling of fingers.</p><p>The little, tempest-whipped hand opened.</p><p>Petals fluttered down.</p><p>The color of Aconite.</p>
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